by Emmy Ellis
His stomach grumbled. The noodles and quarter of a fresh-baked tiger loaf hadn’t even touched the sides, big bastard that he was. Maybe they’d have an Indian from the Taj later, depending on how late they finished. He could just do with a madras and a nice soft naan. Couldn’t beat those with coconut in them. Peshwari, that was it.
“Whatever she calls herself, we still need to make enquiries,” George said. “Why didn’t she say what had happened?”
“Amaryllis? Maybe she did. She’d have spoken to Deb, wouldn’t she, who might’ve decided it was nothing to get up in arms about. Or maybe Amaryllis didn’t want to bother us, seeing as she’s new to our patch.”
“Silly cow.” George meant that in the nicest way; Amaryllis was an all right bird. “That’s what we’re here for.” He watched the CCTV footage again while Greg flung the crumbs in the bin then put their forks in the dishwasher. “See this bit here? Her eyes going wide? This isn’t nothing. She’s shit scared. We ought to get a better system rigged up that records sound. I’d like to know what this fucker said to her.” He jabbed a finger at the iPad screen. “What’s with him showing her his phone? And what did he just hand her, a letter? A postcard? If that’s a friendly visit, I’ll eat my sock. The bloke looks dodgy.”
“Along with a thousand others.”
George frowned, trying to work his brother out. “Has finding out Cardigan was our dad sent you funny or something? Off your game? Like you don’t care anymore? You’re mad to let it get to you. Means he still has power. I should know, I did it myself for years with Richard. Fuck him. Amaryllis is crapping herself on this video, and we ought to find out why. You’re acting like it’s bugger all.” He tutted. “Pissing me off, you are.”
Greg flumped back onto his stool. “We’ll nip to hers in a minute, all right? No need to get your budgie smugglers in a ruddy twist. Fuck me.”
George shook his head. “Who do you think I am? I don’t wear budgie smugglers.” He was a bit offended. He loved his Klein boxers. “I know what’s going round in your bonce, but there’s no need to imply things about my underwear. The past is the past now, bruv, so forget it. I’ve spent too many years stuck inside my head because of Richard, letting it affect me, and I’m fucked if I’ll do it anymore.” Just the mention of Richard, the man they’d thought was their father, raised George’s hackles—and his blood pressure, although it wasn’t as bad as it used to be. He had more of a handle on it now. “See? I’m getting fucked off, and we promised we’d move on.”
“All right, keep your hair on—and you brought it up, so knob off.” Greg sighed. “Let’s go. Work saves us thinking.”
Greg marched to the door that led to the garage, and George followed, dogged off at Greg being so dismissive. Was he depressed?
George had been down that road, but things didn’t bother him so much now he knew Richard had nothing to do with them other than being some bullying wanker in their childhood, and the fact they’d had to endure him, well, there was nothing they could do about that. And besides, he was dead, killed, as was Cardigan, so that was the end of it. Mum had been forced to do what she had, so the blame wasn’t on her, and if they really needed to cast aspersions, it’d be Cardigan George picked.
They got into the BMW, George driving, headlights on, and Greg clicked the remote control to send the garage door rising. Out on the street, Greg hit the button to close it again, and George zoomed off in the direction of Amaryllis’ place, although she wouldn’t be living there for much longer. She’d rented a flat off them, saying she needed to cut ties with the other estate she was on and become a ‘Cardi’, as folks had started calling themselves.
You wouldn’t want to really be a Cardi.
George didn’t like being one and would deny it until his dying day if anyone asked, and much as he hated Richard, he’d still bear the man’s surname. They couldn’t announce to all and sundry who their father really was because…problems. Others were involved, like a childhood friend of theirs from their old street, who was also one of Cardigan’s bastards, and she worked in the parlour at night, going by the name of Gypsophila. She had no idea who her dad really was, and it was best kept that way. She had siblings it would hurt. As for their other half-sister, Leona, the least said about her the better. She was a crabby old cow who wouldn’t take kindly to knowing she was related to them, no longer a cherished only child. And Sarah, she was Richard’s niece, so for her to find out her big beefy cousins weren’t cousins at all…
Let sleeping dogs lie, that was how George viewed it now.
He left The Cardigan Estate and entered another one, run by someone else after Lime had met a grisly end. George wasn’t fussed about letting the new leader know he had business on their turf. All he was doing was visiting a resident, and anyway, as far as he was concerned, she was a Cardigan now, in body and mind, if not on paper.
A sign lurched to one side in her front garden. SOLD SUBJECT TO CONTRACT. Amaryllis had put the place she’d grown up in on the market. It had been left to her by her deceased parents who’d died in a head-on collision, the front of the car—and them—squashed by a large van. Not a nice way to go by any stretch of the imagination. No chance of them getting out alive, what with their heads popping and whatnot. Amaryllis had told George and Greg all about it when she’d approached regarding renting the flat, tears in her eyes, her bottom lip wobbling. She was a good sort, and George had trusted Debbie taking her on at the parlour—it was her domain anyway, but George and Greg still needed to keep an eye on the residents.
Times gone by, he’d have convinced himself Amaryllis was a spy sent by the likes of Lime, but her story involving that man told him otherwise. Lime hadn’t been nice to the women he’d employed, and while the new patch leader was more inclined to cut them some slack, plus take less of their earnings, George couldn’t imagine Amaryllis would stoop so low as to up sticks just to spy on them, so he’d take her at face value.
For now.
He parked outside her house and clocked some bloke standing on the other side of the street, leaning against a lamppost. A halo of light covered him, his surroundings in darkness. Now who the hell hung around on a street unless they were waiting for a lift—or were up to something?
George nudged Greg. “What the fuck’s his game?”
Greg glanced over there. “If it’s nothing to do with Amaryllis, we can’t poke our noses in. This isn’t our estate, remember that. We don’t need a sodding turf war.”
“Behave your bloody self. I could just be asking him what he’s doing here, like any other bloke would. Doesn’t have to be a patch issue. I’ll be neighbourly, nice and polite.”
“You, polite? And the leader won’t see it that way. Would you?”
George couldn’t dispute that. He’d knock another leader’s block off if they so much as smiled funny at a Cardigan resident. “No.”
“There you go then. God, you’re such a ponce sometimes.”
“Bog off.”
George got out and stood to his full height. The bloke, some old skank in oversized clothing, stared at him boldly, his skin a weird hue from the amber light above, but the sort that spoke of time in the nick. George could spot that pallor a mile away, plus the hollow cheeks, messy hair, and the haunted look gave him away as an ex-con, a recent one at that.
“You might want to move on, mate,” George said.
The man ignored him.
That wasn’t very nice, was it.
“Oi, have you got cloth ears?” George took a step towards him, sod being polite. “I said move on.”
“Piss off.”
“You what?” George’s anger rose, and he clenched his fists to prevent himself going over there and walloping him one. “Did you just tell me to piss off?” He stopped short of asking, “Do you know who I am?” because that would make him even more of a ponce than Greg currently thought he was.
Speaking of Greg. He got out and tapped George on the back, whispering, “Leave it.”
�
�Fucking leave it?” George laughed. “Not bloody likely.” He stormed across the road and leant over the man, a good ten inches taller. It felt good, seeing him staring up at him, although the wretch didn’t seem scared. Why? If George were his size, confronted with a brick shithouse, he’d crap himself. “What are you here for?”
“None of your business, mate.”
Oh. So he was one of those, was he? A sarcastic pleb. “Who are you here to see?”
The bloke nodded across to Amaryllis’. “Her in there. Jenny. Or you might know her as Princess. I didn’t know she was doing home visits.”
So he’s a punter? Didn’t she give that lark up to man reception in the parlour, or is she still putting it out? Not that George had a right to know, but it would be handy to be aware so they could keep her safe. “What do you want her for?”
“Again, none of your business.”
George poked him in the chest so hard the bloke staggered. “She’s a friend of mine, so it is my business.”
Short-Arse chuckled despite almost careening into the prickly hedge behind him. He had a front tooth missing, and it was like a dark tunnel entrance between bricks either side. Memories of killing Richard in a tunnel ramped up George’s ire, and he envisioned doing the same to this fella.
“A friend. Is that what you call it these days,” Short-Arse said.
George’s irritation button was well and truly pressed. In fact, it had got stuck in the down position. He puffed up his chest. “What are you implying? That I give her one?”
“If the cap fits.”
George had had enough of this twazzock. There was only so much mouth he could take without retaliating with his fists. “I could say the same about men who deserve a punch. If the cap fits…”
He launched a right hook at him, on the temple, and the sad sack went down to the pavement, banging his head on the base of the lamppost. George laughed at the sight of him clutching his face, and he was tempted to put the boot in an’ all. Give him a good kicking just for being an oxygen thief.
Short-Arse whined, “Ow. No need for that, was there?”
“Yeah, there was.” George gripped him by the T-shirt, a black one with a Rolling Stones tongue on the front, and hauled him upright. He scrunched the fabric in his fist, twisting it at the neck so the little runt choked and spluttered. “Now then, Princess is no longer on your radar, you got that?”
“Fine, but I don’t have to take orders from you.”
“Nah, you wouldn’t if I was just some bloke intent on a fight, but the name’s George, and back there is my twin, Greg. The Brothers, you heard of them?”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck. So why don’t you tootle off back to the rat-infested hole you crawled out of before I make sure you’re fitted up for some crime or other and you get sent down again.”
“How did you…?”
“Because you’ve got prison written all over you, you fucking chump. Get a better haircut. Get some proper clothes. And get that pissing tooth fixed.” George let him go, watching him tumble back to the ground again, then spun and walked towards Greg. “He’s got a right cheek, that one.” He stormed up Amaryllis’ path and knocked on the door, a bit too hard and loud, but he was still hyped up. He bent to call through the letterbox, “It’s The Brothers, love.”
Greg came to stand beside him as George straightened up.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you.” Greg sighed.
“It was funny, though, wasn’t it. Did you see him go down?”
“You’re a fucking mental case.” Greg laughed quietly. “He’s buggered off now.”
“Good.”
The light came on outside, plus the one indoors, shining through the two panes of dappled glass. The door opened, and Amaryllis stood there, sans makeup. She smiled then glanced behind them into the street, darting her head this way and that. George wouldn’t have recognised her if it wasn’t for her eyes, which were a distinctive grey. She looked a lot different without all her slap on and her hair done nice. That tight bun was a bit severe, but who was he to give advice on how she should present herself?
“If you’re looking for the skinny trampy fucker, he’s gone,” George said. “I think we need to have a little chat, don’t you? He isn’t the geezer from the CCTV, so that’s two men we need to discuss. Kettle boiled, is it?”
She paled and moved back, a trembling hand to her chest. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“It’ll all come out in the wash.” George stepped inside and headed for the kitchen at the end of the hallway, hoping his and Greg’s brand of Ariel removed the stains from her life.
He stopped and had a gander. Packing boxes cluttered the floor in the dining area, some closed, some with the tops open, the contents seeming to peer out to see who he was. The red curtains were down and folded on a ladder-back chair, some of the hooks still on the white tape—not good if she had night-time pervs gawping at her house. That prick could come back, go in the garden, and stare at her and she wouldn’t know it. Dick.
Amaryllis and Greg came in, and they talked shit while she made the drinks, about how she liked working in the parlour, not being out at night, not having sex, and that it was weird being awake in the daytime, but she wasn’t knocking it.
“You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Once they were all seated at the table, Greg and George beside each other, Amaryllis opposite, steaming mugs of coffee in front of them from her Gusto machine, George ploughed in with both size elevens.
“Look, when some ratty bloke’s standing opposite your house looking like he’s fresh from the Scrubs, there’s a problem. What is it?”
Amaryllis sighed and rubbed her forehead. She appeared older, broken, as if no glue in the world would put her back together. “It’s probably better if I show you, although I don’t really want to rake it all up. But you need to know, especially if he comes back to cause trouble. I might need your help.”
She got up and crouched to rummage in one of the open boxes. Took out a folded newspaper, yellowed with age, the top corner curling. A faded red header, The Sun in off-white. She opened it out and placed it on the table in front of George and Greg, pointing at the front page. The main photo was of a man with long hair, tied back in a low ponytail, awkward, scowling. Shifty was a better word, as if he didn’t want his photo taken. He was walking down a residential street, arms swinging, staring across at the photographer. A smaller picture showed a young woman, but it hadn’t been taken by a journalist hiding in the bushes. This one was the sort in a brochure or something, a white backdrop, head-and-shoulders shot, forced smile.
“That’s me.” Amaryllis retook her seat. “When I was young. They got the photo from my old job. It was one they put up in the supermarket, on a board, showing who worked there.”
That made sense.
George got on with reading the short article, Greg leaning close to do the same.
TRIAL CONTINUES FOR TICKLE THE TORTURER!
The public gallery in the Old Bailey was packed today as people gathered to listen to evidence headed by the prosecution. Oliver Ford, 28, of Main Street, Landerlay, is on trial for the torture and murder of Amanda Cutting, 19, in August last year.
His girlfriend, Jennifer Lenton, took to the stand in the afternoon to give her version of events. She stated she wasn’t at the bedsit where the murder took place but on the beach at a bonfire party. Her account is that Mr Ford fell asleep on the beach. They returned to the bedsit to find Miss Cutting dead and called the police. Miss Lenton claimed to have no idea how Miss Cutting had entered the property. In previous giving of evidence, a PC said the front door and that of the bedsit had been open when the couple arrived home.
Miss Cutting, a medical student, had lived in Landerlay while she went to university. She had attended a rave, which Mr Ford and Miss Lenton had also visited. A witness said there had been an altercation in the car park, and a fight broke out. The accused and Miss Lenton deny any accusations that
they were involved in those things. The trial continues.
George looked up. “Fuck me.” He studied Amaryllis for signs of deception, that she’d been in on it with her boyfriend, but she appeared innocent as eff.
Mind you, she’s had years to perfect that expression. Look at how Mum covered shit up.
Amaryllis swallowed. “That’s who was out the front.” She jerked her thumb towards the door. “Ollie.”
The reminder of the skank set George on edge. “So what happened? He got put down for it, obviously.”
She nodded. “Twenty years. He got out early. So he said.”
“You’ve spoken to him?” Is she a nutter or what? One of those women who stick by their murdering other half? Nah, she’d have let him in if that were the case.
“I met him at The Flag earlier this evening,” she said. “We had…things the other wanted.”
George frowned. “Like what? And be upfront. You’ll come to learn I don’t like being pissed about.”
“I was going to be telling you all this anyway if he gave me hassle, so I may as well get it over and done with.”
“Sensible,” Greg said.
She let out a weary laugh. “I kept his bloodied clothing from that night in case he ended up telling someone I was there when he… I told him I’d burn them, see. When that man from the CCTV came to the parlour, I found out Ollie had one of my earrings with Amanda’s blood on it, plus a photo of me, blood all over my face.”
“Bloody hell,” Greg said. “So did you help Ollie sort her or something?”
She shook her head hard. “No. I wish I’d walked out when…when it became clear what he was going to do, but he, well, I had to stay, put it that way.” She went on to tell them everything.
George digested the information. She’d been forced on the bloody game because of that toothless little prick? He wished he’d killed him out there, got rid of him for good, fuck the fact they were on someone else’s patch. And as for this Craig McFadden fella she’d mentioned… “Get a bag packed. You’re staying at our gaff tonight while we get some men to move your gear to the flat. It’s empty early, so no sense in you staying here, is there, not with him mooching about. They’ll keep an eye out for that bastard hanging around, and if he comes back while they’re here, he won’t be out there for long, know what I mean?”
