Bad Blood

by Kelleher, Casey

  He was winding her up. The first time she’d made him dinner, they’d been so engrossed in each other that neither of them had noticed the black smoke billowing out from the kitchen until it had been too late. Sending the alarm beeping loudly, the shepherd’s pie Cassie had made had been cremated, and Nathan had never let her live it down. She’d been trying her hardest since then to improve her cooking skills, and despite a couple of bouts of dodgy guts here and there, she was slowly but surely getting better.

  ‘Actually, Cass, whatever it is smells quite edible for a change . . .’

  ‘Hey!’ Cassie laughed. ‘If you must know, I’ve made you your favourite.’ Cassie grinned again as Nathan kicked off his shoes and made himself at home. ‘Beef bourguignon, and I did it in the slow cooker this time, so it’s almost impossible to burn. Though you are a bit late, so if it is mullered it will be your fault, not mine.’

  Nathan laughed then. Cassie was a tonic. He’d turned up almost an hour late as it happened and unlike other birds who’d have thought nothing about giving him an ear-bashing for his slapdash timekeeping Cassie hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash. But then, he figured Cassie wasn’t like other birds. With a busy career herself as a senior nurse, she understood that Nathan was busy with work commitments of his own. She just let him come and go as he pleased. Their relationship was easy, natural. Neither of them made any demands of each other, or held any expectations.

  It was a first for Nathan, meeting a girl who was so at ease with herself, and he couldn’t seem to get enough of the girl. She was almost perfect. Almost. She did have one massive flaw, as Nathan was quickly finding out: the girl couldn’t cook for shit.

  ‘Don’t worry, Cass, I took the liberty of organising a couple of fire engines to be on standby this time.’ Nathan laughed as he poked his head out of the open balcony doors and shouted down to the imaginary fire crew. ‘It’s all right, lads, she’s made it in the slow cooker. The coast is clear.’

  ‘Ha ha! Very funny. Pour yourself a drink, and I’ll go and put these in a vase, and then see if I can salvage the dinner.’

  Opening the bottle of wine he’d bought, Nathan poured Cassie a glass, and then poured himself one too. He didn’t normally drink Sauvignon – he was more of a Jack and Coke drinker – but it was Cassie’s favourite tipple, and tonight he fancied making an exception and joining her. Placing her glass down next to the neatly folded napkins, and the cutlery that had been laid out just-so on the small black table, he couldn’t help but smile. As always Cassie had everything looking just perfect.

  The flat was pokey, but somehow Cassie, as with everything, just made the best of it. She liked the place, said the perks of living in staff accommodation meant not only did she get the rent discounted but she was also just a stone’s throw away from the hospital, directly across the road in fact.

  Stepping out onto the balcony, Nathan sipped his drink as he took in the view of Great Ormond Street Hospital opposite. With her career as a nurse, Cassie really did come from a totally different background to him, but somehow they worked.

  He remembered the first night she had told him that money meant nothing to her. How they had both been lying in bed together and Nathan, disbelieving her, had laughed at such a notion.

  Money was a way of life to him. It was every bit as essential as the air he breathed. Up until meeting Cassie, Nathan had never met a woman who didn’t lap up the lavish gifts, the extravagant nights out. The money, the status, it was a major part of his appeal. Or so he had thought.

  Cassie had been adamant and had spoken with such conviction about her job, that he knew she was speaking the truth.

  ‘Trust me, Nathan, if you saw what those families go through, what those poor kids go through day after day . . . It’s soul destroying. I honestly couldn’t give a rat’s arse about money. As long as I have my health then as far as I’m concerned I’m a very rich woman.’

  Nathan hadn’t believed her at first. He’d been spun that line before.

  ‘You do know who my family is, don’t you?’ Nathan had laughed, as he hugged her tightly, softening the mood.

  The Woods were notorious in London, and Nathan had made no secret of who he was when he’d met Cassie. He was the son of the famous Harry Woods. Ex-champion boxer and a local celebrity. And – on the side – a man who didn’t let the law stop him earning. Nathan and Christopher had naturally followed in their father’s footsteps, although Nathan had never really felt that a life in crime was his calling. He’d just gone along with it all, like it was expected of him. Now he’d met Cassie, something about her made him want to do better for himself, and for her.

  ‘So what?’ Cassie had shrugged as she had lain snuggled in his arms, her naked body pressed against his. ‘I’m not interested in your family, or your surname, nor what’s in your wallet. It’s you I love, Nathan. You as a person. If you turned up here tomorrow completely skint and wearing only a bin bag, nothing would change that.’ Cassie had meant every word.

  ‘So?’ Nathan had laughed too, as he pulled her naked body back on top of him. ‘What you are saying is . . . you’re only using me for my gorgeous, toned, Adonis-like body then, are you?’

  ‘Too bloody right.’ Kissing him on the neck, Cassie had disappeared down under the covers to show him exactly how much she appreciated him.

  Hearing an ambulance whizz past brought him back to reality, its blues and twos blaring loudly down on the main road. Nathan smiled at the memory. He took another sip of his wine before lighting up a cigarette.

  He finally understood what she was saying. Cassie was right: money couldn’t put a price on what they had.

  Shaking his head, he laughed as he listened to Cassie singing off key to herself in the kitchen as she dished up, feeling a million miles away from the usual world he inhabited. It felt good. It felt like he was truly at home here. He was turning into a soppy sod, but he liked it.

  ‘Right, grub’s up so take a seat. I hope this is okay. I haven’t got any red wine in, so the sauce might be a bit bland . . .’ Cassie apologised as she placed Nathan’s plate down on the table, and then sat down opposite.

  Nathan stood in the doorway watching as Cassie sat down and immediately took a bite of her food.

  ‘What? I’m starving. Why are you just standing there gawping at me?’ Cassie laughed, placing her hand over her mouth politely as she spoke.

  Nathan walked towards the table. ‘Come here.’ Nathan held Cassie’s hand. Pulling her up out of the chair, he held her to him. ‘You are gorgeous, do you know that? I wish I didn’t have to shoot off later. If it weren’t for Dad having this job on tonight, you know you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me, don’t you?’

  Nodding, Cassie grinned.

  Inhaling her familiar scent as he held Cassie close to him, they kissed passionately.

  Feeling Cassie pressed against him, her mouth over his, Nathan’s appetite for food had suddenly disappeared. Scooping Cassie up into his arms, Nathan threw her over his shoulder.

  ‘Hey, what about the dinner?’ She laughed as Nathan made his way towards her bedroom.

  ‘No offence to your cooking, babe, but if it’s a choice between you and that . . .’ He nodded over to the plate of watery looking food, slopped in the middle of the plate on the table behind them. ‘Then it really is no contest. The only thing I want to devour tonight is you,’ Nathan said as he threw her down on the bed and playfully started to undress.

  Throwing her head back, Cassie laughed.

  Nathan Woods was making a habit of sweeping her off her feet and Cassie was loving every minute.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Ahh come on, Keith, how about one more for the road? What do you say?’ the man slurred, unsteadily holding out his empty glass in the hope that he could persuade the landlord for just one last refill.

  ‘No, sorry, no lock-in tonight, lads. I’m knackered; I need my
bed. And I’m sure you both have homes to go to? Won’t your old ladies be waiting up for you back home?’ Taking the glass from the man, Keith Ryan ushered the last two staggering punters out of the pub’s main doors.

  ‘It’s the thought of our old ladies waiting up for us that makes us want to bleeding well stay here,’ the second man muttered bitterly.

  ‘Ah go on, get home. They must be angels putting up with the pair of you . . .’ Shivering as the cold night air swept in, Keith just wanted the men to piss off so he could lock up for the night.

  ‘You might need to get that looked at.’ The first man indicated the cut on Keith’s forehead, tripping down the front step as he spoke, grabbing at his friend’s arm to steady himself. ‘You’re lucky that scumbag didn’t take your eye out. You don’t think he’ll come back, do you?’

  ‘No, he’ll be long gone. Don’t you be worrying about me, this is just a scratch. It’s all part of the territory.’ Keith shrugged. ‘I’ll see you in the week, lads.’

  Finally closing the main door of the pub, Keith bolted it and leant back against the oak frame, breathing a sigh of relief that the night was finally over and the pub was empty. After the shitty week he’d had, his only thought tonight was crawling into bed. His head was throbbing but he wasn’t going to let on to the punters that he was in pain, and besides, it was probably nothing a few paracetamol and a couple of temazepam wouldn’t sort out.

  Irritated by the jukebox that was still playing in the background, Keith walked over and yanked the plug from the wall, forgetting for a second about his hand. Until a sharp jolt of pain shot down his fingers, throbbing at his quick movement. Cursing as he spotted fresh blood seeping through the bandage that he’d hastily applied earlier, Keith had a feeling he’d probably need stitches. The gash didn’t seem to be healing too well, and pressing the material firmly against his skin to stem the bleeding, he decided he’d just have to make do. There was no way he was going down to A&E at this time on a Saturday night; the place would be full of the likes that frequented this place, drunkards who’d had a skinful cluttering up the walk-in centre with their self-inflicted injuries as if they had nowhere better to be. If his hand was still giving him grief in the morning when the girls arrived for their shift he’d go then.

  The cut was deep, he knew that because the shard of glass he’d pulled out of it earlier had been so imbedded he’d practically had to dig it out.

  Still, it was only a cut, it wasn’t going to kill him. Keith Ryan considered himself lucky that he’d walked away with just a slice to his hand and a banging head. Considering that he’d had a glass whacked in his face.

  Technically, he hadn’t come off too badly. The irate druggie that attacked him had been so fucking high, he barely knew what he was saying, and if Keith hadn’t been so quick to protect himself by putting his hand up in self-defence, the attack could have been a whole lot worse.

  Checking his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, Keith wiped the crusty trail of blood that had trickled down his forehead. He noted the bags that hung loosely under his eyes. Running his fingers through the dark shadow of stubble that lined his jaw, even without the gash on his head he looked a mess. In just this past week he felt like he had aged an entire decade. All he had tried to do was be a good landlord and keep his pub in order, and this is what he’d got in return for his efforts.

  Punters around here took the right piss, coming in on a daily basis to use his toilets, most of them snorting more lines of coke than you’d find on the average barcode. The Railway used to be a lovely pub, but lately it was getting such a bad reputation that even the locals had started calling the place ‘The Main Line’ because of the amount of gear that was knocking about. And now he not only had the cokeheads sniffing about the place, but the Old Bill were keeping tabs on the place too. So tonight Keith had decided that enough was enough. Taking matters into his own hands, before he ended up getting his licence revoked, he’d spent the best part of the evening barring anyone who even so much as looked suspicious, and on top of that he’d also taken to using the old landlord trick of coating every surface in the public toilets in a thick layer of WD-40.

  He’d hoped that once the skanky dregs saw their lines of gear literally disintegrating before their very eyes they’d take the hint, and fuck off elsewhere.

  Of course, there would always be some nutcase who would kick off, and tonight Keith had suffered the wrath of one of the disgruntled users.

  Blaming Keith for his loss of a high he’d forked out on, the bloke had gone loopy. After a violent scuffle, and some help from a couple of the locals, Keith had managed to finally turf the bloke out. But not before the bloke had tried to wrap a pint glass around his head in the process.

  Feeling the alcohol-sodden carpet sticking to his shoes as he half-heartedly traipsed around the tables collecting empty glasses, Keith gritted his teeth. This place had gone to the dogs, he thought, grimly, as he slung the glasses onto the bar next to the glass washer. Leaving them for the girls to sort out in the morning, Keith couldn’t be arsed to do any more tonight.

  Opening the till, Keith counted the small pile of notes and loose change. The takings were so low that he wondered if it had even been worth opening up at all this evening. Bang in the heart of London’s gay community, The Railway pub didn’t even try to compete with the vast array of flamboyant, fancy gay bars that neighboured this end of Soho. With real local ales, and a homely atmosphere, The Railway was just a traditional working man’s pub, and Keith had been banking on its simplistic appeal for the place to have any success. He had thought that it would be a welcomed change from the theme nights and cabaret shows that were offered by his competition. The place was proving to be a gamble that wasn’t paying off.

  His pub was run of the mill, and in a street full of competition, the realisation that it just wasn’t working was finally starting to hit home.

  Hearing a bang from down in the cellar, Keith swore under his breath.

  Those bloody rats.

  Grabbing the bag of traps that he’d meant to put out earlier, he was suddenly very much in the mood to go and sort out the vermin that had infested his cellar, once and for all. The basement was overrun with the buggers, and bloody enormous they were too. He’d seen one run behind the barrels that morning, almost the size of a cat it was. There was no way that he was going to let the disease-ridden bastards loose to do any more damage, not after one of the little bastards had already somehow managed to chew through one of the pipes down there, flooding the whole cellar as a result. If he hadn’t been so hard up, he’d have paid pest control to come in and sort it out for him; as it was, like everything else, he was going to have to sort it out himself.

  Switching the main bar lights off, Keith made his way to the basement door, unsure of how much more he could take.

  This week had been a fucking nightmare. Not only had the pub been targeted by vandals, leaving Keith to fork out money that he didn’t have to replace the two windows they’d smashed, but some fucker had nicked the two patio heaters he’d invested in for the smoking areas out the front. Then finally, to add insult to injury, a gang of kids had used the front of his pub as a canvas for tagging their graffiti all over.

  This place was haemorrhaging money left, right and centre. He already owed the Woods brothers almost a hundred grand for taking out the two hefty loans with them. He could barely pay it back – he’d been late with the past two payments, which had financially crippled him, so there was no way he could borrow any more.

  He just needed to keep his head above water but it was proving easier said than done. Lately it felt like no matter what he did, he was barely treading water let alone staying afloat.

  Opening the door, he made his way down the creaking steps.

  The damp smell of mould wafted up his nose. Shivering in the dark as he heard tiny feet scurrying around him Keith hit the light switch. His skin was crawling
at just the thought of the flea infested vermin hiding behind the beer kegs, with their evil beady eyes peeping out, watching his every move.

  Deciding to get on with the task of eliminating the rodents, he placed the traps down in the corners of the room.

  Hearing a loud creak, he jumped. He’d caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

  The black shadow was too big to be any sort of rodent.

  With a look of dread on his face, Keith turned around as the realisation hit him. He wasn’t alone. ‘What the fuck?’

  Stepping out of the shadows, Christopher Woods loomed a good foot taller than Keith. His smirk was full of malice and his mocking tone matched it. ‘Now, now, Keithy-boy. That ain’t no way to greet a guest, is it?’

  Keith looked to the stairs, trying to work out if he could make a run for it.

  Christopher was already one step ahead. Pulling out the knife, he held it up. Challenging Keith, daring him to give him a reason to use his weapon.

  ‘Not having the best of weeks, are you, mate? Burgled, flooded and now an infestation . . . What are the chances?’ Christopher smiled, kicking the box that was down by his feet so that it tipped up. Releasing more scurrying rats into the room.

  Keith gulped as he realised how much of a coincidence his run of bad luck had been. He felt suddenly very foolish. He should have known that the Woods brothers wouldn’t just walk away so calmly from a blatant rejection. It all made sense now. The only bad luck Keith had really had was the day he had been brainless enough to get involved with these boys.

  ‘You had any moments to reflect on my brother’s offer?’ Christopher narrowed his eyes, grabbing the wooden chair at the edge of the room and dragging it between them. Then pointing the knife in Keith’s direction, Christopher indicated at the man to sit.

  Keith shook his head, confused.