Bombmaker

by Claire McFall

  “This is going to sting,” Samuel warned, approaching me with a wad of gauze, dampened in some mysterious blue substance.

  I watched apprehensively as he came towards me. He started with my hands, wiping away the blood, sweat and dirt. Underneath, my skin was bright pink, the gashes a deep red. Most of them had stopped bleeding and though they nipped in protest, it was more of a dull burning. I’d had much worse. I bit down on my tongue, determined not to complain, as he worked his way steadily up my arm. From there he moved onto my leg, ripping the denim further so that he could reach in and clean my wounds. Despite myself, I sucked in a breath as he daubed the inside of my knee just where it joined the bottom of my thigh.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. He dropped the gauze and felt around the area with his fingers. His touch was warm against my skin, tickling me and drawing a blush to my cheeks, but then he found what had sent a spike of pain up my leg before, and I tried to jerk myself away from him. “Hold still,” he ordered, clamping down on my thigh with his free hand. I winced as he fiddled around the spot, then slowly he drew out a long, thin slither of glass. At least an inch of it was slick with blood. “Dammit, that’s really bleeding. Here,” he handed the gauze to me. “Hold this against it. Keep it firm.”

  I took the bloodstained rag from him and reached inside my jeans. I found where the blood was leaking out, warm and wet, and pressed the scrunched-up ball tight against it, squeezing my knees together to increase the pressure.

  Samuel returned to me with fresh gauze and started sponging at my neck and face. He stepped in closer this time, leaning forward until he was just a foot away. I dropped my head, a little embarrassed and uncomfortable at the close contact, but that meant he couldn’t see the cuts he was trying to clean, so he hooked one finger under my chin and pushed my face gently back up. I flashed him a self-conscious half smile, but Samuel didn’t seem to notice. He just continued wiping at the blood, working his way across my forehead and down my temple.

  Unable to look into his eyes, I directed my gaze firmly at Samuel’s jaw, his mouth. His cheeks were slightly hollowed, his chin blessed with a deep cleft behind a rough centimetre of coarse, dark brown beard. It was his lips that captivated me. Samuel’s lips were so like his brother’s I felt as though I’d kissed them before. But they were relaxed now, slightly parted, and seemed constantly on the verge of breaking into a smile; I rarely saw Alexander’s like that. I wondered, for a wild moment, if I pressed them to mine, whether they’d feel the same.

  The thought was both intriguing and discomfiting, so I ripped my eyes back up to Samuel’s. It was easier than I thought it’d be to watch him, because he wasn’t looking into my eyes, but was concentrating on my cheek, gently rubbing at the skin to lift the dried-in blood.

  “Okay,” he said at last, dropping his arm. “I’ve done the best I can. You’ve a few deep ones, but nothing that needs stitches.”

  “How do I look?” I asked, mindful of the fact that I had to face Rhys Davis and all his cronies.

  Samuel lifted up half his face into a smile.

  “Beautiful,” he told me.

  I blinked. That hadn’t been the sort of response I’d been expecting at all. My cheeks, already burning from whatever chemical Samuel had applied, felt as though they might spontaneously combust. Aside from the occasional, “Good job”, Samuel almost never paid me a compliment. And nobody had ever told me that I was beautiful.

  “I…” I kept opening and closing my mouth, but nothing more came out. I stopped trying when Samuel took a finger and placed it against my lips.

  We gazed at each other: him, serious and intense; me, wary but mesmerised. My mouth was suddenly dry, my heart thumping erratically. I’d seen that look often enough in his brother’s face, I knew what it meant. Normally, when I was caught like this, I’d be fighting to keep the fear, aversion and self-loathing from my face. Now…

  I waited.

  Suddenly Samuel moved forward, closed the space between us. His hand grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me into him, but although I raised my face expectantly, it was my forehead that he pressed to his mouth. He held me there for a moment, then dropped his hold and turned away from me.

  “Let’s go,” he spoke to the doorway, giving me half a second to get myself together and shuffle off the bed before he started to walk away. I was glad – I needed that moment to mask my disappointment. And my shock at my reaction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We were met outside the room by a skinny, scruffy looking young man whose surly expression told us clearly that he thought this assignment was beneath him. He stalked off as soon as Samuel turned into the corridor, scuffing along like a sulky teenager. Only the gun peeking out of the waistband of his trousers made him seem anything more than a child.

  Rhys was apparently ready for us, because we were led up yet another flight of stairs, this time to the very top, to a short landing and large, closed, wooden double doors. The atmosphere was different up here, not least because of the plush carpet beneath our feet. A pair of bodyguards stood, alert, between ourselves and the door: Rhys had to be on the other side. They made no move to stop our escort as he stepped right up to the solid oak panelling and hammered several times. He didn’t wait for anyone to answer, but turned on his heel and traipsed away without so much as a nod in our direction.

  I swallowed and looked nervously to Samuel. He seemed relaxed, his expression calm, eyes straight ahead. Unconsciously I edged a little closer to him, tucking myself in behind the safety of his broad shoulders. He noticed the movement, reaching down to rub the back of my hand for a second. He pulled his fingers away as the door swung open, but I still felt the comforting heat of his touch. I covered it with my other hand, trying to hold onto it, like it was my courage. I didn’t like Rhys Davis.

  Another bodyguard stood on the other side of the door. One that I recognised. Gavin. He didn’t speak but, on seeing us, pulled the door open wider, allowing us room to enter, to squeeze past his vast frame.

  Alexander’s private office was all sleek chrome and pristine white. It was hi-tech, minimalist, modern – full of angles and clean lines. It reflected his personality: he liked things ordered, controlled. Clockwork. Rhys’s office was totally different. Dark. Muted yellow lights glowed around the room from lamps and sconces attached to the walls. But heavy deep red wallpaper sucked up the light, along with a plush charcoal grey carpet. The furniture, all huge and antique looking, was in shades of mahogany and ebony. I half expected to see Rhys in an armchair by the fire, stroking a cat like some cartoon villain, but instead he sat to the left, in the grandest of several chairs around a gleaming oval table.

  “Samuel,” he called, standing up to greet us. “Sorry I had to keep you waiting. There was some… housekeeping to be done.”

  He twitched a smile, eyes glinting like coals. I knew his idea of ‘housekeeping’ was the sort of thing that went on in the special rooms in Alexander’s basement, the rooms with drains in the floor. I glanced at Gavin. Whenever Zane had an opportunity to dish out some violence, he glowed with a smug air of satisfaction. The bodyguard’s face was blank, impassive. Rhys’s on the other hand…

  I eyed him apprehensively. Unlike Alexander, Rhys looked like the type who enjoyed getting his hands dirty from time to time.

  “It’s not a problem,” Samuel smiled tightly.

  Rhys turned his attention to me. Instinctively I tried to shrink into myself, hunching my shoulders.

  “I see you brought little Lizzie,” he gave me a wink. I blanched, swallowed, tried my best to keep the grimace off my face.

  “She goes where I go,” Samuel repeated, putting his hand possessively around the back of my neck.

  “I see,” Rhys mused. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then he smiled. His fox smile. “So you wanted to talk,” he held out his arm, indicated the table. “Let’s talk.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome at the meeting – Alexander would have banished me from the room or, more likely, to
his bed; another chance to humiliate me, to put me in my place – but Samuel, with his hand on my neck, guided me forward. He pushed me into a chair, then sat beside me, directly opposite Davis. Gavin came and stood discreetly behind his boss; Danny settled himself in between Samuel and Rhys, right in my line of vision.

  Samuel leaned his elbows on the table, propped his fingers into a steeple and rested his chin on them. He sighed.

  “Alex.”

  Rhys gave an evil grin.

  “Alexander.”

  “I can give you his body, but not the man.”

  “What’s the difference?” Rhys raised one eyebrow scathingly.

  “My conscience,” Samuel’s tone was sour. “I have no intention of handing him over to you so that you can exact whatever payback you have planned, slowly and painfully. He is my brother.”

  “Ha!” Rhys guffawed, showing off a row of blackened, misshapen teeth. “So that’s how far the bonds of brotherly love extend?”

  He waited, and, after a long moment, Samuel nodded.

  “And what if that is not enough?”

  Samuel stood. “Then we don’t have a deal.”

  We were leaving? I half raised myself, but stopped when Rhys waved Samuel back down.

  “Don’t be hasty!” he said, his expression placating. Slowly, Samuel eased himself back into his chair. I dropped into my seat, my eyes swivelling between both men.

  “Dead, or not at all,” Samuel repeated.

  “Dead’s not enough. No, wait!” He held up his hand, because Samuel’s expression had curdled and once again he looked set to leave. “You take out Alexander and what’s to stop his second in command from jumping into the role?”

  “I’m his second in command,” Samuel said firmly.

  Rhys made a dismissive noise. “You won’t be, not for much longer. I’m talking about the Irish boy. What’s he called?” Rhys clicked his fingers impatiently.

  “Zane.”

  A shiver ran through me at the mention of his name. Zane. Ambitious, ruthless and a thug. The thought of him in charge of the Evans empire was perhaps even more frightening than it was already, with Alexander at the helm. Perhaps.

  “That’s right, Zane. He needs to go as well.”

  I allowed myself a brief smile as Samuel shrugged.

  Zane’s demise I would not mourn.

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “And I want fanfare.”

  “What?” Samuel’s eyebrows drew forward in confusion. As did mine. Fanfare?

  “A song and dance. A spectacle. I don’t just want the two of them to disappear into obscurity.”

  “You want the world to know they’re dead?”

  Rhys smiled. “Just London will do. And if London knows, the word will trickle out.”

  “Why?”

  Rhys didn’t answer the question, but took a deep slug from the tumbler he’d been toying with, half full of golden liquid. He sniffed.

  “I’m starting to like London,” he said, looking around the room as if it were the city. “I always thought it was a cesspit of scum housing the dregs of society, but the place is growing on me. It’s amazing the things you can lay your hands on here, stuff that Cardiff hasn’t seen in over a year. And the dodgy deals that are going on. Seems to me that with the right leverage, the right currency, you can get into bed with anyone. Even the prime minister. I can make a difference here. And if not, I can definitely make some money.”

  He smiled at Samuel. I looked from man to man, totally bemused. Clearly I was missing something, because Samuel’s eyes had narrowed in understanding.

  “So you want to step into Alex’s shoes and—”

  “No!” Rhys slammed his hand down on the table. A sharp crack reverberated around the room. “I stand in nobody’s shoes. Especially not Alexander Evans’s.”

  He curled his lip in disgust.

  “Okay,” Samuel held one hand up in surrender. “You want to expand your business ventures in London, shall we say?”

  “You could put it like that.”

  “And with Alex out of the way there’d be a nice little opening. But you don’t need a big commotion to achieve that.”

  “Your brother,” Rhys leaned forward; I leaned back but Samuel didn’t budge an inch, “is responsible for the deaths of several of my operatives.”

  “That’s not it,” Samuel smiled wryly. I held my breath, my tongue trapped between my teeth. I wasn’t at all sure that it was wise to disagree with Rhys Davis. “You want revenge for that, take out some of his men—”

  “Like Lizzie?” Danny interrupted.

  “No,” Samuel paused to shoot him a look. “Lizzie’s mine now, not Alex’s.” I squirmed in my seat with a perverse mixture of pleasure and embarrassment; I didn’t want to feature in this discussion. Samuel turned back to Rhys. “You want to send a message, get yourself a reputation. Get the right people’s attention.”

  Rhys spread his hands in mock supplication. “We all have our pride, Samuel. But the reason behind it doesn’t matter. It’s what I want.”

  Samuel sat back in his chair, thinking.

  “What sort of… spectacle did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Rhys slanted his eyes left, towards me. “Something explosive.”

  There wasn’t much to say after that. Without a word from his boss, Danny stood and motioned that we should leave. Once again, Samuel claimed me, clamping an arm firmly on my shoulder this time. I was glad. The meeting had been tense and my legs were shaking. Without his firm grip I wasn’t convinced I’d still be standing.

  Back outside the double doors, Danny halted.

  “Are you planning to head back to Bancroft Road?”

  I turned to Samuel, my heart beginning to hammer once again. Was he? I couldn’t go there. Not if I wanted to stay alive. Samuel’s protection would mean nothing face-to-face with Alexander.

  “No,” Samuel shook his head.

  “You need somewhere to…” Danny’s eyes flickered to my face then away again. “Lay low?”

  Samuel, too, glanced at me.

  “Might be an idea.”

  Danny nodded and started to walk, jogging lightly down the stairs. We followed.

  “There’s a hotel on the other side of the industrial estate. It’s called The Scelter.” Samuel snorted. “It’s one of our… investments. The night manager’s called Rutlin. Tell him I sent you. He’ll sort you out.”

  Samuel grunted in thanks. We walked the rest of the way in silence, Danny escorting us until we reached the underground garage.

  “Come by again tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll talk some more.”

  Samuel nodded curtly and stalked away, leaving me standing there awkwardly for half a second before I darted after him.

  “Are we going to the hotel,” I asked quietly as he started the Punto.

  “It’s as good a place as any,” Samuel replied. “And probably safer than most. Alex has connections in places even I don’t know about. At least if we’re in one of Davis’s premises we should be away from prying eyes. Should be,” he repeated.

  The Scelter turned out to be a modest-looking building that seemed to skirt the line between hotel and bed and breakfast. I doubted it had more than fifteen rooms, but it boasted a wide reception, manned even at this late time of night. Samuel approached the desk cautiously, with me a step behind him. I saw the night porter clock both of our cheeks, but he didn’t seem fazed by the sight of two marked Celts wandering in after midnight.

  “We’re looking for a room,” Samuel told him. “Danny sent us.”

  Understanding dawned at once. The man nodded and turned to a row of keys on a board behind him. There was no mention of ID cards or payment.

  “This is our best room,” he said, turning round and sliding a key attached to a large circular fob across the counter. “Top floor.”

  Samuel grabbed the key and turned away from the porter, without pausing to offer a thank you. Shrugging out of his jacket, he mad
e his way across the small foyer to the stairwell entrance – no lift – and held the door open for me. I blushed, I wasn’t used to courtesy, and scuttled through.

  We found our room at the top of four flights. It was the only one on that level. Samuel jangled the key in the lock, then pushed his way in. The room was large, housing a wide bed, probably a kingsize, a desk and two winged chairs. There was a dresser and a pair of bedside tables, and a half-closed door through which I caught a glimpse of white porcelain. A large flat-screen television hung on the wall.

  “You want to take a shower?” Samuel asked, pointing towards the bathroom.

  I blanched, instantly insecure – did I smell? – but then it dawned on me that he probably just wanted some privacy. His phone was already in his hand. Who did he want to call?

  I nodded silently and, kicking off my shoes, padded across the carpet into the tiled expanse of the en suite.

  “I’ll call down, see if I can get pyjamas or something for you,” he said, just as I was shutting the door. “Give you a chance to wash your stuff.”

  I smiled gratefully, cheered by the prospect of fresh underwear and the opportunity to clean the blood stains from my hoodie and jeans.

  The shower was heavenly. I stayed under the scalding spray for an age, long after I’d washed off the remains of dirt and blood, letting the spikes of hot water sting my scalp and shoulders, making my cuts and grazes throb. I tried not to use up all the cheap hotel shower gel and shampoo, aware that I had to share, but it calmed me down to concentrate on something so ordinary as soaping, massaging the aches out of my muscles. Eventually I shut off the water, folding myself inside a huge white towel. I vacillated over whether to put my grubby clothes back on, uncomfortable at the thought of entering the bedroom half dressed, but they really were grimy and I hoped Samuel would have made good on his promise to get me something to change into.

  Unsure, I picked up my top and sniffed at it. That decided me. I dropped it back to the floor and kicked it – along with the rest of my clothes – into a corner. Then I wrapped the towel around myself as firmly as I could, clamping my elbow to my side to hold it securely, and tiptoed hesitantly out of the door.