Lord of London Town

by Tillie Cole

  “Cheska!” Arabella shouted.

  “Coming!” I opened the door to my friends.

  We dined, and the entire time I tried to stay in the moment, to enjoy all the effort my best friends had put into tonight. I loved them. They were truly like my sisters. I was the bad friend. I had been the one to keep a huge part of my life from them for the longest time. I didn’t deserve them.

  By the time we returned to the room for drinks, Freya and Arabella were legless. I was tipsy but had kept my head straight for fear I would say something about Arthur if alcohol controlled my tongue.

  I tossed my bag on the table as the sound of a text came through. Laughing at Freya trying to somersault onto the bed in her Gucci playsuit, I opened the screen and struggled to make out what I was seeing. It only took a couple of seconds for me to understand. It was a video, with no sound. My hands started shaking as the camera panned out.

  “No,” I sobbed, when my father and Hugo came into view. They were bloodied and beaten. Only one of my father’s eyes remained open. Freya and Arabella came running to me. Freya covered her mouth with her hand when she saw the screen. Arabella held on to my arm.

  And we watched.

  We watched as my father and Hugo were beaten and hurt. Then a man in a balaclava and dressed in black came forward with a gun. My father fought his restraints, but the man held a gun to his head.

  He pulled the trigger.

  I screamed as my father’s head dropped forward and life drained from his body. Hugo fought too, looking in horror at my father. Hugo turned to face the attacker. He was speaking to him frantically, begging him for something. For mercy, I imagined. But the killer just held the gun to his head and fired a bullet, killing him too.

  My legs grew weak and I collapsed onto the floor. Freya and Arabella followed me down, the two of them wrapping their arms around me.

  “Dad … Hugo …” I cried, replaying the video over and over in my head.

  “The police.” Freya got to her feet. “We need to call the police.” She had just got to the phone when the door to our bedroom was slammed open and three men marched inside. I went to scream when I saw they were dressed in the same black clothes and balaclavas as the men in the video. But they moved before I could.

  One grabbed Freya and covered her mouth to stop her calling out. One grabbed Arabella by her hair and dragged her across the carpet to near Freya. He pulled a roll of gaffer tape from his pocket and bound her hands and taped up her mouth. Freya had the same done to her. Then one came for me. I tried to get up and run, but he grabbed me by the waist and punched me across the face. I tasted blood, felt it trickling from my lip and down my neck.

  “Bitch,” he snarled and kicked my legs from under me. I plunged to the carpeted floor, and my hands and mouth were taped too.

  They lined us up beside the bed, then one of them pulled out a camera. Tears were flooding down Freya’s and Arabella’s cheeks. I wouldn’t give these men the pleasure of seeing me break. I had to keep my composure. I was pretty sure I was in shock after seeing my father and Hugo killed so brutally. And now they were here.

  For me.

  “Harlow cunt.” The man brought the camera closer to my face. “Your daddy and fiancé pissed off some very bad people.” I saw his balaclava shift and knew he was smiling beneath it. “They owed some money to some very powerful men.” He kneeled before me. “And they thought they were too good to pay the piper.” He nodded at one of the other men, the one standing near Freya. “And now we’re recouping their debt.”

  In a flash, the man struck out and sliced the knife across Freya’s throat. I screamed, the gaffer tape stopping any noise from spilling out. Freya’s eyes widened, and she looked at me, right in the eye, as the wound cracked open and her blood poured in rivulets down her neck.

  I screamed. I screamed and screamed as she fell to the ground, body twitching as she fought to hold on to life. Her eyes stayed on me as the life drained from her … until her body stopped moving, stopped fighting … stopped living.

  The men laughed, and pure rage built in my chest. Arabella whispered something intelligible beside me, and I met her terrified dark eyes. They squeezed shut as more tears fell. When they opened again, her eyes turned to the man who was slowly approaching her. She didn’t struggle. My best friend watched with a hauntingly detached calmness as the man who had bound her with tape kneeled down, then pushed a long knife right through her heart.

  I turned my head away as Arabella started to gurgle, and this time I felt all the fight seep from my bones. When I had mustered up some strength, I looked back at Arabella as she lay on the floor, her eyes open but her body dead, her blood pooling beneath her.

  They were going to kill me. My father and Hugo fucked up somehow, and now we were all going to die because of it. Arabella and Freya were innocent. I was a Harlow. I was the one they wanted.

  “Smile,” the man with the camera said, bringing the lens to my face. “Your friends are dead. Daddy and Hugo are dead. That only leaves you.” I held my breath as he pulled the knife from Arabella’s chest and wiped my friend’s blood across the top of my breasts. I waited for him to stab me too, but instead he dragged me up by my arm. “No, no death for you. We have other things planned. Really fucked-up things. Death is too easy a way out.”

  He hoisted me to my feet. They were bare, my shoes long discarded, and my soles stood on the still-warm blood of Arabella and Freya. I fought back nausea as I was dragged into the corridor, trying to keep my eyes on my friends, praying they weren’t gone—but they were. I’d seen the light fade from their eyes. I searched for anyone to help, but the spa was silent. The men dragged me away from the main stairs and lifts and into the emergency exit stairwell. I was struck as I stumbled and tried to pull away. They dealt punches to my stomach, to my face and finally, to my head. My vision spun, and I felt another slap burst my lip open further.

  I felt as though I’d blacked out for a while. When I came to, one of the men was speaking into a phone. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I felt dizzy, aches and pains accosting me from my side to my head. I tried to keep my composure, keep conscious. I had to escape. I had to get away from here. I needed to get help. I couldn’t let them take me.

  But when we burst out of the exit and into an alleyway, I was dragged to the doors of a waiting van. Two of the men got in. One was behind me. I quickly looked at him; the knife he had used on Arabella was tucked into his waistband.

  Just as he grabbed my arm to push me inside, I thrust my body against him. He laughed, clearly thinking I’d stumbled again. He certainly didn’t suspect me of grabbing his knife and plunging it into his stomach. He keeled over, and I ran. I ran as hard and as fast as I could down the alleyway.

  I could see the main road in the distance.

  My heart beat faster and faster as I heard footsteps on the cobbled stones, someone giving chase. But I had the main road in my sight; it was my target. It was my salvation. I pulled at the tape around my wrists, working it as I ran. I ripped the tape off my mouth with my hands. I fought and fought as I ran, lifting my arms and yanking them down, managing to get one hand free. I risked a quick look behind me and saw the other two men hot on my heels.

  But the end of the alley was just a few feet away. As I burst onto the bright main street, a hint of relief hit me. But I didn’t let my guard down. I ran for the taxi rank near the front of the spa. People stared at me as I passed. I ignored them. I had to get to the safety of a taxi. I knew of only one person who could help me. The one person I needed to see right now more than God.

  The rank was empty of people, and I dived into the back of the first cab. “Drive!” I shouted to the cabbie. His eyes widened in the rearview mirror.

  “Bloody hell, love. You okay?”

  “Please!” I begged, feeling the delayed shock starting to claw at my throat, anxiety trying to smother me with its heavy body. “Please, just drive.” I looked behind me and couldn’t see the men anywhere. It would be too
conspicuous for them to be seen in public dressed as they were. But it didn’t mean they weren’t tracking me somehow.

  “Where to, love?” the cabbie said and pulled out into the main road.

  “The …” I hitched a breath. “The Sparrow Room.” I knew it was only up the road, but I needed time to catch my breath. I couldn’t have made it to the club on foot. My energy was depleted, and I didn’t feel well.

  “They’re not going to let you in looking like that, sweetheart. It’s as posh as Buckingham Palace.”

  “I know him,” I murmured and sat back on the leather seat, feeling the wounds that had been inflicted on me begin to throb and sting. My entire body seemed to pulse, and I thought I could smell blood. I pushed the images of Freya and Arabella from my head, of Dad and Hugo being shot on the seats to which they were tied. I wasn’t safe yet. I just had to get to Arthur, and then I’d be safe. He would help me. Even if he didn’t want me anymore, he would keep me safe.

  I pulled my hair from its low bun and tried my best to hide my face. The taxi stopped. The entrance to the Sparrow Club was to my left. It was a huge building with heavy-set bouncers guarding the door. I just had to get inside.

  “I can’t pay you,” I whispered to the cabbie when I caught him staring at me.

  “It’s on the house, darling,” he said and unlocked the doors for me. The unexpected kindness almost made me weep, but I kept it together. I just had to keep it together for a little bit longer. “They’re not going to let you in,” the cabbie said again.

  I watched a bouncer remove the rope to let people inside and knew that’s how I’d get in. I could make a run for it when the ropes were pulled back. Then I just had to find Arthur’s office. I prayed he was there.

  The bouncer closed the rope again, and I waited. I kept my hand braced on the door handle of the taxi. When the bigger bouncer controlling the rope moved to open it again, I threw the door open and ran without pause.

  I ran as fast as I could past the rope and straight through into the entrance. “Oi!” I heard a bouncer shout behind me, but I kept running. I couldn’t stop yet. I ran past the cloakroom and till, following the pounding dance music until I entered the main body of the club. It was packed and dark and wall-to-wall with dancing people. I slipped into the throng, knowing the bouncers would be searching the entire club for me.

  I searched around me, trying to find my bearings. The three-floored interior looked like a theatre or opera house, but with dancers and a DJ on the main stage. There were go-go dancers in cages, and the bars teemed with people buying drinks. But then I saw someone in a suit enter a back door near the stage. A bouncer opened the door, and as the light shone on the man in the suit’s face, recognition hit. Charlie. It was Charlie Adley.

  Hope carried me forward. I pushed through the dancers and tried to think how to get into the door. But a higher power must have figured I was owed a boon—a fight broke out next to the bouncer, and he was drawn into the fray, leaving the door on its latch.

  I ran again, using the last of my energy to get through the door. I shut it behind me, hearing the lock click into place, and winced at the bright fluorescent light. My side started to throb with more intensity, and as I looked down, I noticed blood seeping from my side. I’d been stabbed? I didn’t remember being stabbed. Had it happened in the stairwell when they had beaten me? I thought I had blacked out …

  Feeling light-headed, I rushed down the corridor. I passed a storeroom door, but there were no offices. I climbed a set of stairs at the end of the hallway, praying I would make it to the top before collapsing. Muffled voices came from behind one of the doors. I climbed the steps, trying to ignore the pain slicing through my ribs, the swelling of my lips and the energy that seemed to be draining more and more by the second.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Arthur’s name on one of the doors and headed in that direction. The voices grew louder as I approached. My hand fell on the doorknob and I turned it, managing to throw the door open. There was a flurry of activity around me, but I didn’t pay it any attention. All I saw was the man behind the desk. A man in a designer suit, with dark hair and bright blue eyes shining behind black-framed glasses.

  And despite everything, I felt relief flood me, bringing me light. In this moment, seeing Arthur was as powerful as seeing Christ himself.

  I reached my hand toward him and whispered, “Arthur … I’ve found you … I’ve finally found you …”

  Then I closed my eyes and succumbed to the dark.

  Chapter Seven

  ARTHUR

  I shot up from my seat and moved around my desk, pushing it the fuck out of my way. Charlie, Eric, Vinnie and Freddie had their guns out and targeted on Cheska the minute she bust through the door. I bent down, rolled her over and saw blood pouring onto her dress. She was knocked out, her lip split and her cheek bruised, but fuck, even in this state she was fucking beautiful. But her injuries … her fucking injuries …

  Fire flared inside me. Someone had hurt her. Someone had fucking hit her. I ripped the dress in two to find a stab wound in her side. “Ring the doctor. Have him come to my house,” I ordered Charlie and lifted Cheska into my arms.

  I had fucking Cheska Harlow-Wright in my arms again.

  I hadn’t seen her in over a year, and now she was in my motherfucking arms, bleeding out and beaten to a bastard pulp. “Call the fucking driver to the back exit,” I instructed Eric as I burst into the corridor and raced down the stairs. I heard footsteps following behind me.

  “Cheska? This is the bird you were fucking all that time?” Eric asked. I ignored him and rushed to the back exit, kicking it open with my foot. The car was already there. I climbed inside and held her in my arms.

  “Home. And fucking get us there quick!” I ordered, and the driver skidded out onto the main road. I pushed back dark brown hair from Cheska’s face and studied her cuts and bruises. A strange, fucked-up kind of ache ripped at my chest as I saw her swelling lip and the wound at her side. My sternum ached like I was feeling something. Like I fucking cared. But I’d stopped caring about everything a long time ago. All I felt these days was rage and revenge and the need to tear down any fucker that got in my way.

  I pressed my hand against her side to try and stop the bleeding. Her blood was hot against my hand, and her breathing was steady but hollow. Cheska didn’t wake up as I touched her. She was fucking out for the count.

  I’d seen enough stab wounds in my time to know it wasn’t deep, but she was losing blood; that much was clear.

  “Faster,” I said to the driver. I pressed down harder on her wound and felt something pull in my gut. My jaw clenched as it hit me again, like a fucking crowbar to my stomach.

  Cheska. Bloody Cheska Harlow-Wright. She’d always been able to do this shit to me. Her stunning face, her body that I always fucking craved, and those dual-coloured eyes that drew me the fuck in.

  “Princess, what the fuck?” I said against her cheek and held her tighter. Her tits were on show since I’d ripped her dress from her. She hadn’t been wearing a bra. I glanced at the driver. His attention was on the road, but a wave of possessiveness took me over. I didn’t want any fucker to see her like this. Only me. Only I ever looked at her tits and body this way.

  I slipped off my jacket and wrapped it around her. A breath lodged in my throat at the sight of her in my jacket. She was slim, and my jacket bloody drowned her. But I liked the sight of her in it. Fuck, I could smell my cologne mixing with her perfume, and I held her fucking tighter.

  Blood soaked into my shirt as she lay flush against me, but I didn’t fucking care. I tapped my foot on the floor. My bastard skin itched with the need to get her to safety.

  I just needed to get her to my motherfucking house.

  The minute we turned from the main road to the church grounds, I let myself breathe. When we stopped at the house, I launched the fuck out of the car and ran for the front door. The doctor was waiting. He knew not to fuck me about, and I paid
him a fuck-ton of money to be at my beck and call.

  “My bedroom,” I ordered and rushed her inside. I laid Cheska on my bed and reluctantly moved out of the doctor’s way. But I kept her fucking hand in mine. Kept my fingers wrapped around hers. I couldn’t fucking take my eyes off her, lying there on the bed.

  My fucking bed.

  Dark hair.

  Green-brown eyes that always saw me and … “Arthur … I’ve found you … I’ve finally found you …”

  Her voice. Her raspy posh voice as she staggered into my office, and the fucking state of her as she fell to the ground.

  Cheska.

  Cheska, who I had left in Oxford just over a year ago never to fucking see again. The doctor started cleaning her up, and I needed a drink. I needed a fucking large drink and a drag of my cig.

  I released her hand and pushed out of the room. I stared at my hand as I walked down the hallway. It was still warm. Even losing blood, she’d warmed my fucking hand. I went straight to the bar and poured myself a huge whisky and downed half the glass. Memories fucking assaulted me. Memories that I both tried to forget and needed to fuel me.

  I’d gone to her the day they’d all been killed. The day Dad got shot by the fucking Russians. My eyes drifted in the direction of my old man’s bedroom, where he still lay. Still in a fucking coma, body atrophied and paralysed. No sign of ever coming out of it.

  Cheska.

  Fucking Cheska Harlow-Wright.

  I heard my front door open and knew who it would be. A few seconds later, Eric, Charlie, Vinnie and Freddie came inside. They were all looking at me, waiting for something.

  “WHAT?” I roared, not about to deal with their shit. I was on a fucking knife’s edge. I was feeling too much. I chose not to feel anything but the hate-fuelled fire inside me these days. She was fucking with my mind. Cheska being here and hurt and fucking seeking me out after a year apart was fucking with my head.