by Emmy Ellis
Yet she had disappeared, going to The Brothers’ house. Why hadn’t they gone round to Charles’ and had it out with him? And was Charles prepared for Kevin to hole her up in that bloody bedroom again? He was okay with that? No, she wouldn’t believe he’d done it with any malice. He was like she’d been, reliant on doing what they said so Dad didn’t get hurt. Who had they used with Charles, his mother?
“We’ll be getting it out of him in…about five minutes.” George drew up to some iron gates.
She hadn’t even noticed where they were until now. The warehouse area, and oh God, she knew why they were there. Could she watch them torture Charles?
George got out and opened the gates. He got back in and drove through, slotted the car between two white lines on the ground, then left again to lock them inside the parking area.
“This is a precursor to Robins and Black,” Greg said. “If you can handle what we do to Charles, you can handle what we do to the other two. If you don’t want to watch, there’s a bathroom you can go in—or you can sit out here until we’re finished. The latter saves you hearing any screams. And he will scream.”
“I-I don’t…don’t know what to even think at the minute.” She sucked some coffee through the small slit in the top of the cup. It was a normal action in an abnormal situation, something she’d picked up on before in the days when Kevin had called the shots. She’d made lunch at his place, ate it, had a shower, did all the usual things, yet they’d felt wrong there, as if acted out in a dream. A nightmare.
“Come in with us and see how you feel.” Greg opened the door and left the car.
Lavender did the same, still clutching the bloody coffee, a tether to familiarity, and glanced over at the warehouse door. George prodded a keypad on the frame, and the clunk of the locks drawing back seemed so loud in the quiet and darkness.
“Where is he?” she whispered. “Charles?”
“Two ticks.” George walked to the boot and opened it. “There he is, look, trussed up like a fucking turkey.”
Lavender stared into the boot. Charles’ hands were behind his back, the wrists held together with a red cable tie, the skin either side pinched, bunched where it was so tight. His head had been positioned downwards, and his legs were bent at the knees, his feet pointing to the back in order to fit him inside. He must be uncomfortable, squashed, but he was asleep, and the light inside the boot showcased a gash on his head. Blood had seeped into his blonde hair, and some had dribbled over his face. It appeared to be drying.
“He needed a bit of persuading.” George dipped his hands inside and grabbed fistfuls of Charles’ shirt. “Come on, sunshine, out you get.” He hauled him onto the tarmac.
Greg stepped in to help. “Limp bastard. Close the boot, will you?” he asked Lavender.
She did, watching her hand as she pushed the lid down, and it was surreal, as if it wasn’t hers. George and Greg dragged a still-unconscious Charles into the warehouse, the toes of his shoes scuffing. He’d hate that, but she supposed that didn’t matter now, it was the least of his worries. She followed, a ghostly observer, in her body but not. She closed the door and turned left to look where they’d gone. A chair sat in front of a long table. They plonked Charles down on it, and George got to work with some rope he took off the table, securing Charles’ calves to the chair legs. Was this really happening? She could see it, knew it was, but it was all so…so bloody strange.
“Now then, we’ll wake this little fucker up in a minute and ask him to tell you what he’s been up to.” George moved to the table and stroked a circular saw, the teeth on the blade edge gleaming. “How do you want him to die? Because he will.”
Her stomach churned. God, what the hell had she got herself into? What had Kevin got her into? “I-I don’t know.”
“I’ll choose then.” George smiled. “Back in a tick.”
He left the warehouse, and Lavender stared at Greg.
“Charles deserves it,” he said. “Just remember he threw you to the wolves and his actions today meant a woman under our protection got a bullet in her head. He can’t get away with either thing, do you understand?”
She nodded.
“He’s just as bad as Robins and Black in our book.” Greg kicked Charles’ foot. “He was willing to let a woman be taken by them—you—used and abused, and to be honest, I suspect Robins wants to teach you the ultimate lesson, much like we’re going to do with Charles. Do you understand that? You left him, and he’ll be raging that you kept out of his way for three years, that he couldn’t find you, probably couldn’t find your parents either. He’ll want you to pay. Wouldn’t surprise me if he plans to get your dad along to watch.”
She winced.
“How do you feel about this wanker now?” He pointed at Charles.
“I get your point, but I’m struggling with… Shit, I’m not meant to be on this side of the law.”
“But you were willing to be on this side when it was Robins and Black—you went to Debbie for help. Why is Charles any different? Because you shagged him? Because you cared about him once upon a time?”
“No, it’s just…”
“It’s because you didn’t see Charles doing what he did. With Robins, well, he was in your face, and you felt everything he wanted you to feel. The hate grew, you had no choice but to run, and then, when you knew he was coming after you, the only option you came up with was him and Black dying. Charles is the same, he deserves the same. Now do you get it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
George returned carrying a cricket set in transparent packaging. What the hell did he need that for?
“Fuck me, you’re going to try that?” Greg asked him. “I thought you were joking when you mentioned it.”
“I don’t joke. May as well practise on him, see if it’s any fun.” George tipped the contents onto the table, grabbing the ball as it made its escape. He brushed his hand over a mallet beside the saw.
Lavender swallowed. Were they insane? She’d heard about the torture, the way they made people pay, but to see how casually they were acting—for her, someone under their protection—she got a sense of how seriously they took running The Cardigan Estate. If anyone crossed those who lived there, they were fucked if this was where they ended up.
She should feel lucky she was on their good side.
“Right,” Greg said. “Now’s your chance to go in the bathroom or the car. Have you finished with that coffee?”
She nodded.
“Gis it here then.”
She handed it over, and he removed the lid. Threw the drink over Charles’ face, tossing the cup and lid on the floor. The man didn’t wake, so Greg slapped him a couple of times.
Lavender flinched as if he’d struck her.
“Give him that bollocks Rushton gave you,” Greg said.
George turned to face the table. Rushton was the doctor who’d come to help Sarah when she’d been beaten up on the corner. While Lavender knew he was in with the twins, she didn’t know he gave them anything.
George stabbed a needle in Charles’ neck and pressed the plunger.
“Fuck me, you’re meant to do it in his arse,” Greg said.
“I don’t want to see his arse.” George chucked the syringe on the table. “Wonder how long it takes to work?”
They all stared at Charles, Lavender asking herself if she should stay or go. But she wanted to hear what Charles had to say, and if he admitted what Greg said he’d done…then she’d stay until the end, no matter what.
Greg was right. Charles was as bad as Kevin and Johnny.
He had to go.
“He’s waking up, look.” George leant forward so his face was right in front of Charles’. “Hello, you.”
Charles blinked, uncomprehending, his eyes unfocused. “W… Wh…?”
“Shut your gob,” George said.
“How’s the head, Charles?” Greg asked.
George laughed. “Probably a bit sore. Handy, that iron bar.” He looke
d at Lavender. “We’ve had it for years. It’s whacked a fair few skulls.”
“Right…” What else was she supposed to say about that? Great? Well done?
Charles came properly awake and, catching on that he was tied to a chair, he struggled, strange little whimpers seeping through his fleshy lips.
“Calm down, mate, you’re not going anywhere for the minute.” George stood upright. “But you will come off that chair in a bit. Now then, Lavender’s here. You’re going to tell her what you’ve been up to.”
It seemed Charles hadn’t registered her there, and he turned his head to stare at her. “Aniyah? Oh God, tell these horrible people to let me go. I was just going to ask you out for a meal, that’s all, and they think I’m working for Robins of all people.”
He was lying. She knew him well enough to work that out, and the realisation hurt. She’d wanted to believe he’d been duped, that he wasn’t aware of the real reasons behind him going to The Angel, but his face, showing the same tells as it had in court…
“And are you? Working for him?” She waited for more lies.
“No! How ridiculous would that be? Working for the enemy?”
“You’re not telling the truth,” she said.
“Of course I am.”
“Shut up.” Anger, sudden and hot, whipped through her. He must know why Kevin was after her, and he definitely knew what sort of man he was. Charles was saving his own backside, nothing more. “What was I supposed to do, say yes to the meal, then they were going to take me? Or were they going to come to my flat while you were there?”
He winced, perhaps from a pain in his head. “Aniyah, I swear to you, I had no choice.”
Although she knew what she was about to say was bullshit, considering how Kevin worked, she opted to say it anyway. “You could have warned me. Anything. Something.”
“How? They’d know it was me.”
“I get that.”
“You shouldn’t have left me, then I wouldn’t have gone in with them. I wouldn’t have been angry, wanting to get you back.” He stuck his bottom lip out, a sulking child.
“Excuse me?” She stared at him, wide-eyed. Was he serious?
“You split with me, then you moved away. I was upset for months.”
She’d heard enough and looked at George. He raised his eyebrows in question.
“Do what you have to,” she said. “And I’m staying.”
“Good decision.” George undid the ropes around Charles’ legs.
“What are you doing?” Her former boyfriend glanced about, frantic, as he was yanked off the chair and thrown to the floor. His body thudded on the concrete. “Please, I promise I’ll tell them I can’t help anymore. Ple—”
George’s foot landing in his mouth shut him up.
Oddly, Lavender didn’t shy away from the sight of the kick, the blood, nor the gap where one of his front teeth had fallen out, him choking on it. A strange detachment came over her while Greg went down on his knees and held Charles’ ankles, obscuring her view of his face. George picked up a cricket stump and the mallet. Lavender moved across to watch whatever the hell he’d thought up to do to the prone, screaming man.
“Oh, give over, you noisy bastard,” he said. “I’ll give you something to scream about in a minute.” He held the pointed end of a stump over one of Charles’ eyes.
Oh shit. Oh God…
Down it went, into the eye, and he gripped the wooden pole while smacking the mallet on top. The noise Charles made was unlike anything Lavender had ever heard, an injured animal, howling for help. His torso bucked off the floor, and she caught a glimpse of his hands beneath him, that cable tie, the skin around it bordering on the same red colour. His fingers worked against the floor, fat spiders’ legs, nails scraping, and she shifted her attention to his face. So much blood, his teeth bared as he keened, the stump threatening to fall out of its lodgings. George collected the other one and did the same with the second eye. Charles passed out, and she was glad—his screaming had been horrendous. George picked up the third stump and positioned it over the bridge of Charles’ nose.
“Nah, that won’t work,” he said casually. “Not enough space between his peepers.” He whipped out a penknife, flicked the blade free, and sliced Charles’ throat.
Greg moved to the head end and took the third stump off him. “I think that’s enough.”
Lavender swallowed.
“Are you having one of your episodes, George?” Greg asked. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yeah, I know what I’m fucking doing.”
He whacked the tops of the stumps again, and Lavender looked away, unable to stomach any more. She hadn’t expected to feel how she did, absent of the sympathy emotion, fascinated by what George was doing.
Was she evil? Was there something wrong with her?
“Fucking state of that,” George said. “They’re level, so I’ll put the wicket on.”
What? Lavender dared to turn and see what was going on. Christ, Charles’ face… Blood slithered out of his open neck, coating the floor. She ignored it. Ignored the fact he was dying. Stared at George balancing the wicket over the two stumps. It was a bit wonky. He grabbed the ball and bat off the table.
“Bowler or batter?” he asked Greg.
Greg sighed. “Bowler.”
Lavender laughed. Nerves, fear, whatever, but she laughed, couldn’t stop. Greg eyed her funny, as if he worried she’d gone as deranged as his brother, but she didn’t care.
George came over and patted her on the back, smiling wide, blood spatter on his cheeks. “And you, my dear, can be the fielder.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The game of cricket over, Lavender going into the bathroom, Greg worried about George’s episode. Playing a game over a dying man wasn’t their usual, and while it had been fun, he made a mental note to ensure his brother stuck to next week’s therapist appointment. He didn’t know how the woman did it, but she calmed George. One missed week, and look what had happened.
“I’ll cut him up.” George revved the circular saw.
While he got to work, Greg wandered to the bathroom. Lavender sat on the closed toilet seat, shaking, tears coating her cheeks. She’d got into the swing of the cricket game, had laughed, if a tad maniacally throughout, but now came the downer, the reality check.
“All right?” he asked. Probably a stupid question, considering the state of her.
“Oddly, I am.” She stared at him. “Don’t particularly feel like going to work after, but I’d better. Can you drop me at yours so I can shower and change?”
“Yeah. After that”—he jerked his head in the direction of the main warehouse—“d’you reckon you can kill Robins and Black?”
She shook her head. “Not kill, but I can watch you do it. I need to know they’re gone.”
“See, we have someone else who wouldn’t say no.”
“Who?”
“Teddy, Carla’s bloke. Then there’s Martin, a homeless fella. They’ve got scores to settle. Robins and Black hurt them, too.” He let out a long breath. “We don’t usually allow outsiders in, unless we trust them to keep their mouths shut. Teddy will, not so sure about Martin, but he’s being put to the test on Thursday night, watching the casino.”
“Right. Does he know why?”
“If you’re worried about him or Teddy knowing you’re involved, no, they don’t, but they will if they come here to kill them. You’ll be here. How do you feel about that?”
“Can you protect me?”
“Yep, and Rod Clarke will make any accusations go away.”
She shrugged. “What does it fucking matter anymore? I just want this over, them dead, then I can go and see Dad and Shona. I’ve missed them.” She paused. “What did you mean when you said about rules—you’d get Robins to write some.”
“Ah. I’ll type and print out a letter, and he’ll sign it. It’ll be along the lines of if anything happens to him, no one is to seek revenge.”
&n
bsp; “Will it work?”
“It’s how things are done. If your leader says something, you do it.”
“But if they don’t?”
She was probably thinking about Debbie, but Cardigan hadn’t left instructions not to retaliate, and he’d have expected someone to murder Harry and Mickey. Not Debbie, but still, the job had got done.
“They’ll be taken care of,” he said. “We have an inside man at Robins’ place. We’ll have his keys. Our man can go in the safe and remove any other documents that may be contrary to the letter he’ll sign. It’s all in hand.”
“How do you live like this, day in, day out?”
Greg shrugged. “It’s what we do, what we know.” He wasn’t going to tell her the ins and outs, why he and George had gone down this road. It was their story, something they’d promised to forget. “When this is all over, pretend it didn’t happen. If you tell yourself enough, you become convinced you never did it. Trust me on that.”
Greg did it at the end of every day. He sorted through the events, then pushed them aside. Granted, some of them hung around, poking at him, and it didn’t help that George went funny every so often, but for the most part, Greg managed to contain the horrors.
The sound of the saw ceased.
“He’s finished chopping him up. I’ll help him bag the fucker up.”
“You’re so calm,” she whispered.
Greg shrugged. “This is all part and parcel of running the estate. You cut up so many bodies, dumping them is boring. Do you want to join us for that part?”
“No. I’ll stay here.”
“Fair enough, but you’ll have to come out of here when we need a wash.” He smiled. “George is going to go spare.”
She jolted. “Why?”
“Because he wasn’t expecting to get blood on him today, and he’s got an expensive suit on.”
