Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  With his mind spinning, the pain growing fiercer by the second, and Johnny now flaked out beside him—from the shock, agony?—Kevin steeled himself to get through this. If it wasn’t about the order of being dropped off, it had to be the money, one of those winnings grabs he’d heard about, and if that were the case, he’d hand it over at the end of the journey and be done with it.

  Until it was time to kill this bastard.

  “Nice to see you’ve decided to play ball,” the driver said. “Makes life so much easier when people do what you say, doesn’t it. Like, when you hurt them, when you want to break them, you get some form of satisfaction, don’t you.”

  Who was this wanker? The shit he’d just come out with hit too close to home. Did they know him? Were they aware of what he did in the attic? Or had it just been general conversation with no hidden meaning?

  Christ, his shin was killing him, and his grip on the briefcase to divert the pain there had his hand aching.

  “See, some people don’t break when you push them too far,” the driver went on. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you. They rise above it, strive to get beyond it, and you get a kick out of it. But some people have to run, disappear, and start a new life to get away from the likes of you, because staying in your orbit is too horrendous.”

  Aniyah. That little bitch…

  Kevin gritted his teeth. She’d grassed on him, got some heavies of her own. He didn’t recognise them, so who were they?

  “Still, we’ll discuss that in a bit.” The driver continued towards the warehouse area, staring straight ahead, not fazed in the slightest.

  The gunman remained in place, the weapon still trained on Kevin.

  He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of him, uncaring whether it had him looking weak. He needed to sort out the skipping thoughts in his head, calm down and form some sort of plan. With Johnny out of it, Kevin was on his own, and it didn’t sit well.

  How could he defend them? A knife against a gun was no contest. And…shit. The warehouse area. Was this something to do with The Brothers?

  He opened his eyes, and the gunman no longer had a beard.

  “Ah, recognition dawns,” Greg Wilkes said.

  And it was then Kevin knew.

  He was fucked.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Greg had picked Lavender up in the taxi at the back of The Angel. They hadn’t spoken—she’d been too nervous. Now, she stared at everyone in the warehouse. Teddy, Carla’s fella—she recognised him straight away—stood to her left, his face blanched of all colour, hatred glittering in his eyes. Martin, a poor homeless man who’d been set free, was to her right, his cheeks red. The twins, in front of the table, hands clasped at their groins. Johnny Black, the ginger bastard, roped to the chair, peering at some point behind her.

  And Kevin Robins, held fast the same way in another chair, staring at her defiantly. He’d already signed the letter about the rules, and someone called Simon Spencer had arrived to take it to Kevin’s house and plant it, then get rid of any documents countering the new instructions. George had held a gun to Kevin’s temple to force him into using the pen.

  She diverted her attention to Kevin’s and Johnny’s legs. It hurt too much to look at Kevin’s face, to see the pleading expression. It was a trick to get her to soften.

  She wouldn’t be falling for it.

  Bullets fired in the taxi had ripped holes in their fancy trousers, and through them, gashes were evident, and blood. A slither or two of bone.

  “Right then.” George cuffed Kevin around the back of the head, the slap a dull thud. “We’re here because of you. All three people ahead have been hurt in one way or another, all due to your actions. Let’s deal with Lavender first.” He gave her the nod.

  Her mouth dried, and she wasn’t sure any words would come out. She cleared her throat. “Why?” That was a start, and the main question she’d always wanted answering.

  “Why not?” Kevin said, head cocked.

  He doesn’t even care. “Why me? Why not some other woman?”

  He smiled. “It’s always been you. Bloody women, never grateful.”

  Anger surged inside her. What was he on? “How can I be grateful for abuse?”

  “You should be grateful, after what I did for you.” He tilted his chin and fixed her with his nasty glare, the penetrating one that tried to rip right through her.

  She folded her arms, then dropped them to her sides. She didn’t want him thinking she was on the defensive or in need of comfort. “Really?”

  “Yeah. You’re thinking of the bedroom shit, but I did things way before then, when you were a nipper.”

  “Like what, calling me ‘shitbag’?”

  He chuckled. Even in these circumstances, he fucking chuckled. “Remember Peter and Olivia? Half-and-half? How nasty they were?”

  Of course she bloody did. You didn’t forget that sort of thing. It was ingrained in you because of how much it hurt when it happened. She wouldn’t let on, though, wouldn’t allow him to know how much those kids still affected her, even though they were dead. “What about them?”

  “I ran them over.”

  The words floated between them, and Johnny released a wretched laugh. Kevin nudged him to be quiet.

  “You did that?” she whispered, shock sending her limbs cold.

  “Someone had to, otherwise they’d have moved on to another kid, picked on them an’ all. They upset me by upsetting you.”

  Was he justifying it by saying it was because he cared about her? What kind of damaged fucker was he? She’d known he wasn’t all there up top, but this…

  “Just some hit-and-run,” he said, “nothing to get in a flap over.”

  “Nothing to get… Shit, Kevin, they were kids,” she said.

  Kevin shrugged. “Fucking evil ones. There’s something else I did, too, the best thing. And you’ll agree once you hear me out.”

  She swallowed. Couldn’t fathom what else he could have done that would top murdering Peter and Olivia.

  “That red sauce,” he said, “and that poorly…”

  She was transported back into Willa’s kitchen. Her explaining to Kevin what had happened at home. Him acting shocked. “You didn’t…”

  He grinned. “I fucking well did. Jackie was a waste of space, took up too much oxygen, know what I mean?”

  Her legs gave way, and she leant on Teddy for support. He placed his arm around her, holding tight, and a muscle flickered in Kevin’s jaw. He was probably thinking: Take your hands off my woman, when all she could think of was Mum, naked on the sofa, all that red stuff, and “She’s only gone and topped herself…”

  Tears burnt, and she let them fall. Didn’t give a shit if he knew he’d hurt her yet again. This was too much to handle, his mocking gaze, his shitty smirk, him so obviously pleased with himself.

  “You took my mum away.” Her words had sounded small, a child’s wail.

  “Yep, and fucking proud of it, too.”

  “I hate you,” she snapped out, the adult in her coming to the fore. “I despise you. Everything about you.”

  His smug expression faltered for a moment, then he switched it back to gloating. But it was enough—she’d emotionally wounded him, hit him where it was most painful, and even though he was about to die, he’d go to Hell knowing there never was a chance for them as a couple.

  She ran across the warehouse, towards the bathroom.

  “I thought it would mean my mum could adopt you or something,” he called out. “Then we’d have been together sooner.”

  She couldn’t stand the sound of his grating voice and slammed into the bathroom, flinging herself on the closed toilet seat, face in her shaking hands.

  And sobbed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Teddy wanted to kill this fucker. Now. This second. What Robins had just revealed to Lavender was nothing short of sadistic. Killing kids and her mother? What the hell was that all about?

  “Let’s move on
to Teddy now,” George said. “What have you got to say for yourself about murdering his Carla, Kevin? Which one of you put a bullet in her head—from behind, you cowardly arsehole?”

  “That’d be me again.” Kevin choked on laughter, his head tipping back, fillings on show.

  What was up with him? Didn’t he have any feelings? All right, Teddy had heard of people like him, no empathy, sympathy, not a kind bone in their body, but to laugh in the face of the bereaved was a massive low blow.

  Teddy clenched his fists.

  “Hurt your feelings, have I?” Robins lowered his head and stared at him.

  “You’re a piece of work,” Teddy ground out.

  “So I’ve been told. Look, if she’d have just done as I asked and told me who Aniyah went with, there wouldn’t have been a problem, would there. But no, Carla had to play the martyr. And it’s funny, she probably did it so she protected these two twats behind me, you know, staying loyal to The Brothers, but for Pete’s sake—and Olivia’s”—he laughed again—“all it got her was dead.”

  How Teddy remained in his spot was a mystery. He wanted to move forward, to punch the shit out of Robins, but his feet wouldn’t budge. “She was a good woman, a decent woman, and you had no right to—”

  “Oh, I had every right,” Robins bit back. “Every fucking right.”

  Teddy glanced at George, got the nod, so he forced himself to step forward and launched his fists at Robins. Every connection agonised his knuckles, but every punch was justice for Carla. Red mist came down, obliterating everything but the need to end this wanker. Johnny came next, and by the time Teddy had finished, both had bloodied faces, broken noses, fat lips, and missing teeth.

  Breathing heavily, he stood back and took in the sight of what he’d done.

  It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

  But Martin and Lavender had to take a turn, and Teddy wanted this pair of bastards lucid for what they held in store for them.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Martin listened to Robins’ excuses, his rationale as to why he’d taken him off the street and whipped him. It didn’t make sense, except maybe to Robins, and did nothing to assuage the pain inside Martin. If anything, the explanation exacerbated it.

  He wouldn’t let this man know that; he suspected Lavender had tried to do the same, except the revelation about those kids and her mum had broken down her defences. Was she okay in that other room?

  “I think you two”—George walloped Robins and Black on their temples so their heads knocked together—“should suffer what Martin suffered, then what Jackie Sutton and Carla went through. It’s only fair.” He looked at Martin. “You’ll be needing this.”

  Martin stared behind Robins and Black, to the twins, the sawing sound of Teddy’s harsh breathing an audible accompaniment. George held up a whip, similar to the one Robins had used on him. Martin wasn’t sure if he could take it, whether he could administer the lash and give Robins the same kind of torment. It had hurt more than anything else he’d endured. Could he inflict that on another human being?

  “I… No,” he said. “I won’t stoop to his level.” He stepped back.

  Teddy didn’t. He walked past a cursing Johnny and took the whip from George. “Then I’ll do it for you.”

  Martin watched for two strikes across their faces, then he turned away to study the wall. The noise was awful, sickening, and their grunts then angry shouts let him know Teddy was giving it to them hard, his punishment relentless.

  I want to be sick. Martin swallowed, sucked in lungfuls of air, tried to combat the wavering sensation of an oncoming faint.

  With every thwap, he remembered what it had felt like.

  His back burned with memory recall.

  His eyes leaked with sympathy for the man who’d abused him without a second thought. Sympathy? Martin couldn’t help how he was made. No, he wasn’t a bad man, he didn’t like violence, and this cemented it in his head that he’d never do grisly jobs for the twins.

  His delicate heart couldn’t take it.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Lavender wiped her tear-stained cheeks with her palms then switched on the cold tap. She sluiced her face to the sound of Kevin and Johnny crying out. At first, they’d made animal noises, filled with anger and indignance, but now, whatever was going on was proving too much for them.

  They were breaking.

  She dried her face on a clean towel from a stack on a free-standing shelf unit, took a deep breath, and told herself to get back out there and watch that bastard suffer, no matter how horrific it was.

  Thoughts of Kevin going into her childhood home and killing Mum attacked her as she turned the door handle. She paused. When had he done it? In the night after Mum had got home from being out on the streets? Early in the morning? Either way, Lavender would have been asleep, and Willa would, too. He’d have used the key Mum had given Willa, letting himself in, prowling around the ground floor until he’d found her.

  Had he undressed her, or had she done that prior to him entering? If it was him, why do that? Was she asleep when he’d sliced her wrist? And what about the tablets? The bottle of alcohol? Had he forced her to swallow the pills?

  Lavender couldn’t stand the visual. Mum choking. Spluttering. Asking him why. Watching the blood spill from her arm. Maybe thinking of her little Aniyah upstairs, oblivious, and whether Kevin would go up there next and kill her, too.

  “You fucking…fucking b-bastard,” Lavender said on a sob and opened the door. She raced across the warehouse, her sights trained on Kevin, who didn’t look like Kevin anymore but someone with a shattered face, puffy, bleeding, split skin, the whites of his eyes bloodshot.

  “Lav, cut him like he cut your mother,” George said from beside Johnny, a mad glint in his eyes.

  She focused on Greg, who stood next to Kevin, and he nodded: Do it, you’ll feel better.

  Lavender snatched the carving knife off George and walked around to stand in front of the man who’d done his best to wreck her. She debated whether to do as George had said—because that meant Kevin had got her to do what he wanted. She’d be standing up for herself, wanting more than…this…and while he was a mess, while he wasn’t getting out of this alive, he’d still gain some satisfaction that his distorted reasoning was true: People who wanted to fight came out of the other side the winner.

  I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t.

  The rope around his body reached to his elbows. She gripped his hand, cringing at the feel of his skin on hers, the claggy blood that had dripped from his face onto it. Blade beneath his suit jacket sleeve, she cut upwards—the knife was so sharp—then did the same with his shirt to expose the arm beneath.

  Veins, turquoise, blue, the rivers and tributaries that held his life in them.

  Lavender positioned the point halfway up his inner arm and dragged that blade of retribution downwards to his wrist, staring into his eyes, loving the fact there was no refusal for him, just like there’d been none for her. He had to take what she dished out, not the other way around.

  Blood gushed. He remained mute, and she let his hand go. Stepped back. Looked down at the scarlet steel of the knife in her steady, red-spattered hand. And it was as Debbie had said—exciting, no guilt, a sense of justice being served floating through her.

  “You’re dead to me,” she whispered. “Dead.”

  His head lolled, eyes rolling, then he gazed down at the crimson tide splashing on the floor. There was so much of it.

  “Red sauce,” she said. “And a poorly. All yours now.”

  The knife clattered to the floor, and she examined Kevin’s eyes. Defiant to the last, he lifted his gaze and winked at her.

  Teddy let out a terrible sound, of anger and grief, and a gun appeared in her left peripheral vision. It went off, the retort shuddering through her, shocking her out of her vengeance and into Teddy’s.

  His turn now. His turn to avenge poor Carla.

  The back of Kevin’s head e
xploded, brain and bone landing on George and Greg standing to the sides. The gun swung left, pointing at Johnny, whose lips moved, no words coming out. His eyes widened, as if he was shocked he’d get the same treatment: I’m just a right-hand man, nothing to do with this.

  No, he was everything to do with this.

  The bullet hole in his forehead gave Lavender a sense of calm—it was over, they were gone, and they wouldn’t hurt anyone again. Until the sound of crying and choking had her swivelling to look behind her. Martin faced away from the scene, his shoulders shuddering, and she went to him, hugging him tight.

  “It’s all right. Everything will be all right now,” she said.

  “Will it?” He stared into her eyes.

  And she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  The memories. We still have the memories.

  Chapter Forty

  Lavender knocked on Dad’s door, excitement spiralling through her. He wasn’t expecting her, she hadn’t contacted him to let him know she was arriving. She wanted to surprise him.

  The door opened, and there he stood, her big cuddly father, his hair longer than it was since she’d last seen him, a mini afro going on.

  “Aniyah? My God, Aniyah?” He widened his eyes and held out his arms.

  She flung herself into them, sobbing against his broad chest—for all she’d suffered, for all he’d been through in her absence, missing her, and for her saying or doing things that had his face falling, his smile turning into a frown.

  No more. She’d never give him reason to look like that again.

  At last, she was home.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Martin still had the grand from standing opposite the casino, and added to it was another seven from Robins’ briefcase. After the men had been cut up—Martin had gone into the bathroom for that—their pieces dumped in the river, George had busted open the case and whistled at the money inside.