Christ. I’ve never been tempted pop a cap in such a frail old woman’s skull before but this bitch makes the thought highly desirable. Lucky for her, I manage to restrain myself and ignore her incessant cries.

  I’m physically fit with great stamina but, Jesus, hauling this guy is exhausting. Once outside, I pluck some zip ties from my pocket and bind his wrists while I wait for him to stir. Not only would his weight crush me to dust if I tried to carry him to my car, I’d also arouse too much suspicion. The fucker can walk.

  It doesn’t take him long, five minutes or so. When his eyes peel open he looks dazed and listless but I don’t give him a moment to adjust. Grabbing him by the crook of his arm, I pull him to his feet. He stumbles and grunts but doesn’t have a choice other than to follow as I tug him along.

  “I don’t know what you want,” he says. It would seem he speaks English perfectly well.

  This time I don’t reply. I will ask the questions and he will answer them…once he’s secure. I have plenty of incentives in mind in case he’s under the illusion cooperating isn’t mandatory.

  I drive my guest to an abandoned outhouse I spotted earlier, far out among the fields. At least, I presume it’s abandoned given the state of the place – rotten wood, broken lock, enough cobwebs to make a mattress. If not, I’ll deal with any unexpected visitors as or if they arrive. He’s been surprisingly compliant so far. I know I have the disorientation from the blow to his head to thank for that. I have no doubt he’d be capable of putting up quite a fight otherwise.

  Making a chair out of a stack of crates, I shove him backwards until the back of his legs hit it and he sits down. Spotting lengths of electrical cord strewn on the mucky floor, I tie him to the crates, feeding the wire through the gaps in the wood. The right side of his face has swollen rather impressively. I’m quite proud of the damage, actually. I imagine it’s going to create some stunning colours on his skin.

  If he breathes long enough to complete the process.

  Removing my wallet from the pocket inside my jacket, I produce the photo of Kate again. I look at it myself for a moment first, letting him squirm. It’s been in my wallet for over a year, since the moment it slid out of the street-seller’s Polaroid camera in front of Blackpool tower. Although I prefer to deny it, I know deep down I was Simon in that moment. Just for that day, with my arm around Kate, I forgot myself.

  Foolish.

  I twist the photo until it’s facing the scumbag in front of me. “Where is she?”

  He pretends to give it some thought. “I have never seen her before.”

  I don’t have time for this shit. Bending, I grip his index finger and bend it backwards until it snaps.

  A guttural cry bursts from his throat, chilling the humid air. He sounds like a wounded animal.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t kn—”

  Snap. His middle finger cracks under my hand before he can finish.

  “Where is she?”

  “Go…” His breaths shake. “To…” His body shudders. “Hell.”

  Time for a change in tactic. Sliding a knife from my back pocket, I flick it open and slice straight through his ear from top to bottom until it comes away in my hand.

  “Argh!” His wail is piercing, echoing off the wooden walls of this decrepit hut.

  I toss the ear on the floor by his feet, right in his line of vision. It’s a shame he can’t see the dark blood dripping furiously from the side of his head and onto his shoulder. It’s rather pretty, the patterns it makes. Like art, really. I’m sure, however, he can feel it.

  “Where…is…” I’m interrupted by my mobile, causing the sobbing and bleeding man in front of me to expel a juddering sigh of relief. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I warn him with a smug grin.

  Stepping back, I wipe the blood from my hand on my pants and answer the phone.

  “Linc,” Toff begins.

  He waits for me to confirm. “Yes.”

  “You were right. It’s Lorusso. He’s holding the auction.”

  Finally. We’re getting somewhere. Slimy bastard. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I got a couple more channels to go through before I can gain an invite to the site. I believe it doesn’t go live for another forty-eight hours, so she’s safe until then.”

  She’s not safe until she’s with me.

  “This auction is for tickets to the event,” Toff continues. “The auction for Kate, and whatever or whoever else they’ve got, is being held in person.”

  I huff in frustration. “You know what I need, Toff.” I don’t hush my words. The man in front of me won’t live long enough to relay anything he manages to eavesdrop with his leftover ear.

  “A location. I’m on it, Linc. These things take time.”

  Fucking time. I don’t have time. This wasn’t part of the plan. A plan that had been simmering in the back of my mind for several months, but that I’d hoped would never come to fruition. In and out. That’s the only way in this business. I need to get in, destroy my enemies, and get out with my life intact.

  The latter is a bonus.

  Time, though, time is a hindrance I can’t afford. Time gives people chance to find me, opportunities to learn my moves. Time gets you killed.

  Hanging up the phone, I sneer at the bastard in front of me. The tears have dried on his cheeks. The colour around his eye is beginning to pop, darkening from a glowing red to a rich purple. My phone call has given him a chance to recoup, putting back that wretched look of defiance on his face.

  Mocking him, I laugh, knowing his pathetic attempt at bravery won’t last long. Let’s see how much he values his teeth…

  Chapter Nine

  Kate

  Each day is the same. Every so often I wake up from a sleep I don’t remember drifting into, my bones aching from being crushed against the hard floor. I have no sense of day or night. Time has stilled under the artificial lights. If I had to guess I’d say I’ve been here three days. I base that on the fact I’ve been taken for two more showers, although I’m still not clean. I’ll feel that man’s hands on my skin until the day I die.

  Giulia doesn’t talk anymore. She hasn’t spoken a single word since ScarLips smacked her in the face. I’ve tried to ask her if she’s okay, if she’s had pain relief for her swollen face, but I only get silence in return. I don’t know if they’ve instructed her to stay quiet, or if she blames me for getting hurt. Then again, perhaps she’s so doped up on whatever illegal drugs they’re pumping her with that she doesn’t even feel pain anymore.

  That sounds nice.

  No. It doesn’t. Hell, what is wrong with me?

  I don’t bother to move when I hear the rattle of keys outside my door, or when it scrapes across the floor as it opens. Once again, a tray of food is placed in front of me with a clatter. It must be morning because there’s a slab of toast and a bottle of water. In the evening I get some kind of slop in a bowl. I want to ignore it so badly, like I’ve managed to do every time so far. I want to roll over until they return to take it back, allow myself to fade away, denying them the power they have to dispose of me themselves.

  But…the smell. It’s like an invisible force pulling on my arms. I can’t stop it. Instinct takes over, a natural need to survive, and I’m no longer strong enough to fight it. Crawling to the tray, I steal the burnt bread and rip into it with my teeth like a starved animal, immediately taking another bite before I’ve even started chewing. I haven’t been hungry until I taste food on my tongue. Occasional stomach twinges, perhaps, but they always passed quickly. Now, I’m ravenous. I can’t fit enough toast in my mouth at once.

  I moan as I chew, both from relief and from the unexpected ache in my jaw. I put the food down just long enough to take a drink, needing the moisture to help me eat faster. My belly cramps as I swallow and when the plate is empty I can literally feel my breakfast gurgling and churning its way through my body.

  When I’m finished, I both want more and regret what I had in equal measure. I’m annoyed with myself for giving in but can also feel trickles of strength starting to rebuild inside me. Strength to what, though? Prolong this nightmare. Keep me awake longer.

  After draining my bottle of water, I shuffle backwards and sit up against the wall, picking at my nails. They’re down to the skin, sore around the edges, but I keep going regardless. I can’t help it. I don’t even know I’m doing it half the time.

  I know I’m losing my mind in here because I keep thinking about my dad, and Simon, and how much I miss them. God, I miss Simon so much. I know he’s not real but while I’m here I pretend he is. I think back to our best times together. Not exciting or out-of-this-world moments just…simple times. Closing my eyes, I picture his smile and the way it always cocks up slightly to one side when I amuse him. I remember pointless things, like how he likes butter instead of syrup on pancakes, pepper instead of salt on chips. I imagine his arms around me and the comfort that never fails to bring.

  As I sit here, I feel him with me, holding me, reminding me I’m his tough girl and that I’ll get through this.

  But then…I also start to remember other things. Signs, perhaps. Things that didn’t quite ‘add up’. There were so many small jobs that needed doing in our flat. What I considered simple DIY, especially for someone in the building trade. A broken hinge on one of the kitchen cupboards. A leaking tap and loose floor tiles in the bathroom. A hole in the bedroom ceiling from a previous leak before we moved in. Simon was always ‘too busy’ to fix them. Yet, we’d spend some weekends doing absolutely nothing but watching movies or having sex.

  Then, there was the time I found a second mobile phone in his jacket pocket. He said it was a work phone supplied by his boss, but he was pretty quick to take it away from me. His explanation appeared feasible at the time but, on reflection, he wasn’t a manager, or even a supervisor. He worked for a large company, so I thought. It seems doubtful now that phones for all employees came as standard. Clearly, he played on my inexperience in the workplace to explain his way out of it. And of course, he would disappear for days at a time with ‘work’. Just not the kind of work that involved scaffolding, I guess. The fact I’m a gullible fool helped him, too. Hell, a normal person would’ve at least suspected he was cheating on me.

  I would always feel uncomfortable around his ‘parents’, as if I was being judged. Monitored. I assumed that’s why he didn’t like me meeting them and kept us apart as often as possible. Honestly, at times I thought he was ashamed of me. Them, successful and wealthy, and me, a lowly waitress with no gumption to achieve anything more. But in-laws are supposed to be complicated, right? Half the complaints to agony aunts in the magazines are about in-laws from hell.

  There’s more, I know there is. I’m just too tired to think about it. And too annoyed with myself. Why didn’t I question any of these things? Then again, why would I? I loved him. I trusted him.

  I miss him.

  The door scrapes open, clanging against the wall, and I’m forced to remember that Simon is dead. Weirdly, thinking of him that way feels less cruel than the truth – that he never existed in the first place.

  As usual, I focus on the natural pattern in the stone, the shading that looks like a starfish, while my breakfast plate is being removed. I won’t allow these monsters to see how much they’re affecting me. That is, until I catch a glimpse of the hand reaching for the empty tray. It’s a woman’s hand, as always, but this one looks…different. There are no scabs between the fingers or track marks on the arm it’s attached to.

  Where’s Giulia?

  Curiosity forces my gaze to follow the hand and, in turn, the face of its owner.

  Oh my God…

  Shock registers first.

  Second, hope.

  I know this woman, and from the way her stare locks onto mine, she remembers me, too. It’s Lincoln’s friend, associate, murder buddy, whatever they call themselves. Lily…Lilian…

  Liliana. That’s it.

  Oh, thank God. He’s found me.

  I jump to my feet, my legs unsteady from lack of use, and start to approach her. Her arm reaches out. She’s going to save me…

  But then she drops the tray with a startling clatter, grabs the back of my neck with one hand and punches me hard in the stomach with the other. The air is knocked from my lungs, so forcefully I can’t even cry out in pain. I fall instantly, curling into a ball. Liliana is a traitor, just like all the others, like every other person in my goddamn life.

  After gathering the now broken plate and my tray, she leaves as quickly as she entered.

  “Argh!” I scream, so loud, so powerfully that my throat burns, for the first time. Once I’ve started, I can’t stop. Punching the floor over and over again, I scream and wail until my voice won’t work anymore, until my chest hurts and my knuckles bleed.

  Then…I cry until exhaustion sends me to sleep.

  Another day, maybe a day-and-a-half, passes. I’ve kept eating, though I don’t know if that – the rotten food – is what’s making my belly hurt or whether the bruising Liliana’s fist painted on my stomach continues through to my insides. It’s always her who enters my room, now, Liliana. I’ve been too afraid to make eye contact since she assaulted me, let alone talk to her, but her aura is all I need to let me know she’s as evil as the rest. I swear the atmosphere is colder when she’s in it. Goosebumps erupt on my skin the moment my door begins to open. Unlike Giulia, she seems intent on impressing the men in this place. She won’t allow me a second of privacy during my daily visits to the bathroom to shower. She doesn’t look away or help me in any form. She stands in the centre of the room with one hand resting over the gun which is strapped into a belt around her waist, as if to wordlessly threaten me, her gaze trained on my every movement at all times.

  I hate her.

  The next day, I start thinking about my father as I pace up and down my cell. Back and forth I go, raising my knees high with each step in an effort to keep the strength in my muscles. I wonder what he’s doing, and why he hasn’t found me yet. Lincoln talks of him being this big crime lord with countless men and underlings at his disposal…so why isn’t he here? I’ve seen all the TV shows, watched enough movies. If he, or Lincoln for that matter, wanted to find me, they would have. A few clicks on a computer and, boom, location.

  Or maybe the movies are bullshit.

  I finish pacing when the walls start to close in and I lose my balance. Today, or last night, I slept on the dirty mattress for the first time. The floor was getting too painful. I’ve lost weight, I don’t know how much, I just know it’s enough to take away the cushioning between my bones and the stone floor. So, back to the mattress I go. The dirt doesn’t even bother me anymore. Despite the stains, it can’t be any filthier than I feel. It also helps that the rancid smell it once emitted, and probably still does, is barely noticeable now, most likely because it’s been overpowered by the bucket in the corner which hasn’t been emptied for two days, at a guess.

  To take my mind off the smell before I heave, which happens quite often, I focus on the starfish on the wall. I do this a lot. Sometimes I talk myself out of it being a starfish, so much so that I can’t make the patterns resemble anything at all. But I always persevere until it reappears. It makes me miss the aquarium. I should be there now, watching the little mouths on school kids drop open when I tell them starfish have no brain, no heart, or no blood. As staff, we all joke about the poor sod who gets landed leading the school tours, but it’s the kids who make it worth it. Those kids are the future. They’re so passionate, so enthralled by life and the creatures around them. I love how animated they are when they ask questions or hear facts about the sea life in our care. Their enthusiasm reinforces my own.

  Or…reinforced. Past tense. I can only assume that life is over, that Kate died with Simon. I’m losing more of her with every hour. What were once memories now seem like stories I’ve overheard from someone else’s life.

  More hours pass. Maybe days. I can’t keep track anymore. My bucket’s been emptied, and that’s about the most interesting thing that has happened. Something’s changed. Things aren’t…right. Although I’ve lost sense of time, I’m sure I am overdue my shower. A layer of grey grime, picked up from the dusty floor, coats my legs. I rub at it every so often, the prickly stubble poking through my skin scratching my fingers, but it makes no difference because my hands are equally dirty.

  It feels like too long since I’ve eaten, too. My last meal was the soup resembling dishwater and my stomach was expecting toast hours ago. My head hurts and I feel faint. Weirdly, I found it easier, developed fewer hunger pangs, when I refrained from eating at all to when I’m not fed enough. No one’s been in my room and I haven’t heard voices echoing from the corridor.

  Have they left me here?

  Panic starts to claw at my insides. Suddenly, with the thought of nobody being out there on the other side of these walls, the idea of dying in here never to be discovered terrifies me. It’s not my choice. I decided to keep going. They can’t take that away from me!

  Hauling myself to a standing position, I drag my feet the three paces it takes to reach the door. Banging on it, I start to yell. “Hello!” I thump harder. “Is anyone out there?”

  I’m about to give up when I hear the jangling of keys. Footsteps follow, clacking against the floor and growing louder and louder.

  “Hello?” I shout again, my palms flush against the door. “Anybo—” The rest of the word gets stuck in my throat when the door is opened abruptly and I stumble forward…straight into Liliana.

  She doesn’t need to push me back. The sight of her is enough to make me retreat to the comfort of the wall next to the mattress.

  “You shut your mouth,” she says, cocking her chin in a display of authority.

  I miss Giulia. She was never mean, both before and after she stopped talking.

  “I’ve had no food today.” I don’t know where my bravery to speak comes from. Probably hunger. “Or a shower.”

 

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