Chapter Seven
Back in her bedsit Verity closed the door and turned both locks. Then, for good measure, she added the security chain. Feeling no safer, she wrapped her arms around her torso and tried to stop shivering. Despite the prolonged shower, the cold from earlier still lingered. Or maybe this was a different kind of chill? She ran her eyes over the general clutter scattered over every surface - had someone been in here? In all honesty, it was impossible to tell if the small space had been roughly turned over, or if the mess was due to her standard last minute scramble to find her name tag and clean shirt before work.
Pushing a pile of dirty laundry out of the way she sank onto the edge of the bed and stared at the patch of damp starting to creep up the wall opposite. This anonymous, one room flat had felt like the safest option at the time, but now she could feel those walls closing in. How the fuck had everything gone so epically wrong? She’d spent months patiently working her way into the Eighth Circle and now she’d managed to destroy all that effort in one lousy night.
Pulling the folded wad of money from where she’d hidden it in her bra, she fanned out the crisp notes. Should she just take the cash and run? She closed her eyes. She already knew the answer to that. She was too invested. If she ran now, she’d have to start over from scratch and it would be considerably harder a second time.
And it wasn’t like she’d get far on eight hundred quid.
With a sigh she opened her bag that some kind soul had retrieved for her, and shoved the money to the bottom. They’d managed to save her sunglasses, phone and a sticky tube of lipgloss, but the rest of her belongings were no doubt embedded into the pavement outside the club, ground down to shards beneath the feet of passing traffic.
She turned the phone over in her hands, not sure who she wanted to ring but feeling the sudden urge to speak to someone. Anyone. As she scrolled through the depressingly short list of contacts she hesitated. Was it safe to talk to anyone? What would she say? More importantly, would he know? She wouldn’t put it past him to have bugged her phone. The same whispering suspicion that had dogged her since returning to the flat now grew louder. Was he listening? Was he watching?
A sharp rap on the door almost sent her leaping out of her skin. Phone clenched in one hand she carefully unlocked the door, keeping the security chain in place as she cracked it open a couple of inches. But at the sight of the shaved gorilla on the other side, she nearly slammed it shut again.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Mickey sent me. It’s payment time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re new, he normally sends Freddy .”
“Yeah well, Freddy’s been ‘reassigned’. So it’ll be me from now on. Now be a good little girl and give me the fucking money?”
She raised the phone, still clutched in her hand. “Maybe, I’ll give Mickey a ring. You know, just to check everything is on the up and up. I’d hate to hand over his cash to just any sweet talking charmer.”
The next second the door was kicked open and Verity flinched as the now useless security chain whipped past her face. Before she could even think of screaming, the thug had forced his way into the flat, swiped the phone from her hand with one meaty paw and wrapped the other around her throat.
Two long strides was all it took for him to cross the space - that had been euphemistically described to her by the letting agent as a ‘studio apartment’- and slam her into the damp wall opposite. Fighting for breath, Verity clawed at hand, then froze as she heard the sound of something shattering. Abruptly released, she hit the ground in time to see him remove his heel from what was left of her phone.
“Next time,” he growled, squatting down so his face was level with hers, “it won’t be the phone.” He slapped her cheek none too gently. “Now where’s the money?”
Not even bothering to try to form words, Verity pointed at her bag on the bed and for the second time that day its contents were rudely upended on the floor. This time, however, the money was carefully retrieved and counted.
Once satisfied that he had what he’d come for, the thug paused to give her a light pat on the top of her head.
“You see, this is so much easier when you just play nice.” Giving an almost cheery wave he headed for the door. “See ya next week, sweetheart.”
Verity watched him leave in silence. Once she’d convinced herself that he wasn’t about to suddenly reappear for round two, she dragged herself to her feet and stood for a moment trying to regain her balance. Then she slammed the door closed with a howl.
Someone in an upstairs flat shouted a curse-laiden request for her to shut up and Verity raised her face to the ceiling. “Oh that you heard? But the big, ugly goon breaking down my door was a fucking mime artist? Screw you - you useless cunt!” Continuing to swear at the top of her lungs, she dragged the only chair she owned across the floor and wedged it under the door handle.
Feeling marginally safer, she hunted through the cupboards until she found a half-empty bottle of some sketchy, bootleg gin and poured a generous measure into a mug. As the burn from the alcohol finally banished the lingering chill, she was able to mull over this most recent set of events.
Well, that was interesting , she decided. Whoever that was, he didn’t work for Mickey, or he’d have known that Freddie was the dog. Which meant someone had bought her debt and since Cross was the only person who knew about it there were no prizes for guessing it must be him. But why? Why would he do that? She rubbed her throat and winced as she swallowed.
She hoped Mickey had fleeced him over the price.