7
Z ayn
“Can you manage the stairs?” I ask, mindful of her recent injury. “It’s on the second floor, but there’s a lift if you prefer.”
“I’m fine.”
I lead her up the main stairs off the hall, not disturbing the football this time, and start on the second flight.
“This place is amazing,” Leila murmurs. “The massive stone walls, the lighting, the heating coming from under our feet. It still looks ancient, but it can’t be.”
“Sympathetically renovated, I think they call it. Ethan spent a fortune on this place.”
The expression on her face suggests she’s trying to imagine the wealth it must have taken to create all this, but she maintains a polite silence. Instead, she trots on after me.
We pause on the second landing, just as Cristina emerges from one of the doors ahead of us. “Ah, Zayn. And this must be Leila. Congratulations on your exam results, Leila.”
“Thank you. I?—”
“You’ll be staying with us for a short while, I understand. Just until you go to your university course.”
“I…that’s right. I need to thank you for your hospitality. I’ll try not to be in the way.”
“How could you be in the way? This place is huge.” She gestures to the door she just came out of. “That’s our apartment, mine and Ethan’s, and the boys, obviously. Once you’re settled, pop round if you like, for a drink.”
“A drink? I don’t?—”
She pats Leila’s arm. “A soft drink if you prefer. Or just tea and some of Mrs McRae’s delicious lemon cake. I’ll see if Beth’s free, and maybe Magda. We could have a girls’ night.”
Leila looks just a little overwhelmed, but she manages to thank Cristina before I hustle her away.
“Did she mean it? A girls’ night?”
“She said so. You should go, meet the others. You might have fun.”
“I’m not used to socialising. My father didn’t want any of us to go out much, and we never socialised outside the family. My uncle always said?—”
“Your uncle is a greedy, murdering fuckwit, and he definitely does not speak for God. Forget him, do as you think fit.” When I was young, I heard enough of moralising, pseudo-religious claptrap to last me a lifetime. I know it’s hard to throw all that rubbish off, it’s been drilled into her since she was tiny, but she has to start somewhere, and it might as well be now.
Leila holds my gaze. “Maybe I will.”
She loves her room and spends the first five minutes doing circuits of it, touching the furniture, the fittings, admiring the sea view.
“Oh, look at that bed. A real four-poster. And curtains to match. And the fireplace… Oh, and those cliffs. They’re breathtaking. I can see for miles from here.”
“There’s tea, coffee, biscuits, and a kettle and some cups in this cupboard,” I point out. “And here’s the remote for the TV. You’ll need clothes. What size do you take?”
She frowns, then her face brightens. “Oh, yes, right. I could go shopping, now I have my money.”
“Best to stick to ordering online, just until I sort out that uncle of yours. Do you still have that tablet Frankie lent you?”
“I left it at the clinic.”
“That’s okay, Megan will send your stuff over. Order whatever you want, it’ll delivered by tomorrow.” I stroll to the window to take in the view she’s found so impressive. I never really saw the beauty in rocks and churning waves myself, and I can take or leave puffins if I’m honest. Still, I have to admit it’s a fine vista and I’m glad she’s going to enjoy it. “I have shit to do, so I’ll leave you for now. Relax, watch a bit of TV. I can’t let you wander round on your own, security, you, understand? But I could show you some of the sights later. There’s a swimming pool in one of the converted barns, and a gym. Oh, and a small cinema.”
She’s taken aback. “Wow. I never realised. This place is awesome, like a holiday resort. But I don’t even have a swimming costume, and I never learned to swim.”
“We’ll put that on our to-do list,” I promise. “Mrs McRae makes dinner at around six. Can you find your way down to the kitchen, or shall I come back for you?”
She stares at me. Her expression is one of longing, and of curiosity. And, maybe, just a little fear. “Can’t you stay?”
I’m not obtuse, I know what’s on offer. And it’s tempting. She really is lovely, I thought so from the first moment she opened her eyes and looked at me. My dick clearly agrees. It hardens in response, forming a tell-tale bulge in my jeans.
But my dick doesn’t run the show, and I know a disaster in the making when I see one. Reluctantly, I shake my head. “Not a great idea, Leila.”
She perches on the edge of the huge bed. “I don’t understand.”
I’m not entirely sure I do, but I make an attempt to explain.
“You’re young, Leila. Very young, and vulnerable. You almost died a couple of days ago. If I were to stay, we both know how that would end up. And you’d hate me later. You’d hate yourself, too, probably.”
She jumps up, indignant. “I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t.”
“Leila…”
“I want you. Don’t you want me?” Tears threaten.
I groan. “Fuck, yes, but this is not the right time.”
“Why not?” She leaps forward and flings her arms around my neck. Her mouth is on mine before I can stop her, not that I would, necessarily. My self-control is not infinite.
I allow myself to enjoy the kiss. Her mouth is soft, she smells of something sweet and tangy, fruity. I inhale her, drinking in the heady sensation to store it up, knowing I’ve no option but to save it for another time.
A time that may never come.
I force myself to break the kiss. “It’s too soon,” I growl. “We can’t do this.”
“We can. I want to, and so do you.” Her slender fingers cover my groin and squeeze my erection. “I can tell.”
“Fuck,” I groan. So much for not socialising outside the family. Where did she learn these tricks? It takes all I have to wrap my own digits around her wrist and peel her delectable touch away from me. “No, Leila. This can’t happen. Your path is different now, you have a future, the future you choose for yourself. I didn’t drag you out of the ocean just to rob you of that.”
“But I want you,” she pleads.
“You’re young…”
“I’m eighteen. I know what I want.”
If only…
I draw in a breath and somehow rake together a sufficient dose of self-preservation to strengthen my resolve. “This is not our time. I’m sorry.” I take a step back. It’s all I can do not to throw caution and good sense to the winds right here and now as she stands before me, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Please,” she whispers.
I shake my head before my tattered willpower shatters entirely.
“Please,” I say. The word emerges, broken. “Please, wait for me.”
I pause at the door. Grow up soon, may-ri-jaan.
My next stop is Ethan’s office. I find him seated on a sofa, hunched over his laptop, the ever-present mug of expensive coffee to hand.
He regards me under lowered brows. “Zee?”
“Boss. I need a word.”
He gestures me to sit down, so I settle into the sofa opposite him.
“It’s about Uncle Abdul,” I begin.
“What a surprise.” He leans back with a wry smile. “Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you were leaving him to me.”
“Not a chance! He’s mine.”
“Okay. So, what brings you here, then?”
“I need to let you know what I’m planning.”
“Do go on. Please.”
“Abdul’s a sanctimonious old prick.”
“I imagine so.”
“And he’s also a hypocrite.”
“That, too? What do you know about him?”
“He’s quick to lay down the moral law. The Sharia law.”
“Chopping off hands and suchlike? I can’t deny doing a spot of that myself on occasions.”
“This is different.”
“I daresay. But you didn’t disturb my peaceful afternoon of trying to balance my accounts to discuss moral philosophy.”
I lean forward, my elbows on my thighs. “No. I didn’t. He needs to be given a warning. A firm warning, to make sure he understands the consequences if he so much as thinks about Leila again.”
He closes the laptop and mirrors my pose. “I agree. What do you propose?”
“He has a fondness for working girls. Prostitutes.”
“Ah. Thank the dear Lord for hypocrisy. It pays my bills.”
I ignore the dry wit. “Three times a week, Monday, Thursday, and Saturday, regular as clockwork, he’s at Pru’s.”
One dark eyebrow rises. “Well, that’s handy.”
It is indeed. Pru Pettifer runs one of the finest whorehouses in Glasgow, and more to the point, she runs it for us. Her establishment is popular, always busy.
The Savage business model for brothels is simple. No pimps, no coercion. The girls are all self-employed and they rent rooms in our houses by the day, for even the hour. They pay a percentage of their earnings in return for a clean, warm place to do business. There’s security to hand, discreet, but there, refreshments for them and their clients, an endless supply of condoms, anonymity, and discretion assured. There’s even access to an STD clinic. They pack the trade in when they want to, if they want to. Most are long-term ‘associates’ of Pru and the others like her who oversee the entire set-up.
It works well, we do okay out of it. So do the women, and there’s rarely any bother.
“Do we know which girl he sees?”
I nod. “Sophie. Glenda on occasions, but mostly Sophie.” Pru has been most helpful.
Ethan’s grin widens. “He appreciates a decent spanking, then?” Sophie’s ‘specialism’ is legendary.
“Apparently. The point is, we know exactly when he’s there and when he leaves.”
“You’re thinking we should waylay him after one of his nocturnal excursions?”
“Yes. On his way home.”
His brow furrows. “You know I don’t appreciate mess on my own doorstep, and Pru certainly won’t. It’s bad for business if punters meet with some misfortune right after they’ve been to her place.”
“I’ll wait until he’s well away. His route home takes him through Finlaystone Country Park. Nice spot, popular with walkers.”
“So I hear. Lonely at night, I expect.”
“Oh, yes. Very lonely. He normally leaves Pru’s at around two in the morning, gets to Finlaystone about half an hour later.”
Ethan considers my proposal for a few moments. “Do you need any backup?”
“I don’t think so, boss. Just me and him, I reckon.”
He inclines his head. “When?”
“Today’s Sunday. I thought tomorrow.”
“Fair enough. It needs sorting before she leaves here. Let me know how it goes.”
I get to my feet. “Thanks, boss. I will.
I’m all set, in position, my equipment primed and to hand. Just waiting for the call…
My phone buzzes at just two minutes past two. I hit the green button. “Pru?”
“He just left.”
“Same car as usual?”
“Yes. Green Toyota. You have the registration number.”
I do indeed, but it’s always worth checking. Best to avoid mistakes. I rattle it off, and she confirms. I thank her and end the call.
I’ve timed him on his regular journey, so I know just when to expect him. He should be on this stretch of country road in just twenty-three minutes’ time. I checked out the location earlier, in daylight, measured the distance, made sure of a clear line of sight. Obviously, things can look different after dark, but my night-vision goggles should take care of that.
It’s now Thursday. I had hoped to do the deed three nights ago, but as luck would have it, there were two other vehicles on the road that night, following my target. I don’t relish having to deal with inadvertent witnesses, so I let him pass. That time.
Now, I’m back.
I’m good at this, in my element. I settle in to wait.
Abdul doesn’t let me down. I detect the faint hum of his engine half a minute before his motor rounds the bend about a hundred metres away from where I crouch. I stiffen in readiness, slow my breathing, and put my eye to the scope. I pick my spot, level the barrel of my trusty M10 Semi-Automatic Long-Range Sniper rifle, and squeeze the trigger.
The front nearside tyre explodes. The car careers to the left, narrowly missing an innocent old oak tree before shuddering to a halt just a few paces from the south bank of the river Clyde.
Perfect. I leave my tackle where it is, to dismantle and collect later, and step forward onto the road. I stroll across the tarmac and enter the narrow strip of woodland just where the Toyota left the road. The driver’s door is open, the occupant is already out and stomping around to the front of the vehicle.
A torrent of vitriolic expletives reaches me. My Punjabi is patchy at times, but I get the gist well enough. Some fucking arsehole piece of motherfucking shit is due to get the kicking he deserves. Well, we shall see.
“Abdul.” I call out, and he swirls on the spot.
“Who the fuck?—?”
His tirade comes to an abrupt end when my second gun goes off. A handy little Glock, fitted with a silencer, just in case. Deadly accurate, especially in the right hands.
He drops, screaming, to the ground, his left kneecap shattered.
I amble over to him and regard the writhing man dispassionately. He’s screaming like a baby, which is not surprising, really. It’s a painful injury, and usually permanently crippling if done right. I like to think I do things right.
“Abdul, shut the fuck up and listen to me,” I instruct him.
He doesn’t. The screams and curses continue unabated, so I land my boot in his ribs by way of getting his attention.
He grunts, but the din quietens somewhat.
“What do you want?” he whimpers. “Take the car, take my wallet.”
“Nah, you’re all right, Abdul. It’s you I want.” I retrieve a burner phone from my jacket pocket, encased in a zip-top plastic bag to keep it clear of prints and suchlike. It still functions just fine, though, so I tap a few keys to bring up the video recorded by Frankie and crouch to hold it in front of his nose. “Recognise anyone?”
His eyes widen. He’s silent at last, despite his mouth being agape. He watches the sequence for a few seconds then makes a grab for the device.
I lift it out of reach. “Manners,” I admonish him. “No need to snatch. Here. You can have it.” I toss it onto his chest. “I should tell you, there are plenty more where that came from. Oh, and there’s no SIM in there, so you can forget about calling your slimy sons. You can manage a nine-nine-nine call if you want, if you think that’s a good idea. If you feel like sharing that video with the police, obviously.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” he grinds out, his eyes flashing with hatred.
“Me? I’m just a friend of Leila’s. And your worst nightmare.”
“What…? Why…? You fucking shot me!” His voice rises to a screech. “I need an ambulance.”
“Indeed you do, but sadly, that won’t be happening, at least for a while. You see, I need you to understand exactly why you will not so much as think about Leila again, let alone try a repeat performance. You leave her alone. Got it?”
He shakes his head. “Leila? What are you babbling about? Leila’s dead.”
“Ah, well, you’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? Let me just fast-forward a little for you.” I run the video on to the point where our launch comes into view.
He watches the rescue, his lip curled into a snarl. “Bastards. What’s it to do with you? Interfering gets.”
“I told you, we’re friends of Leila and we don’t take kindly to this sort of thing. More to the point, neither do the police, and you can be sure they’ll get a copy of this if you decide to involve them. Or if you forget any of what I’ve said. You and your two charming sons will go down for this. You’d get at least fourteen years apiece for attempted murder.”
“What do you want, arsehole?”
“I told you. Leave. Leila. Alone. That’s it. Forget you ever had a niece. Same goes for the two younger girls,” I add, as an afterthought. Might as well make the most of the opportunity.
He glares at me.
“Are we absolutely clear?” I ask him, getting to my feet.
More glowering.
I land my boot in his ribs again and hear a satisfying crack. “I said, are we clear?”
“Yes. Yes, clear.” He’s back to whimpering. “Call an ambulance. Please.”
I shake my head. “Someone will be along soon enough. Maybe. When it gets light. A dog-walker, perhaps, or a jogger. Or you could call them, but I’ve already explained what will happen if you do. Best not to involve the authorities, probably, but I’ll leave that up to you. Now, I just need to do a bit of tidying, then we’ll be almost done here.”
I leave him to sob and plead while I make myself busy reaching into his motor to make sure the handbrake is off, then I put my shoulder to it and roll the vehicle forward. I’m glad of those hours spent in the gym as the vehicle inches closer and closer to the river. One final shove, and…
The Toyota rolls into the river and immediately disappears under the water. It would have been a fitting end for Abdul himself, but I have other plans. I turn and stroll back to where he lies.
“It’s been nice chatting, but I need to be getting off.” I cast an eye over his knee. Blood is still pouring from the wound, but it looks to be slowing since he stopped all that rolling about. “Here’s the thing. You’ll probably last until the morning, unless you wriggle about too much and start it bleeding again. Then, there’s a good chance you’ll bleed out before help arrives, and I know you wouldn’t like that. So keep still, there’s a good little Abdul.”
He’s using his good leg in an attempt to shuffle on his arse, away from me and back toward the road.
“I need you to stay here, out of sight,” I explain. “And, really, I’d prefer to be sure you’ll never walk again. A memorable lesson, you understand?” I draw the Glock and take aim at his uninjured knee.
He screams again. “Please, no. NOOO !”
I smile as I pull the trigger. “You take care now, Abdul.”
His screams can still be heard when I return to my M10 and quickly dismantle it. The sound eventually fades to nothing when I jog back the quarter mile or so to my car, stow my gear, and drive off.
A good night’s work, all in all.