Chapter 1 #2
‘Truly bloody awful. Mags, you know I love you, but what the hell was that?’
‘I don’t need to be graded. I know I messed it up.’ The familiar pit of disappointment opens in my chest, like a vacuum that sucks in joy and replaces it with negativity.
‘You’d get an F, for sure. Thank god I was in town and thought I’d come see you tonight.’ Eliza surveys the surrounding scene, stooping to wipe her scarlet-tainted knife on Graham’s black jeans.
‘Did you follow me?’
With a roll of her eyes, she laughs. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s a good thing I did, or you’d be as dead as this knob.’
Opening her bag, she pulls out a pack of wipes, carefully erasing all traces of blood from her blade.
‘Shouldn’t we get out of here?’ I ask as fear takes a firm hold of me, turning my legs into a wobbly mess. A sound at the end of the alley has me near soiling my knickers, only to see a fat little rat scurry across the path.
‘Well, ideally yes. But what do we do first?’ It’s a good thing she’s just saved my life, because I want to kick her with the patronising tone she speaks in.
With a sigh, I parrot the line our father told us time and time again. ‘Clean up your mess.’
‘And what a messy scene we have. The wound on his neck shouldn’t give much away with the size of it, only that it’s not a serrated blade.
He didn’t kiss you, or anything, so the DNA transfer should be minimal.
Maybe some hair, and traces of skin under his nails.
And the sodding great chunk of face you bit out. ’
Her calm demeanour never fails to enrapture me. Eliza has just killed a man without the slightest ruffling of her feathers. Just wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Yes, he is… or was… a douchebag of the highest order, but still. Nothing?
She hums as she pulls a pair of snips from her bag, and I need to steady myself against the wall for what I know is coming.
‘They’ll know who he is, do we really need to—’ My words are cut off by the terrible crunching of sinew and bone as she removes the first finger tip.
Stinging vomit creeps into my throat, and I cover my mouth, fighting it back down.
If I throw up, Eliza will be raging. Vomiting at the scene is an absolute no.
Contract killer 101. Which I fail at every possible juncture.
Hell, I tried to make myself vomit on purpose when Graham had me pinned.
Albeit, leaving evidence is less tricky when you’re the potential victim.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she grunts, it taking considerable force to lop through his bigger fingers. ‘If you throw up, I swear to god I will make you pay for it. Take a breather.’
Moving away from the grisly scene, I fight for breath, the absolute insanity of what has just transpired hitting me.
I failed.
I tried to kill a man, and I failed miserably.
And my sweet, efficient younger sister saved me.
What an absolute letdown. Maybe she would let me claim it as my first?
I glance back at her neatly crouching form, from her leather boots to her perfectly coiffed hair falling in red waves around her shoulders. The scene would be too perfect. Too clean to be my first kill. Father would never believe it in a month of Sundays. He’d laugh me out of the house.
Plus, after witnessing a death so up close and personal, I doubt I could ever live up to expectations and woman up to take a life.
Not on purpose, at any rate.
Finishing removing the fingertips, she takes her knife and, in a swift series of slices, removes the corpse’s cheek, wrapping it in a clean handkerchief.
‘Find the bit you spat out. It’ll have your saliva on it. You spat it out, right? Or are you dabbling with cannibalism while I’m not looking?’
‘Don’t… I’ll throw up if you remind me.’
‘It probably tastes better seared to perfection with a little side of horseradish sauce.’ Eliza grins at me as I fight another wave of nausea.
The bloody chunk lies near the back door of the club, glistening. I stare at it, unsure of how to pick it up. I absolutely have no desire to touch it.
‘Toss it over, Mags.’
‘I’m not touching it.’
Eliza rolls her eyes and walks to me, stooping to pick up the fleshy bite and stashing it in her hanky with the fresh fillet of face.
Swiftly, she packs the fingertips into a small metal tin, popping it in her purse without a care, along with the bloodied handkerchief.
Splashes meet my ears as she tips a clear bottle of liquid over Graham’s body, no longer gurgling and gasping.
She strikes a match and drops it onto the corpse, stepping back as orange flames quickly engulf the body.
‘Come on,’ she says as she joins me, linking our arms at the elbow and steering me toward the rear of the alley. ‘I take it you took the back alley to avoid the cameras?’
‘I’m not a complete idiot.’ Planning the killing wasn’t the issue, just the actual act of carving him like a kebab.
‘I never said you were. I like you just the way you are. Even if you attack a man like a cat with more hiss than claw.’
‘Fuck off,’ I laugh, the warmth of her arm in mine soothing my agitated nerves.
‘Let me buy you a drink,’ Eliza says. Stopping in my tracks, the stickiness of my black top comes to my attention, the wet fabric clinging to my chest.
‘I’m covered in blood.’ There’s a tremor in my voice that brings heat to my cheeks. Eliza rounds on me, scanning my front with a critical eye.
‘It’s not that bad. At least you wore black.’ Rifling through her bag, she pulls out a crinkled pack of wipes. With all the swiftness of a mother cleaning her chocolate-soiled child, she swipes at splashes of blood dotted around my chest and face.
‘I should go home. I can’t go to the pub covered in a dead man’s blood.’ The shame of Eliza’s prowess next to my abject failure replaces the tiny spike of adrenaline the escapade fuelled.
‘That’s exactly why you can’t go home. You need an alibi.
So do I. Just in case. So you’re coming to the pub, and you’ll smile and look totally happy to be having a drink with your lovely little sister who just saved your sorry arse.
’ She shucks off her coat, far baggier than mine, and hands it to me.
‘That should cover up the worst of it. Now come, let me buy you a glass of wine.’
We exit the rear of the alley, spilling into the busy street, merging with the other Friday night revellers and losing ourselves amongst the press of tipsy bodies.
‘I need an entire bottle of wine. It’s probably my round, too,’ I counter. ‘Being that you saved my life and all.’
‘All right, city girl, you can buy me a massive glass of wine and tell me all about this man you’re seeing.’
Ah.
Shit.
‘There are too many people,’ Eliza complains, scanning the busy bar for a seat. ‘Do you really enjoy living in London? It’s just so…gross.’
Rolling my eyes, I grab her by the hand, tugging her to two seats by the window as a couple don their coats.
‘It’s still warm.’ Eliza’s mouth turns down at the corners as she slides uncomfortably onto the shiny leatherette bench seat.
‘Yeah, because people actually live here. Don’t move. I’m going to the bar to grab the drinks.’
‘Red?’
The memory of hot blood flashes in my head, hitting me with a tidal wave of nausea. ‘White. If that’s okay?’
I’d seen my sister slamming back the most vile concoctions of punch while we attended St Libertines—the university which trains up the next generation of criminals, both the illegal and the legal kind.
Sons of US senators, the children of organised crime syndicates and the offspring of contract killers.
It grooms them for the next generation of people who manipulate the world beneath the surface. She can handle some white wine.
Trying to catch the server’s attention at the bar takes far longer than I can handle with my already fraying nerves. Eventually, I return to the tiny table, clutching a condensation-covered wine bottle and two glasses.
‘Are people staring at us?’ I ask, pouring the wine with a tremble. ‘I feel like they know.’
‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Mags.’ Eliza takes a deep sip of her wine before sighing happily. ‘People look at other people all the time. You only try to derive meaning from it if you are horny or guilty.’
‘I think we know which one is bothering me.’
‘Both? Are you still a happy little humper these days?’
Heat invades my face. It’s not like I’m embarrassed to masturbate, but Eliza caught me on more than one occasion with my pillow beneath me and has ripped me a new one ever since.
If it feels good, then what’s so wrong with it?
What difference does it make if I grind against fingers or fabric?
Still, her reaction let me know it might not be as normal to the outside world.
My pillow and I are happy enough with our dalliances.
‘Or does this new man of yours shag the stress right out of you?’
‘Eliza!’ I glance around, hoping that no one overheard her.
‘I’m joking. But you have to tell me something about him. Why are you so tight-lipped?’ Her suspicions should annoy me, but they aren’t exactly unwarranted. Truth be told, I remain a single pringle—miserable meals for one and pillow grinding before splitting a bottle with me, myself and I.
But she doesn’t know that.
‘It’s not like our family is normal. Dating someone who doesn’t know about our world is a bit of a risk. I want to enjoy it a little longer before you all get your blood-covered paws on him.’ There’s also the issue that he doesn’t know about our fictional romance. A minor hiccup.
‘Show me a picture at least. I need something to go on.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Has Dad sent you to extract information?’
‘Do you think I’d ask you outright if he did?
I’d be up to my armpits in your bins and breaking into your house with a camera if Dad was involved.
’ A tendril of auburn slides over her cheek, and even the way she brushes it back into place screams poise and elegance.
Honestly, I can only put it down to me being a test batch in the womb.
All the mistakes it learned went into creating my perfect sister.
I can’t even hate her for it because she’s amazing. I love the shit out of her.
‘Fine. I’ll show you a picture.’ I pull out my phone and go to my neighbour’s social media, finding the image that most closely resembles one he might send me, and only partially showing his face.
God, Roman Ellis is nothing short of perfection. Looking through his pictures sends flutters right into my underpants, and it takes everything not to seek something to grind to relieve the pressure.
Eliza is right. I am a bloody weirdo.
Perfect, a gym shot where Roman is all lickable abs and shiny sweat. Damn it, the temptation to bottle him and spread him on my toast hits in a wave of pure, revolting desire.
Roman barely knows I exist. Sure, we pass the odd hello as we meet in the hallway, but he never looks at me. It’s always through me. Little does he know I know exactly who he is and what he’s hiding.
‘Here,’ I say, shutting off the app and pulling the photo up on the screen.
‘Damn, Mags. You’re railing this guy?’
My hackles rise, the hair on the back of my neck standing to stiff attention. Is it so unbelievable that a guy like Roman would be into a woman like me?
‘I’m not just railing him. We’re dating.’
A devious glint shone in Eliza’s eyes. ‘Then you’d better bring him to Dad’s wedding.’
Fuck-a-duck.
Flustered, I chug down my wine, wincing at the bitter taste. ‘He’s not like us. I can’t bring him home.’
‘Dad has invited Eddie.’
Despite the overwhelming din in the bar, my world seems to reduce to that one word. Eddie. Fucking Eddie Stewart.
‘Why?’ I bark out the word, louder than I meant.
Eliza shrugs, taking the wine bottle and topping up both of our glasses. ‘You’re nearly thirty. You know Dad’s rule. If you can’t join the family business, then you need to marry someone who will.’
Dad and his old-fashioned, corrupt bull.
Forced marriage went out in the UK a long time ago.
For most people. The only place it lingers is in twisted religious communities and the elite.
But of all the rich little psychos my dad could choose, he picks Eddie.
We dated once, when I was younger and dumber, and he’s exactly everything I don’t want in a man.
Dad bloody loves Eddie.
There’s no way on earth I’m going to align myself with that slimeball. I’d rather kill someone. And I really don’t want to kill anyone.
‘Taking this guy home won’t quash Dad’s rule,’ Eliza says, resting her cheek against one hand. ‘What’s your game plan here?’
‘You don’t fall in love with a game plan.’
‘Oh, so it’s love, is it?’
Pass me the shovel, because I’m digging myself a trench to perish in.
‘No. I don’t know. I need some time. Someone to take to this wedding to stop Dad hooking me up with his criminal nepo brats.’
‘Like us?’ Eliza’s fingers tighten on the stem of her glass, a dangerous look crossing her features.
‘Yeah. Like us. Don’t you ever want something different from the life we’ve been dealt? All I want is to keep working at my office job. Maybe get a dog. Fall in love with a man who doesn’t compete with me for the sickest kills. Just a normal life.’
‘Normality is just the lens through which you view the world. Our world might not be normal to some, but it’s all we’ve ever known. You can’t fight your nature, Maggie.’ Eliza reaches over the table, her fingers cold from the condensation on her glass.
Does a secret killer lurk inside me? Does it get easier to stomach after the first kill? Everything in me screams no, that it isn’t what I want.
But can you fight what you are born into?
‘And how do you think this normie is going to fit in at home? Stuck in a village full of retired mafia men and the young families of contract killers? It’s hardly the fucking Lake District. You’re being unrealistic, and I get it. He’s fit.’
He’ll have little choice.
Being that I intend to kidnap him as my plus one to Dad’s wedding and blackmail him to play along.
A truly insane plan. But what choice did they all leave me?