9 - The Missing Piece
Logan
The rain pelts down hard enough to sting, whilst I stand there, in the middle of the car park, stomach churning with unease.
Not because she’s gone; sure, that hurts like hell.
Not because I’ve hurt her; even though I currently want to use myself as a human fucking punch bag.
No. But because, as she drives away, my eyes are finally fucking opened.
Her number plate. Plain as day.
The letters:
C.M. R
The missing piece of the fucked-up puzzle
Shit.
The blood drains from my face as it all clicks into place. It was her all along. The shoes. The scream. They belonged to her. She was there the night we took out Fionn Delaney.
Cordelia watched the whole damned thing, and she still trusted me to be her first.
I am a despicable human being.
Footsteps fall heavily on the concrete, splashing through puddles of muddy water underfoot.
Tilting my head, I glance over my shoulder to see my two best mates.
Except one of them has utterly betrayed everything we stand for.
And when I catch the faintest hint of the smug smile on his lips, I erupt.
“You fucking prick!” I roar, charging straight for him. My vision clouded by red, like a bull in a fighting ring. His eyes turn to slits as I approach, but he doesn’t run. He knows what’s coming, and nothing is going to stop it.
“Cox. Woah. Hold on.” Ezio starts, but I’m well beyond listening to reason. And if he gets in my fucking way, he’s going to meet with my fists as well.
I swing at Clarke, connecting nicely with his pretty-boy face. That’s gonna leave a shiner, for sure. The second hit drives into his jaw, staggering him and sending one of his teeth flying across the concrete. Still, he holds his ground, taking it like a champ.
Fight back, fucker, my mind reels, eager to feel the sting of his fists.
There’s a crowd of students circling around us, chanting for their chosen side, but I don’t give a shit who’s watching.
I draw back my arm, ready to go at him again, but Ezio hauls me backwards, pinning me to his chest. I thrash like a wild animal, frenzied and on the edge of losing all control, but he prevents me from taking a third shot.
And despite my desperation to rearrange Clarke’s motherfucking face, I’m running on empty.
My breath comes out hot and fast, heart beating like a battle drum.
Clarke wipes his mouth with his sleeve, spitting blood at his feet.
“You idiot, Cox,” he sneers. “You fucked her once and you’re already head over heels. What’s next? Going to pick out fabric for your curtains?”
He throws me a mocking smirk, and I scream, fighting with all my might.
“I was told to do it,” he snarls, chin held high, dark eyes burning with rage.
“What?”
He spits on the floor again, blood mixing with rainwater. “To break anything up before it started. You were warned. She’s off limits.”
That gets another roar from me. I claw at Ezio’s arms, hurling useless threats around like machine gun pellets - sharp, rapid and out of control.
“Basta!” Ezio barks suddenly, clamping down on his grip. He scans the crowd of stunned faces. “Shows fucking over!”
Gradually, our audience disperses, leaving the three of us alone in the centre of the car park. The rain pelts down on our backs, soaking through my clothes and washing away the blood on my busted knuckles.
“Are you two done?” Ez demands still clinging to me like an unruly child. “If either of you bothered to check your phones, you’d realise Scar’s called a meeting. And I’d rather not turn up there looking like we’re trying to butcher each other!”
I exhale a long breath, the tension draining from my muscles as my body grows heavy.
“Logan,” Ez mutters close to my ear, “I’m letting you go now. You good?”
My fists remain clenched at my sides, but I nod. Despite that I’m still thirsting for blood.
“Alright,” he says with a sigh. “In the back of the car, and you,” he points his index finger at Clarke. “In the front.”
We pile into the red Mercedes-Benz S-Class that Ezio’s borrowed as a courtesy car whilst his pride and joy is in the garage. The dickhead very nearly totalled it. He smashes up cars like it’s a personal hobby of his, usually trying to impress the ladies on the track.
Let’s hope his insurance company doesn’t mind a bit of mould and mildew, because with our soggy asses on the seats, it’s bound to happen.
The drive to my uncle’s estate drags out in uncomfortable silence.
None of us dares to speak in fear of saying something that we’ll severely regret in a few days.
And that leaves me wallowing in my relentless thoughts, with the very vivid memory of Cordelia’s face, swallowed up by hurt and betrayal.
When our eyes met through the sea of students, time stood still.
The two of us, frozen together in a moment of emotion so raw, it was impossible for either of us to overlook it.
Those piercing orbs, like shards of shining blue sapphire, were full to bursting with watery tears.
Her soft pink lips parted just so, bottom lip wobbling, like a toddler on the brink of a meltdown.
And her small hands, balled into fists at her side, as if the very motion was keeping her from crumbling.
My heart broke for her. Which is impossible because I don’t fucking have one.
I wondered if she saw me too. If she saw the guilt and devastation beyond my gaze. The regret and undeniable shame that consumed me in that corridor; cleaved my heart straight down the middle.
The estate is a stark contrast to the mess after the house party, and everything is back where it’s supposed to be. No evidence of the drugs or the booze left anywhere. I can only hope it was Clarke’s job to tidy shit up.
My nerves are shot. I've already had my fingers in my mouth several times on the car ride over, gnawing at the fingernails which are practically non-existent, anyway. The fact keeps replaying repeatedly in my head.
Cordelia. It was her all along. And now she's in danger. Possibly worse than danger. What's going to happen when Clarke finds out? Because he will. He won't stop until he does. He's as stubborn as a mule and has the damn tenacity to go with it.
Dad greets us at the door, eyes flitting suspiciously between us.
“What the hell happened to you two?” he demands, pinching the sodden material of my jacket. With an exasperated groan, he slaps his palm to his head, closing his eyes tightly. “Actually, don’t. I don’t even want to know. Just get inside.”
We follow him like obedient little gangsters, down the hallway through to my uncle’s office.
Scar sits behind his desk, elbows resting against the flat surface, hands clasped neatly together.
Directly in front of him are three wooden chairs, spaced out evenly and perfectly aligned.
As if someone’s used some sort of measuring device to ensure the equal distance.
It’s easy to tell where Clarke gets his OCD tendencies from.
“Sit.”
We do as we’re told. You don’t refuse any of Scar’s orders if you know what’s good for you. The chair is literally a slab of harsh wood under my arse. He wants us to be on edge, all part of the intimidation tactics.
The room falls into a deathly silence. Only the steady tick of his lighter as he flicks it open and shut. He doesn’t speak but allows the tension to keep building. Words aren't needed to make a person sweat. Another intimidation technique.
“Alright,” he says, cutting through the charged silence. “You lads seen the news recently?”
I glance at Clarke first. The purple bruise forming around his right eye, and the swelling beneath his prominent cheekbone, are the best things I’ve seen all day.
Ezio managed to avoid injury and come out unscathed, but the straight line of his jaw gives him away.
Both mirror my own blank expression. We had it drilled into us as kids: the importance of a good poker-face, and it tends to blow back in our parents' faces at times such as now.
Scar clears his throat, a deliberate move to get our undivided attention back on him.
Judging by the way he keeps cracking his knuckles, whilst eyeing each of us up, he probably wants to hang us off the nearest bridge, but regardless of the rage burning behind his stoic expression, he is the picture book definition of the word calm.
Over time he’s learnt to master his internal outbursts and wipe his face clean of any lingering emotions.
Being in such a prime position of power and authority, he can’t afford to lose his shit. Well, not with anyone but us, anyway.
Dad hands over an iPad and lights up. He holds it out in offering to Scar, who plucks it from his open fingers and rests it between his lips; unlit.
Without looking up, he taps a thick finger against the screen. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” his voice remains composed with the tiniest hint of warning.
My stomach drops.
Clarke swallows hard. Ezio freezes. And my arse cheeks clench together like someone’s trying to shank me with a meaty butt plug.
No one says a word as he lets the silence stretch between us, thriving off our internal suffering. Eventually, he brings the lighter to the foot of the cigar dangling from his mouth and rolls it strategically between his thumb and forefinger, flicking it to spark a flame.
His dark glare holds me captive.
“Yesterday, Fionn Delaney’s body got fished out of the Thames,” he continues in that disturbing monotone that makes me want to crawl up my own arse. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you who that is, do I, Ezio?”
Ez dips his chin in response. Scar nods. With a flick of his wrist, he flips the iPad on its side so all three of us get a close-up view of Delaney’s mutilated ball sack—in full 2K.
Ezio lets out a strangled heave. And a low growl escapes from the depths of Clarke’s throat. We’ve been mates so long I can read him like a book. He’s pissed he never got to finish the job. That his playtime got cut short.
“So, what are we looking at, boys?”
“Mutilation,” I answer. I desperately want to say something cocky, but I don’t dare. Pretty sure if Ez opens his mouth he’ll vomit on the floor. And Clarke, well he might end up owning up to it, because he’s a proud son-of-a-bitch.
“Correct,” he replies with a hard smile, then fires a suspicious glare Clarke’s way. “This your artwork, son?”
Clarke shakes his head. “Nothing to do with me.”
“Good. Because if I find out any of you had a hand in this,” he pauses, gesturing to the revolting image. “I’ll chop your fucking balls off myself. So, you can’t reproduce and insult the rest of the population.”
None of us says a word. Despite being pissed off with each other, we know the deal.
Loyalty. Honour. Silence.
“Kids’ funeral is being held at the church once the postmortems are finalised,” he tells us. “I expect all three of you to be in attendance. Show your damn respects.”
We all nod at precisely the same time. Almost like we’ve rehearsed it.
“You’d better get ready, boys,” Scar says, rising from his seat, one eyebrow arched in warning. “We’re about to get swamped by the fucking Irish.”