Surefire (8 page)

“What did she mean, properly? I’ve never met her before. I’d have definitely remembered.”

“I expect it’s just that she looks different with her clothes on. Same as you do, my darling.” He laughs softly at my incredulous expression, swings an arm across my shoulders as he starts to lead me away across the police station forecourt. “Jules was at The Hermitage that first night we went there. She found your, er—your performance in the dungeon particularly inspiring. I gather her sub got quite a working over after that…”

I stop, stare at him, astonished. No. Surely not! My mouth is hanging open, and Tom casually hooks his finger under my chin to close it.

“Small world, love. Jules is a Domme. A Mistress, if you like. And she’s a powerful one, very stern. Scary woman. Bloody good lawyer though.”

“Shit. No wonder she kicked that stupid policeman in the balls then, figuratively speaking, of course. Christ, she made mincemeat out of him.”

“Good. That’s what we wanted. Now, where’s Nathan?”

Right on cue the sleek black Porsche slides around the corner and pulls up on yellow lines outside the police station. Tom opens the door and ushers me into the back seat, sliding in alongside me. Nathan pulls away. “So, how’s our little jailbird then? I’m guessing the lovely Jules did her stuff and sprung you?” Nathan tosses the cheery greeting over his shoulder at me.

“Yes. She was wonderful. She sends her regards, by the way.”

He just nods, his attention back on the traffic. “So, where to?”

I think for a moment, then, “Could we go to my mother’s house? My car’s there. And then I need to see Mr Miller. He’s my solicitor who handles my financial affairs here. But he’ll have gone home by now. I suppose I’ll need to find a hotel and go to his office tomorrow.”

Tom takes my hand, squeezes it. “Hotel’s sorted, love. We’ve got rooms booked at the Gloucester Marriott. For tonight at least. Tomorrow we’ll decide if we’re staying on or what. After we’ve spoken to your Mr Miller.”

I turn to him, my gratitude etched across my face. “You’re staying? With me?”

“Too right we’re staying.” This from Nathan, “You need some moral support.”

“And a decent fuck, but that’s my department.”

Tom’s whisper in my ear sends a wicked shiver down my spine, and I have to concentrate hard on giving Nathan directions back to my mother’s house.

My Clio’s still outside where I left it, but my heart sinks when I spot the broken driver’s window as we draw up in front of it.

“Shit. That’s all I need. Someone’s broken into my car.”

Tom’s equally disgusted, though for different reasons. “And in full view of half the bloody Gloucester constabulary too. What sort of a place is this?”

I’m close to tears as I stand helplessly on the pavement, viewing the pile of shattered glass on the driver’s seat, and the contents of my glove box scattered all over the passenger side. It’s a mess, and I’m going to need to get it fixed before I can go anywhere. But at least my car’s still here
.
They could have stolen it. In fact, I’m a bit puzzled about why they didn’t. Why bother going to the trouble of breaking in just to rummage through my glove box? They didn’t even nick my CDs—obviously not devotees of Coldplay and Amy Winehouse. But still, it seems odd.

Efficient as ever, Nathan’s on the phone sorting out a mobile windscreen repair firm offering a twenty-four hour service. It seems I’ll be good as new again within an hour or so. And Tom’s marching up the path to my wrecked front door, the twisted, scorched uPVC now just a melted tangle. PC Solemn is gone, but the police tape is still in place. They’ve also arranged a boarding up firm to secure a couple of stout wooden planks across the doorway, to keep out prying eyes and no doubt to preserve evidence for the investigators. None of whom are in evidence now. The place is deserted, lonely and abandoned. And that does it for me. I follow Tom to the door, powerfully reminded of another time I walked up this path, alone on that occasion. It was the day I was released from prison, and I came home looking for my mother even though I knew she wasn’t here anymore. I found Sadie then, and now she’s gone too, and someone even tried to destroy my house. On that thought I turn, sit on the step, put my head in my hands and weep.

And suddenly, Tom’s arms are around me. He’s sitting beside me, holding me. He doesn’t say anything, no useless soothing words, no attempt to stop my tears as the dam bursts and the grief and tension of this awful day flow from me. The shock and terror of this morning when I heard what had happened, and feared that people might have died because of me. Then the desperate rush to drive down here, the shock of actually seeing the damage to my lovely house then the sickening realization that some evil git did this on purpose, someone deliberately tried to burn my house to the ground. Then the horror of realizing the police believed that evil person was me, that I could do such a terrible thing. But then came Julia, sent by Eva. And Tom and Nathan actually followed me, came here to help me, because they knew I needed them. Like some sort of desperate limpet, I cling to Tom, his hands tracing circling caresses on my back as my sobs eventually subside. I sniff into his neck, trying not to leave nasty marks on his clean sports shirt.

“Here. Use this.”

I turn, to see Nathan crouching in front of us, a clean hanky in his hand. It’s one of those nice, fancy ones. Real fabric. Seems a pity to wipe my nose on it, but that doesn’t stop me. I dab at my eyes, blow my nose noisily. I consider offering him the handkerchief back but think better of it and shove it into my pocket to wash later. I look from one to the other, my gaze still watery. I’m fragile, but ready to start picking myself up. And I know that this time, it’ll be so much easier with people around to help me. This time, it’s not just me against the world. I start to smile, wobbly, but near enough.

The smile dies at the sound of a voice, a sneering, coarse, cruel voice, a voice I’d hoped never to hear again.

“Well, isn’t this nice. Who’re your ponsy friends then, Shaz?”

Chapter Seven

Kenny’s leaning on my gatepost, his hands in his pockets. Or should I say, Tom’s pockets. He’s wearing Tom’s leather jacket, the one he stole on the river bank in Bristol, although to be fair it looks faintly ridiculous on him, at least three sizes too big. And he’s smiling, an unpleasant smirk signaling distinctly malicious intent. And he’s not alone. There’s a white Transit van parked on the other side of the street, and I count five other thugs pouring out of the open rear doors, coming across to arrange themselves around Kenny. One of them is even trying the doors of Nathan’s Porsche, the others just lounging arrogantly against our cars. A man I recognize as one of Kenny’s vicious mates from way back in Bristol—his broken nose and tattooed face particularly memorable—saunters up behind Kenny, swinging a bicycle chain, his intent obvious. He grins at us, clearly enjoying his day out in Gloucester and convinced it’s about to get a whole lot better.

I’m starting to get up, ready to try to reason with him even though I know it’s useless. Old habits do die hard, it seems.

“Kenny isn’t it? How nice. I’d been hoping to run into you again.” Tom has taken over, before I can say anything to Kenny. His voice is mocking, confident. This is my Dom, but more so. This is Tom looking for trouble, real trouble. And no doubt about to find it. Can’t he count? Six, for Christ sake!

“You have something of mine.” Tom makes no effort to stand up, and his arms around me hold me firmly in place. He fixes Kenny with a warning look, a look I know well but which seems to be lost on my ex-boyfriend. “I’d like my jacket back please.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Kenny takes a menacing step forward, his loyal troops coming to attention behind him, ready now to have their fun beating up two unarmed men and a weeping girl.

“We’ll sort this. Stay here,” Tom murmurs his instructions into my ear as he lazily comes to his feet. Nathan too, and they stroll casually down the path to meet Kenny head on.

“We met a couple of years ago. In Bristol as I recall. You—borrowed—my jacket, and I see you still have it. It definitely looks better on me—you don’t really fill it out. Prison food not especially good for the physique, I expect. And now I want it back.” Tom’s tone is low, hard, chilling. He’s angry, white-hot angry. I’ve heard that tone only once before, that first day in Smithy’s Forge. He means business. But he and Nathan are hopelessly outnumbered. Ever the optimist, I expect they’ll land a few decent punches before it’s all done with. I can’t see them winning this one though, then my immediate future looks distinctly grim. After all, it’s not Tom and Nathan that Kenny’s come here looking for—it’s me.

Kenny’s lips curls into a sneer. “Looks like you borrowed my shagbag.” He casts a contemptuous nod in my direction, turns back to Tom. “I reckon I got the best of the bargain, but now I’ll be needing the little slag back.”

He turns his attention to me, his eyes glinting with a mixture of cruelty and something akin to lust, but tinged with violence, greedy and assessing.

I don’t recall sensing such an aura of menace from him at any time in our previous relationship, but something fundamental has shifted and it’s unmistakable now. Scared, really scared, I shrink backwards. He obviously notices my reaction, and his sneer widens, becomes yet more malevolent as he senses my fear, feeds on it, enjoys it.

He turns his arrogant attention back to Nathan and Tom, dismissive as he warns them off. “You two can fuck off. Last chance. It’s her we want.” Then, his attention is back to me, “Yeah, you. You treacherous little bitch. You couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut could you? You grassed us up, I got three fucking years because of you, so you fucking know what’s coming to you…”

He starts to laugh, turning to his crew to share the joke. He very nearly makes it before Tom’s fist connects with his jaw, sending him spinning backwards into the loving arms of his friend with the bike chain. Then all hell breaks loose. Kenny’s not frankly much use for anything anymore. One decent punch and he’s floored. That leaves just five.

Just?

The others are made of sterner stuff, but it soon becomes obvious they’ve miscalculated. Nathan moves like lightning, high kicks and punishing jabs flying everywhere.
Nathan the Ninja, wow!
And Tom’s something of a bruiser too, fast and lethal and not above fighting a bit dirty when he gets the chance. A fierce kick in Kenny’s ribs as he’s lying on the pavement is obviously intended to settle old scores, and I can’t say I blame him.

A couple of minutes, no more than that, and there are three more would-be heroes rolling in the muck alongside the noble Kenny, and the other two are backing away, obviously no longer so keen on the day’s entertainment. He of the bicycle chain is among the fallen, and Nathan uncoils the chain from around his pudgy, tattooed hand, clearly intending to make sure he doesn’t get to wrap it around anyone else’s head any time soon.

Tom, meanwhile, is intent on hauling Kenny into a sitting position and he deftly pulls his arms through the sleeves of the jacket. It’s seen a lot of wear, in fact it’s distinctly tatty now and I have no doubt that Tom won’t be wearing it again. It’s a point of principle though, and the jacket, newly restored to its rightful owner is soon stowed in the boot of the Porsche along with the bike chain.

“Right, you lot can fuck off and take that pile of shite with you.” Nodding casually in the direction of Kenny and the other three fallen heroes, Nathan’s tone is as hard and implacable as Tom’s, and I begin to appreciate how formidable he must be when in Dom mode. I bet Eva loves it. These guys though, are just plain cowards, bullies with the tables turned, and they can’t get away from us fast enough. Not especially gently they drag their fallen comrades to their feet and the whole pack of them shuffle off back across the street to bundle their semi-conscious colleagues back into their van and clamber in behind them.

The least battered limps around to the front and hauls himself into the driver’s seat, offering a two finger salute in passing to Mrs Whatsername, my mother’s old next door neighbor. She’s ventured as far as her front door to watch the goings on and from the expression of utter disgust on her face is no doubt silently noting that Norman’s mother would never have caused such a commotion in the street. I can’t help thinking she’d have been better employed calling the police rather than watching from her doorstep, but I suppose it was all over so quickly it hardly seems worth it now. By way of peace-making, as we all watch the van lurching down the road, Tom offers her a cheery “Good evening” before she nips back inside a bit sharpish and slams the door on us all.

As Kenny and co. disappear around the corner, my instinct is to make a run for it, to get away. I can’t believe we’re still alive, let alone all of us standing around as if nothing much has happened.

“You could have been killed. Both of you…” I’m staring from one to the other as they casually check over Nathan’s Porsche for any mucky finger marks in the gleaming black paintwork. “Christ, there were six of them…”

“Mmm, decent odds this time. I’m glad I had him to back me up, especially as my ribs are still a bit delicate.” Tom smiles at Nathan. “Thanks, mate, I owe you one.”

“You’re welcome. Any time.” Nathan crouches to check his tires.

“Six, for God’s sake. Can’t either of you count?”

“Yes, six. Same as the number of dans on his black belt. The Karate Kid here.” Again he nods in Nathan’s direction, who seems quite oblivious to my concerns as he now checks his lights. “Mind, I always knew he’d come in useful in a scrap. I’d have been a lot more nervous on my own. Like before, in Bristol.”

Karate? Black belt? Bloody hell.
Kenny’s little band of numpties wouldn’t have known what hit them. Nathan scattered them like skittles. And even though, in fairness, Nathan did do most of the work, Tom was pretty lethal himself. For old times’ sake I don’t doubt. As my heart rate at last settles down into a more sedate canter I notice that his knuckles are scratched—no doubt Kenny’s chin is in worse shape though. He smiles, rubs his sore knuckles ruefully as he sees where my gaze has landed.