Written in the Scars (The Estate Series Book 4) (5 page)

Keera looked over her list of appointments to see who her first client was. Ugh, Martin Smith. She’d only seen him a couple of times and had hated every minute of both occasions. The dirty bastard always needed a bath. Damn the man for asking for her again. He wasn’t a regular that Keera wanted to have, thank you very much.

Still, despite what anyone thought of The Candy Club, working there wasn’t as bad as she’d first assumed. And it was far safer than the last job she’d been doing.

Sam lay in the hospital bed, trying to get some sleep. It was half past eleven and he still hadn’t had his operation. Except for the occasional snore coming from the man in the bed across from his, the ward had been quiet until three nurses situated on the station at the end of the bay had started discussing last night’s television. They’d been there for ten minutes now. He wanted to scream at them. Why couldn’t they be quieter?

The throbbing from his hand was like nothing he’d experienced before. Even with the maximum pain relief he could have, he could still feel it pulsing as if it was going to explode, as if someone was shoving a hot poker into his hand and twisting it round for sheer enjoyment. Twice it had swelled underneath the bandaging and the nurse had had to loosen it off.

The anaesthetist had been to see him an hour ago, letting him know that he was the second name on the emergency operation list and they would be with him as quickly as possible. He’d gone through the procedure with him but Sam wasn’t interested in that. Instead, he’d caused a fuss, saying he needed more pain relief. He’d been administered as much as they could give him, but the pain was so intense that it hadn’t made much difference. In the meantime, he’d been unable to eat or drink for several hours. He’d kill for a pint, and to be having it in the pub with his mates. As well, he needed to speak to Scott Johnstone to see what had come of the job they’d been doing.

Glad the ward was in low light, Sam fought back tears. Why had he done that stupid job? If it weren’t for the fact that he was broke and needed some quick cash, he’d never have agreed to it. Scott had never used a chainsaw before but he’d reassured him that it would be a doddle – a few hours’ work for a good crust.

Except when it had come down to it, it
had
been dangerous, and it had brought him to people’s attention. God knows who would come sniffing around once they heard what they’d been up to. The land was private. They shouldn’t have been on there, despite what he’d told his mum earlier. They were clearing it for better access to the building suppliers that Scott was planning on robbing. Their aim to look like they were local council contractors had even fooled one of the neighbours when he had come across to have a chat. Nosy git.

The nurses had moved away now, and the man across from him was finally quiet too. Sam wished he could allay his fears by getting a bit of sleep but he knew that wasn’t possible. He’d never had an operation before, and just the thought of it was enough to set his heart racing. He’d read all sorts of tales in the news of people being awake on the operating table but unable to let anyone know and feeling every single thing. Sam shuddered. Why couldn’t they come for him now and get it over and done with?

He glanced down at his hand again, the warmth radiating through the dressing. What the fuck was he going to be left with after this operation? Shit, if he lost his finger he wouldn’t be able to look at his hand ever again. And it was his right hand – he wouldn’t even be able to sign his name.

More importantly, as he lay in the still of the ward, he couldn’t help thinking about how vulnerable he was without two hands to put up a fight. He could count on the fingers of his good hand just how many people might want to get their revenge, especially after he’d started to work with Scott Johnstone. He’d found himself in more than one sticky situation over the past few months. Luckily, he’d got away with everything so far, but why the hell had he thought he could run with the big names?

One thing was certain. No matter what state he left the hospital in, Sam would need to watch his back for the foreseeable future.

Chapter Six

Visiting hours were around the clock on the emergency ward, so after spending most of the evening at the hospital with Sam, Donna had been thankful to finally get home for the night. The recent bout of hot weather had meant tempers had risen along with the heat, and a spate of late-night barbecues had resulted in many drunken arguments, but the cul-de-sac was fairly quiet as she locked up her car.

Once in the house, she made toast and coffee and then sunk down on the settee. What a day. During the last couple of hours, Sam had really tried her patience with his moaning and groaning, but she’d kept her thoughts to herself. He was clearly in a lot of pain and the last thing he would want to hear was his mum saying it was all his own fault.

She’d just finished the toast when her phone rang. Reaching for it quickly, the caller display showed ‘unknown number.’ She worried that it could be the hospital, or something wrong with her mum, Mary.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, it’s me, Owen.’

‘Oh, hi.’ The relief Donna felt was immense. ‘I didn’t recognise your number.’

‘I’m on my landline. I just wanted to see how you were – and how things were with your son. It’s Sam, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Donna was pleased that he’d remembered Sam’s name. ‘He’s in a bad way but he’s going to be fine. It will take a miracle for them to sort his hand out to look anywhere near decent but the surgeons seem fairly confident that he won’t lose his finger.’

‘That’s good.’ A pause. ‘I also wanted to say thank you for thinking of me when you were in such turmoil with your family.’

What do you mean?’

‘I could tell by your text message that you were disappointed that we couldn’t meet.’

‘Could you?’ Donna giggled.

He laughed. ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily.’

Donna liked the sound of that. She checked her watch to see it was nearly half past eleven. ‘You certainly left it late to ring me,’ she said, trying to stifle a yawn.

‘On the contrary, I think it shows how much you’ve been on my mind.’

‘Oh, please. You’ve only just met me.’

‘I know. I can’t explain it either.’

Despite being exhausted, the sound of Owen’s voice soothed her. She felt her skin flush at how his words made her feel.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m busy.’

Donna smiled. ‘I take it you’re at home now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which is?’

‘Not far from you.’

‘You mean on the Mitchell Estate?’

‘Yes, in Percival Crescent.’

Percival Crescent was at the top of the estate and one of the better streets. Donna remembered a boy she’d had a crush on at school living there. At the time he’d gone out with her best friend, Shaunna, and had broken her heart.

‘That’s not far from me,’ she said. ‘Have you lived there long?’

‘Do you always ask so many questions?’

‘I usually have someone answering back, so I guess I’m used to trying to get in the last word.’ She yawned again.

‘I should go.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. When will I be able to see you?’

‘Soon, I hope.’

They said goodnight, and Donna disconnected the phone. She grinned. How lovely that Owen was thinking of her, despite the time of the call. Her mind flipped back to Saturday night, recalling how his short-sleeved shirt had given her a glimpse of his tanned, muscly arms, how well he fitted his tailored trousers, how she had to look up to catch his smile. Later, the fingers of his large hands had interlocked with her smaller ones. His eyes had smiled as he’d laughed along with her – at what, she couldn’t recall. But she clearly remembered them sitting close together on a settee in the club, Owen throwing back his head as he laughed at something she had said.

She really couldn’t believe her luck when she had met him. There had been fifteen women in total at the hen party. They’d gone around town for a few drinks but then as the night wore on, someone had suggested a club. That was when Donna had really felt her age. All the young women with their toned legs and firm breasts, dressed to kill in mini-skirts and high heels.

But, feeling quite tipsy by then, she’d got on the dance floor with the rest of the women. She’d been there for a few songs when one of the men behind her had lost his balance after flinging himself around. He fell backwards into them, catching her across the side of the neck with his hand. Her natural instinct had been to turn around and Owen, who had been with the group, had apologised for his friend. He’d led her away from the dance floor, offering to buy her a drink to compensate. They’d stayed together for the rest of the evening.

Her phone beeped and a text message came in.

I can’t sleep thinking of you.

She sighed wistfully as she stared at the screen. When he’d asked to see her again, Donna hadn’t really hesitated, despite what she had told Sarah earlier. She just hadn’t wanted to tell anyone that she had arranged to meet Owen again in case he stood her up. Even now, two days after meeting him for the first time, it seemed wrong that someone as good-looking as him would be after someone like her. Seven years wasn’t too much of an age gap – not an age gap at all if she swapped their ages around. But still, Donna knew he could do a lot better than her.

She thought back to the men she’d dated. Okay, there had been a few before Joe had come along but none that had been long lasting except her marriage – and that had turned out to be a disaster, except for the kids.

She and Joe had grown apart quickly, yet his infidelity had rocked her to the core. And despite the years since, she’d never quite been able to trust anyone else enough for them not to feel stifled, often becoming jealous and keeping her men on a tight leash. She didn’t have physical scars but she did deal with the mental ones on a regular basis. Joe Harvey might have swept a young Donna Adams off her feet but he had definitely been the wrong person for her.

So could Owen be her Mr Right, after all these years? She hoped she’d have the time to find out soon.

Lewis peered at his watch, trying to focus on its face. He pulled it in closer, but could only see one hand: it looked like it was nearing midnight.

The Butcher’s Arms was the only pub on the estate that was still open. There had been the White Lion until a few years ago but it had been boarded up for a couple of years and then burned to the ground when someone set it alight. If Lewis remembered rightly, the youth responsible hadn’t survived the fire he’d started.

The pub had been made over since he’d come out of the army but it still couldn’t hide its grubbiness. Deep red carpet already had signs of wear and tear, stains and cigarette burns. The curtains were red too, thick velvet that reminded him of a pub from
Life on Mars
that he’d been recently watching on catch-up TV. Why hadn’t they thought to make it over into something modern rather than keep it in the tired and traditional state that it was in now? If the brewery had thought about it, they would perhaps have had more of a steadier clientele. But then again, maybe that was indicative of the estate – nothing would ever make it a nice place to live, so what was the point in trying?

He left the pub, groaning as he pushed on the door. Mum would be on the warpath if he didn’t get home soon. The fresh air hit him and he swayed slightly, struggling to stand up. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in the bar, or how much he’d had to drink, but it hadn’t worked to dampen his anger. Even before he’d walked a few minutes, he struggled to recall the name of the bloke he’d been talking to that evening. Had it been Peter, Patrick, Paddy? He didn’t really care though.            

‘Stupid nosy bastards,’ he muttered under his breath, crossing over Davy Road. What was it with people on the estate? Twice he’d had a go at someone for saying too much, pushing things that little bit too far. Everyone wanted to talk to the returning soldier, hear his tales of blood and death. Had he killed anyone? What was it like? Didn’t they realise he didn’t want to talk about it? Lewis wanted to forget it.

But, even so, he didn’t know what else to talk about. What could he contribute? How much his wife hated him and how much his son didn’t want to be with him anymore? No one wanted to hear that. It was too much like normal life.

Normal life
, he sniggered, tripping over a raised flagstone on the pavement. He didn’t know what that was anymore. Was it waking up every night, covered in sweat, praying that the nightmare wasn’t real? Was it waking up in a single bed back at his mum’s house, his wife and child asleep somewhere else? Was it being unable to hold down a job for longer than a few months at a time? Well, yeah, he supposed that last one could be classed as normal for some.

He staggered down the pavement, from left to right, right to left. The night was quiet, and most of the houses either side of the road were in darkness, except for the odd light on here and there. He almost lost his footing again, causing him to stagger to the left and bump into the side of a parked car. Cursing loudly as the wing mirror dug into his hip, he pulled up his foot and kicked at it. When it hung by a wire, he pulled it until it came away. His breath coming in fits and starts, he slammed it to the floor, stamping his heel on it, relishing the crunching sound it made underneath the soles of his boots.