Page 7 of Indie
“Please…”
But his fist hit harder than despair, snapping my head sideways, the skin popping almost audibly and the whimper escaping from me sounding more pitiful than a beaten dog.
“Give me that money, bitch.”
He pushed me aside, grabbing my bag from my shoulder and rifling inside. The envelope crinkled under his hands. Blood dribbled down from my lip, from the spot where heat radiated, stinging harder with every beat of my heart. Gaz tucked the notes into his back pocket. Then he smiled, reaching out for me, grabbing at the collar of my t-shirt and dragging me back to him.
“Dinna say I dinna leave you with nuffin.” His fist tightened against the material, his breath hot across my cheek.
I turned my face away, the trickle of blood oozing irritatingly from the cut in my lip. For a moment, I thought he might try to kiss me, but whatever seemed to go through his head, it wasn’t that. Then, with a shove that sent me staggering backwards against the kitchen table, he let go, pushing the white envelope into my hands and strode out of the house.
I watched the faint light of morning creep through the space where the door was left open, breathing slowly, containingmyself until I knew he wasn’t coming back, and then I raced across, slamming the door back into the frame.
Blood pooled onto the back of my hand from where I wiped at my mouth, and my fingers trembled on the envelope as I thumbed through what was left. Twenty pounds. Barely enough to feed the kids for more than three days and nowhere enough to feed me as well. My heart beat frantically in my chest, the heavy drumbeat of panic welling inside of me and the opposing march of dread, and despair and tiredness. My knees buckled, and I folded, sinking onto the floor and letting my exhausted head drop into my arms. I was too tired to cry. Too exhausted to be angry. I would just sleep. For now, I would just sleep.
Behind me, in the utility room, the dog barked. It was quieter than before, not now a warning. There wasn’t enough for her to eat either. I rubbed my mouth against my arms and closed my eyes.
Chapter Four
“The garage’s been done over,” Sicknote’s voice trembled down the phone. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Fuck.”
“Me an’ Tony disturbed them. Took off in a van and a bike. Some sort of racer.”
“I’d seen some. Not long ago. Be right there.”
Emmie watched me with interest, keen blue-green eyes fixed on my face.
“Gotta go. Nice seeing you again, Emmie.”
“You too, Indie.” My name rolled off her tongue like silk and for a moment I just stood there watching her.
She looked so different in decent clothes, even though all she wore was a plain white top which hugged her petite body and blue jeans. They were far more flattering than the hospital uniform which she’d worn today. She’d looked tired when I’d initially approached the window. But who wouldn’t be in the middle of the night when they’d already completed one long shift before this one? I had a good idea why I was seeing her here tonight and I didn’t like that. Not at all. Yet, right now, I had to take care of business. My business.
The Harley roared underneath me as I forced it out into the night. I wasn’t wearing my colours. We’d all been cautious over the last few weeks after my father mandated we move to security level one, meaning no one rode alone with their cut on their back. A lot of the younger club members hadn’t even known what security one was, or the significance of it, or whether it was really that necessary. But those of us who’d been around a while knew it was the first step towards being at war. And with each day, we were getting closer.
My garage was at the back of an industrial estate, just off Newcastle’s Scotswood Road. And this time in the morning the entire estate was still asleep, except for the squalling tone of the alarm I could hear even over the deep tones of the Harley. The carnage was clear the minute I turned the corner. The big roller shutter over the entrance to the work floor and pit was bent and mangled. But the metal was good, and despite the battering it had clearly taken, it had yielded little.
The shutter was bent inwards, a huge dent in the middle, rammed at a decent speed by something heavy. The prospectshung around in front, the headlights of their car casting shadows that hung in the crevices of damaged metal.
“Sorry, Indie. It’s a right state,” Tony Cannelloni whined in some attempt at sympathy. Misplaced sympathy.
“This isn’t a state,” my grumble deeper in the loaded silence. “It’s a right fuck-on though.”
“Reckon we can get it secured tonight?”
“Nah. But no one, not even me, will get in now it’s bashed to fuck.”
Not even to open up tomorrow. And that meant losing a tonne of work, work that lined the Kings’ war chest. And I guessed someone would know that.
“I wanna know who this was.”
“It’ll be the Notorious,” Sicknote muttered.
“Maybe. But I need proof.”
I glanced upwards, straining my eyes in the dark at the camera that hung down onto the forecourt. The shadows clung tightly, so from this angle all I could see was a dark shape and a red dot. Surely, whoever had hit the garage would have also scanned the place for cameras. They were easily detectable.