Page 3

In which Arabella finds that no good deed goes unpunished.

Arabella…

I’m ignoring the guests reaching out for a glass of champagne as I plow through them like a trawler through the ocean waves, creating a wake of disgruntled partygoers as I try to reach the man in time.

He’s not a hard man to spot, his broad shoulders towering above the rest of the crowd. He’s got his hands in his tux pockets, gracefully strolling toward the exit. He occasionally nods as someone greets him, trying to catch him in conversation, but he never stops.

Oh, shite. There’s the door. Right there. They’re waiting for him, they’re gonna-

I slam my nearly full tray into his chest, watching the champagne splash all over his jacket, soaking into his shirt. I can just make out the outline of a tattoo under the wet cotton.

“Oh, my god! Sir, I’m terribly sorry. I can pay to clean your jacket, truly, I feel terrible!”

He’s looking down in mild bemusement as I step closer and cringe at the feel of glass crunching under my shoe.

“Lass, it’s fine. I was leaving anyway. I’ll help ye pick this up.” Elegantly hitching up his trousers, he bends his knees, picking up the tray in one enormous hand. My descent is not as graceful.

“Listen to me!” I hiss, “I saw- I mean, I overheard a conversation between two men here, they were talking about killing ye. They know you’re going out this door and they’re waiting! Ye canna go out there!”

He looks at me, still gathering up the few unbroken champagne flutes as he murmurs, “One’s a ginger, the other a short wee bastard?” He has a gorgeous mouth; full lips, sharp white teeth and he shapes his words so beautifully.

“Aye,” I whisper gratefully. “That’s them.”

Rising, he helps me up with a hand on my elbow and his other effortlessly holding the tray.

“Such a good lass,” he rumbles in my ear, so close that I can feel his lips on my skin and his exceptionally deep voice cuts through the crowd noise. “Thank ye, you’re very brave. Take your tray back to the kitchen and take some deep breaths, aye?” He pulls back and I’m hit with the full force of his stare. Thick lashes, hazel eyes. The flat gaze of a predator. “Go on, now. Dinna ye look back.”

Like an obedient pup with no thought of my own, I do as he says, sailing through the kitchen doors.

“What just happened!” Kevin yells, “Ye dumped the bubbly on a guest? Mrs. MacGregor’s gonna lose her shite!” He takes the tray from me, wide-eyed and looking over my shoulder as if the HMS MacGregor’s gonna come steaming through the doors after me.

Mrs. MacGregor does not like me already. When I dinnae catch something she’d said earlier in the noisy kitchen, Kevin, my catering manager took it upon himself to explain that I was, “A wee bit hard of hearing, nothing serious, though!”

She dinnae look happy.

“I SEE. YOUR VOICE IS SO NORMAL, I WOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN.”

Always love the shouting, the small, uncomplicated sentences like I’m simple-minded as well as losing my hearing.

But here we are in the kitchen, me in my wet uniform and empty tray and Kevin looks like he’s about to have a stroke.

“I’m sorry! I just tripped on something and-”

“Go tidy yourself up,” he groans, shoving a dish towel in my hand. “There’s a servant’s washroom down the hall.”

This is insane. I am insane. I’m supposed to be hiding in the kitchen, acting like everything is normal.

Nonetheless, I pass the ladies’ room and hoof it out through the service entrance. If I take a quick left around the mansion and I’ll be able to see the exit that man used. He still walked out that way even after I told him they’d be lying in wait for him.

Dinnae be dead. Dinnae be dead, ye reckless bastard!

Hurrying around a trellis groaning under the weight of an enormous rose bush, I steel myself. God, I hope there’s no blood, I’m really bad about blood and I’m gonna vomit if-

There’s nothing.

No dead tuxedoed stranger. No ginger and short guy. Just the elegant street, crowded with parked Mercedes and Range Rovers and the valets sneaking a smoke while the coast is clear.

Did I hallucinate that enormous, gorgeous as shite man? Did I misread those two discussing murder when in fact maybe they were raving over the lobster puffs?

What did I just do?

Feeling foolish and vaguely disappointed and not wanting to examine why, I go back in through the kitchen door. There, I’m punished for dropping the tray on, “A truly VIP guest!” Harris the pastry chef shouts at me for my lack of attention and general clumsiness as I stock dessert platters for the less despised servers to take out.

Joke’s on that arsehole. With all the ambient kitchen noise, I dinnae hear a single word.

Five hours later…

Midnight in downtown Glasgow is a madhouse, drunks spilling out of bars, couples making out in dim corners and the never-ending blare of club music. The bass tone is strong enough that it vibrates through my bones as I walk past three different nightclubs and pubs on my way home. It’s hard to separate the symphony of shouting, car horns, and the laughter from passing groups, so I have to force my tired self to pay attention as I cross the street and dodge strolling pedestrians.

My feet are killing me.

Even changed into my trainers, every toe is throbbing to its own wee drumbeat. “What sadistic prick makes a woman wear two inch heels when she’s carrying trays heavy enough to crush an elephant?” I grumble. Aye, I might be feeling some self-pity. At least I’m almost home, my flat is just a couple of doors away.

I love my place because it’s close to the bus stop and even though the building is shabby and leaning toward decrepit, I can afford my one bedroom. After escaping a tiny house filled with shouting parents, seven brothers and sisters and a TV that was always blaring, I love the comfort of living alone. When I’m exhausted, trying to wade through a dozen different competing voices and sounds is unbearable. At work, I can sort it all out and make sense of everything I hear with help from reading lips, but it takes so much energy.

Someone knocks into my right shoulder and I automatically murmur, “S’cuse me.”

Focus, Arabella! I dinnae want to walk into anyone else.

This time, someone hits my left shoulder. Hard. “Ow, watch it!” I snap, right before a greasy hand slams over my mouth. My teeth sink into skin, flooding my mouth with the bitter taste of copper. I violently arch my back, kicking as hard as I can, dropping my backpack and clawing at his hand. It dinnae even make him stumble, he’s dragging me toward the alley next to my building.

No no nonono… yell, shriek, make your neighbors hear you!

I pull my teeth out of his skin and scream until my throat vibrates, “MUM! MUM!”

“Feckin’ sow!” He yanks my head back painfully and I kick harder. There’s a car parked at the end of the alley, the engine’s already running. I canna let him get me into it. I’ll never leave it alive, I know it.

He’s dragging me deeper into the darkness, and one of my trainers’ flies loose. I dig my heel into the pavement, trying to slow him down and it lands on a broken bottle. My howl is so enormous that it bounces off the brick wall of my building and echoes back to me.

“MUM!”

Ah, shite. This brings another man out of the car, hurrying toward us.

“Ye canna handle one wee girl by yourself, feckface?” This one’s pockmarked and he grins, showing a few missing teeth as he grabs my ankles, twisting them until I shriek. “In ye go, hoor.”

A wind blows past me, my legs drop as the bastard is ripped away. There’s a clotted sort of wail, like he’s gargling on his own blood. The one behind with his hand over my mouth jerks violently, dropping me and I see his feet fly up as he’s yanked away.

The gravel in the alley scrapes the hell out of my elbows and hands as I scramble back. Bumping into something soft, I let out a scream when I realize I’m sitting on a dead man, his throat cut clear to the bone and his blood soaking into my jeans.

“Shh… hey lass, hey. You’re okay, come on now, let’s get ye out of here.” The voice, it’s deep and weirdly soothing.

It’s him. The man I tried to save.

He pulls me up, an arm around my waist and his hand cupping my face, giving me a huge grin before his head darts up, eyes narrowing.

“Lottie?” It’s Meera from 1C, barefoot and charging out holding a soup ladle up like a battle ax.

“Hannah, is that you?” Grace from 2F must have run down the stairs, bursting into the street. Lora from 2A is close behind.

Meera spots me first. “Is that blood? Oh, god it’s Arabella! What happened, lass?”

Lights blaze into the alley as neighbors come pouring out of their flats. My mystery man utters a low curse, leans me gently against the brick wall and slips away into the night.