Thunder crashed across the black sky above the car gliding through the steel gates and up the drive to the house. Three men got out, oblivious to the rain, scanning the exclusive neighbourhood for prying eyes. There were none. Like everywhere, the people in this part of South Lanarkshire had their own secrets and kept themselves to themselves.
Sean Rafferty stood aside to let them pass, pointing to the stairs. ‘Left at the top. Do what you have to but don’t mark her face.’ He raised a threatening finger. ‘And don’t wake my daughter.’
In the kitchen, he switched on the Oracle espresso machine Kim insisted they had to have and tipped Blue Mountain beans into the bowl of the grinder. The noise wasn’t enough to blot out the screams above him. Sean Rafferty cursed – the idiots were going to disturb Rosie. Rocha would be at his villa, probably sipping a glass of chilled white wine, wondering how Sean would handle the situation back in Scotland; he needn’t be concerned. It was taken care of.
Sean’s laugh was forced; Rocha really was a pompous arsehole and Kim was about to discover there were worse things than dying.
She was sitting at the dressing table in her underwear, removing make-up with cotton pads, massaging lotion into her skin, carefully applying it to the swollen area around her eye. Rocha hadn’t called – the sooner he did, the better she’d feel. The sex with him had been the most intense she’d ever known. He’d dominated her from beginning to end, though made it clear he’d no interest in a permanent arrangement. Fine with her. Once they were safe, she’d decide what to do with the rest of her life. Hers and Rosie’s. First things first. Getting Rosie away from her father was the priority. They’d start again somewhere else with new names; the world didn’t need another Rafferty. The prospect excited her and she smiled at her reflection in the mirror.
Usually, Rosie went down without a fuss. Tonight, she’d been restless, eventually drifting into a fitful sleep, almost as though she’d sensed something wasn’t right. Sean loved his daughter – no doubt about that – and she’d miss him. But her young mind would forget. Years down the line questions would start about who her father was and why they weren’t with him. When she was old enough to understand, her mother would tell her. All of it.
Kim heard footsteps on the stairs and prayed Sean wasn’t coming to make a scene. He’d been a heavy drinker when they met – now, it was out of control. As long as he left her alone, she couldn’t care less how much he drank.
The footsteps stopped. The door handle turned. Kim watched, terrified, aware how vulnerable she was. She called to him, trying to sound unafraid. ‘Please, Sean, go away! Please!’
The frame cracked and buckled, the lock sprang loose and three men came through the door; hard-faced thugs with pitiless eyes, dressed like burglars in jeans and black polo necks – Sean had an army of them. One she’d seen before, the others strangers.
Kim lifted a hairbrush, brandishing it like a knife, screaming at them. ‘Get out! Whoever you are, stay away from me! I’m warning you, stay away!’
They edged towards her, blocking her escape. The leader said, ‘Shut the bitch up. Sean wants this done quietly.’
‘If he’s finished with her, I’ll take her on.’
‘Yeah, I’ll tell him you said that, shall I?’
‘For Christ’s sake, don’t.’
Kim ran to the window, banging on the glass, shouting for help. One of her attackers went after her and made the mistake of getting too near; her nails ripped bloody lines on his cheek. His reaction was instinctive; he punched her with his clenched fist, rocking her head back on her shoulders. His mate pulled him away. ‘Are you fucking crazy? Didn’t you hear what Sean said? He doesn’t want her marked.’ He took plastic ties from his pocket. ‘For fuck’s sake get these on her. And where’s the tape? Get it over her mouth before she wakes the whole fucking neighbourhood, never mind the kid.’
Kim twisted her head, yelling, ‘Sean! Sean! This is wrong!’
They bound her hands and feet, finally managing to hold her long enough to get the gag in place, then carried her like a sack of laundry, still kicking. On the landing, they passed the bedroom where Rosie was asleep. The door was ajar – her baby was in there. Hot tears blinded Kim. She’d been a fool: Rocha had used her, had his fun and tossed her aside like the silly woman she was.
At the bottom of the stairs Sean was waiting. Rosie started to cry. Kim bucked and fought but her strength was gone.
Sean barked at his men. ‘I told you not to wake my daughter!’
‘She had the door locked. We didn’t have a choice.’
He cradled his wife’s head, gently wiping her tears. Kim smelled whisky on his breath as he leaned closer and whispered, ‘Did you really believe you could double-cross Sean Rafferty and get away with it? You’re a fool, my darling. And a whore. A tart too stupid to have around. Rosie will miss her mummy.’ He sighed. ‘But in a month, she won’t remember you. As for us, we won’t meet again, at least, not in this life.’
He ran a finger tenderly over her face. ‘Get her out of here.’
Rough hands hauled her to the car, dragging her bare legs on the wet concrete drive, cutting her feet, scraping her thighs. She strained to look back at the house, knowing she’d never be here again. What she saw broke her heart: Sean was at the bedroom window holding Rosie in his arms, her small fingers in his, both of them waving goodbye.
Kim’s anguished moan was lost in the storm. She retched, acid bile burning her throat, choking her. Lightning lit the night, the blow struck the side of her head, and the world went dark.
The blue neon sign hanging from the crumbling building in Renfrew Street flickered in and out as it had for as long as anyone could remember. Nobody fixed it. Nobody cared enough, certainly not the Johns who made their way up the hill from the town centre, arm in arm with the women they’d picked up in the pubs on Sauchiehall. The arrangements struck depended on how much money the guy had in his wallet or was able to get out of the cash machine.
Sean Rafferty had inherited this place from his father, tucked between a row of unloved low-rent bed and breakfasts at the top of stone stairs, green with mould. Nothing had been spent on the exterior in decades and it showed; the building was black, decaying like a rotted tree, the guttering broken and overgrown with weeds, paint peeling on the buckled wooden window frames, and the grouting between the granite blocks had loosened and fallen out.
Inside, a greasy-haired guy had his face hidden behind a dog-eared copy of Fiesta, open at Readers’ Wives. His black biker boots were on the reception desk, the soles cracked, heels worn beyond repair. When he saw Vicky, he closed the magazine and sat up straight. His name was Noah – unusual in Glasgow – the only notable thing about him. He wore a leather jacket, de rigueur in his universe, the collar up over a black T-shirt with I’M WITH STUPID on the front. His teeth were crooked, the backs of his hands and most of his fingers covered in faded tattoos. Noah’s job was to strong-arm anybody who started bother or knocked the pros around, and to make sure the punters paid for what they wanted.
Drunks always got a slap because they didn’t fight back.
Noah considered it a perk of the job.
Vicky hated coming here and rarely did. It depressed her. If things had gone a different road, this could’ve been her fate. Even the prettiest girls ignored the lines on their face, the coarsening skin, and overstayed their usefulness. After a while, it was about survival rather than money. The very freedom they craved becoming something to fear, something to dread. Until Rafferty, or whoever owned them by then, replaced them with a younger version of themselves and sent them to this.
She shuddered, thanked the Higher Power that had plucked her off that path and stepped into the rain to meet the car.