Page 115 of Into the Dark

I awake to the early morning light streaming in through the large focal window into the bedroom—a bright, clear light that promises more sunshine like yesterday. I turn onto my side toward him, achy and sore, as is the usual way of things after a night with Jake. His trademark pout is firmly in place, lashes long and thick around his peacefully still eyelids.

Then I glance down at his hands. The right one rests flat on his chest, the other by his side. The knuckles of his right hand have done their weeping overnight and dried out, the skin hardening and crusting over the angry gashes. There’s some bruising around them too, but they look okay considering what he put them through. No serious swelling either, which is good.

I’m desperate for some tea, so I slip out of bed and tiptoe across to his large walnut wardrobe and pull open the doors. His clothes are hung neatly and arranged in a neat, orderly fashion, and it makes me shake my head in wonder. He’s a tornado of a man, but his clothes are still pressed and ordered by color and item. I reach in and pull out the first shirt I see—white with a thick blue pinstripe—and hastily pull it on. He’s still fast asleep when I close the wardrobe and head for the kitchen.

As I retrieve the eggs and bacon from the fridge, my mind finally decides to concern itself with last night’s events. Is Kevin alive or dead? I want him alive, of course, but not for the reasons I should. I want him alive because Jake’s safety and freedom depend on it. Because our lives—and now our baby’s life—will be directly affected if he dies. It’s for these reasons I hope someone got him to a hospital in time.

I’m whisking the eggs when I hear the doorbell go, followed by a purposeful-sounding knock. It occurs to me it might be Susan again, back to try her luck with her son once more. Or even worse: Vicky.

Oh, Christ, I hope not. She’s literally the last person I want to face right now.

As I peer through the peephole, however, the odd fish-eye angle confirms I’m wrong on both counts. I’ve never seen any of these men in my life, but somehow I’m certain I know the name of the one standing in the center.

My stomach almost empties itself out onto the floor. I wish it were Vicky.

I pull back from the door and rest my hand over my throat, my chest moving up and down erratically as I think of what to do. Of what Jake would want me to do. The second knock is more adamant, and I almost take a full jump back away from the thing. I look behind me for a means of escape and then back at the door with a morbid sort of acceptance.

Can I pretend no one’s home? What if he has a key? What if he uses it? Is that even possible? Would Jake give him a key to his flat?

I debate it for another twenty seconds before making my decision. Forced out of indecision. And yes, perhaps a touch of morbid curiosity. I turn the latch to unlock the door and pull it open, pretending to be completely clueless about who I’m looking at.

Even though I’m not. Because I know his name and what it means.

The steely gaze as it meets mine does nothing for the dread churning deep in the pit of my stomach. Freddy Ward’s eyes widen a little, his mouth too, the look of faint surprise causing soft crow’s feet to appear at the sides of his ice-blue eyes.

“Well, well. I’m guessing you’re the lovely Alex I’ve been ’earing so much about.” His tone is soft and warm and absolutely not what I was expecting. He’s staring, but it isn’t in a leering way; it’s just unguarded and blatant. Like I’m an item on a shelf in an old curiosity shop. “Jake about, darlin’?” he asks, casting a look behind me into the flat. I have to resist the urge to close the door, lock it twice, and then run upstairs to him.

“He’s still in bed,” I say with a silly smile. For good measure, I tuck a hair behind my ear and offer him a shy look.

“Yeah, I bet he is,” he chuckles, eyes skating briefly down my state of undress. So shrewd are those eyes, ice-blue and piercingly clear, like a hardened crystal glass. I’m certain I’d see the calculated movement of his brain through them if I were a little closer. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind waking him up, that would be fucking fabulous, sweetheart. Tell him Fred’s here, will you?” With a bright smile he steps toward me, over the threshold and into the flat, without invitation. The two huge men that follow give me calculated glances as they brush past.

I follow on quiet, tentative feet behind them, deeply regretting opening the door.

Freddy walks straight ahead into the living room toward the couch and sits down. Relaxing back into it, legs spread, his position is very much at home. As if he’s been here a million times before. As if he owns the place. Christ, does he? I glance around the flat with a newly curious eye.

One of the men—a huge, bearlike man with a large tattoo covering almost the entire circumference of his neck—scrapes out one of the bar stools and perches his great weight on the edge of it. The other, far smaller, is oddly average-looking. He’s about Jake’s age and has a clean-cut, rather bland appearance. He gazes about Jake’s apartment like a bored estate agent, walking directly across to the large circle-top window and looking out at the view of the Thames with a nod, impressed, before turning back to face the room.

Jake’s spacious, open living area feels very claustrophobic all of a sudden.

Freddy looks at me, still smiling that same warm smile he had at the door, before something catches his attention. He skirts his eyes down to it and then around the area surrounding the sofa and coffee table, letting out a huff of amusement.

Jake’s pants and shirt are in a heap on the table, my dress in a puddle on the floor, and although I can’t see them from here I know my underwear is discarded somewhere close by where he sits. He’s probably sitting on it. My cheeks flame as he brings his eyes back to mine and arches a questioning eyebrow at me. It makes me feel like a young girl who’s been caught kissing her boyfriend by her dad. Except this man is as far removed from my dad as any person could get. For one, he’s younger than my dad—late forties, early fifties perhaps—and his hair is mainly gray but with patches of dark brown on top and sprinkles of white at the temples. He also has a smattering of gray stubble across his face. It all contrasts handsomely with his tanned skin. His face doesn’t look like it belongs to crime lord. He looks like a middle-class bank manager, not a gangster.

“Um, I’ll just go up and wake him.” I nod. “Let him know you’re here.”

“Appreciate that, Alex.” He smiles politely. The smile seems so fixed there, so perfectly natural, that I can’t imagine what this face looks like the rest of the time. What does he look like angry or murderous? I swallow down that curiosity and turn on my heel away from the three sets of staring eyes.

Bunching my fists by my sides, I take the stairs in as casual a way as possible despite everything in me wanting to bolt up them two at a time. As the staircase winds around I chance a brief look down. Freddy is gazing around the room as the two men stare at each other blankly. Blank looks shouldn’t make me nervous, but they do.

When I get up there, I expect to find Jake still fast asleep and peacefully oblivious, but the bed is empty. I look from the bed to the wardrobe, where he’s pulling a pair of sweatpants up his legs, no boxers on as he drags them hastily over his modesty. He looks like he always does, strong and powerful, but for some reason the sight of his half-naked body—bedhead and bare feet—gives him a fraction of vulnerability. I hurry toward him, and he turns around, giving me a crooked smile.

“I know.” He nods before I even open my mouth. He doesn’t look scared or unsettled, just tired. Very, very tired.

“I’m sorry I opened the door. I should have ignored it.” I put my hands out to touch him somewhere—whether to comfort or protect him or have him comfort and protect me, I’m not sure. Most likely the latter.

“He’d know I was home.” He doesn’t clarify how.

“Didn’t you say he was on a spa break?”