Felicity Young - Take Out

‘Food,’ Mrs Hardegan said in response to Stevie’s raised eyebrow. ‘We have an order—every week we like to have long-nose food.’

She lifted her tapestry and opened the sewing basket underneath, peeled some notes from a rolled up wad of cash and attempted to press them into Stevie’s hand.

Stevie patted the wallet in her jeans pocket and said, ‘No, Lilly, this is on me.’ Paying for the old lady’s takeaway was the least she could do. ‘I’ll get it.’

The old lady accepted the offer, settled back in her chair and closed her eyes again.

Long-nose food. Stevie shook her head, smiling, and made her way down the passageway towards the silhouette on the other side of the frosted glass door. (Image 29.1)

Image 29.1

CHAPTER THIRTY

Stevie opened the deadbolt and smiled at the face under the porch light. The woman from the deli smiled back and held up a plastic bag of takeaway.

‘Great service—Eva, isn’t it?’ Stevie asked.

‘That’s right, love. And this is pad thai, the old dear’s favourite. I’ll bring it in, like to say hello if you don’t mind. Haven’t seen her for a while.’

Stevie reached out to relieve Eva of the food. Stopped. Her hand hung in the air and she looked at the woman through the sepulchral light.

Shit. She knew that face.

When she’d first met the woman, the gapped front teeth made her think Madonna. Now she saw it as the sign of Venus, the goddess of love. Of all the surgical changes, this would be the one original feature someone in her profession would choose to retain.

Stevie took a quick step forward to bar the woman’s entrance. Hooking her foot around the door she attempted to close it, hoping the deadbolt would buy Lilly some time.

A blow like a bag of wet cement to her shoulder cut off her warning cry. She fell back into the hallway and cracked her head on the corner of the bookcase. Barely clinging to consciousness, she heard a loud crash. The door was kicked fully open, books toppled to the ground. A tall man stepped through the doorway and turned on the light. Stevie moaned and attempted to move. A kick to the stomach drove the wind from her. Curled into a ball on the musty hall carpet she closed her eyes and fought for breath. Oh God, we’re going to die.

When she opened her eyes again she was looking at a pair of grey-booted feet and grey dress pants. Looked like expensive material—Zegna? Monty had always fancied a Zegna suit. She never understood why, he’d have wrecked it within a few days, spilled sauce or red wine down the front—Jesus, the things that go through the mind when you’re about to die.

Rough hands pulled her to her feet. She felt the stitches in her shoulder stretch then snap. A tide of warm blood rushed down her back. The hallway spun. She found herself half pushed, half carried down the passageway to Mrs Hardegan’s backroom.

The old woman looked up and let out a startled cry. The man hurled Stevie to the ground at her feet.

‘Bloody Japs! Bloody Japs!’ the parrot screamed.

The blast of a shotgun tore the cage apart, shattering the air around them. Stevie held her breath and waited for the second blast that never came. With her ears still ringing, she attempted to pull herself up from the floor and failed.

A cloud of smoke filled the room, sucking at the air. Stevie struggled for breath thinking she must have been hit. The pain in her shoulder was excruciating and felt far worse than the original injury. Bolts of light streaked across her eyes.

She sagged against the side of Mrs Hardegan’s armchair. Everything had happened so quickly, she was having trouble grasping quite what was going on. She became aware of a bony hand pressing at her undamaged shoulder—Lilly throwing her a lifeline, warning her to stay put.

The smoke cleared, Stevie finally found her focus. The man was tall and very good looking, which was a ridiculous thing to think under the circumstances. He wore a finely striped business shirt with no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing muscles thick as twisted rope. The shotgun held casually at his hip was pointed towards the middle of Stevie’s chest.

The Crow.

Jennifer Granger, aka the Mamasan, stood by his side. Stevie leaned against the chair, only a metre away from the woman’s shapely legs, small feet pressed into stilettos.

Stevie avoided looking at Granger’s face for as long as she could. Her gaze flitted to the shattered remains of the parrot’s cage. Somehow she found her voice through the dryness of her throat. ‘Good for us, bad for you; everyone in the street will have heard that racket. Better leave while you still can.’

‘It never worried them before, love,’ Granger said, picking a pale feather from her hair. She examined it between her manicured fingers, let it go and watched it flutter to the floor.

Stevie searched the woman’s plastic perfect face. ‘You mean when you shot Delia Pavel?’

Granger turned to The Crow. ‘See, what did I tell you, son, she knows far too much.’

The Crow looked at Stevie and licked his beautifully shaped lips.

‘What’s wrong with you, don’t you talk?’ Stevie demanded, relieved to hear no sign in her voice of the tremble that shook her from the inside out.

The Crow reached for the open bottle of brandy, took a long pull then wiped his bare arm across his mouth. He inspected the bottle, turning it over in his hand. When his eyes met those of his mother, Stevie was reminded of an animal looking to its trainer for instructions. Granger gave him a go-ahead nod.

He was going to smash the end off the bottle, cut her with it. Stevie tensed, looked at the sewing table and wondered if there was anything she could use as a shield or weapon. The objects on the table were still covered by the tapestry. She had trouble remembering what was there, let alone imagine how her dulled reflexes could dodge the jagged end of the bottle.

He took another swig of brandy; eyes never leaving hers. He wiped his mouth again, then trickled the rest of the brandy in a circle around the armchair. When he’d finished, he put the empty bottle carefully back on the table and picked up Stevie’s phone.

He wasn’t going to cut her after all, she thought as he crunched her phone under his boot. And then a thought drove the reality home. She remembered what Col had told her about The Crow. No, he wasn’t going to cut her.

It was worse than that.

She turned her head and risked a glimpse at Lilly who still sat rigid in her chair, one hand resting on Stevie’s undamaged shoulder. Stevie felt an energising jolt of anger. Some of the fogginess lifted. Lilly hadn’t come so far to die like this.

Hell, neither had she.

The Crow took a silver cigarette case from his shirt pocket, removed a cigarette and lit it. After a puff he squatted at the ring of brandy and put the glowing tip to the alcohol. Within seconds a blue ring of fire surrounded them.

Mrs Hardegan gasped. Stevie patted her hand. ‘It’s okay, he only wants to frighten us.’

The Crow smiled at her, cigarette hanging from his mouth like James Dean. He handed the shotgun to Granger and left the room.

‘Christmas pudding,’ Mrs Hardegan said as the last of the impotent blue flames petered out.

‘Why doesn’t he talk?’ Stevie asked, tipping her chin to the back door through which The Crow had disappeared.

‘Just a temporary problem according to the doc. Smoke inhalation from the last burning,’ Granger said. ‘He can’t resist the sizzle and smell of burning meat. Put his face too close to Pavel’s body and damaged his voice box.’