Savage Redemption (The Caraksay Brotherhood #10)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Yorkshire, United Kingdom, August 2021

Rosie

The final strains of Ave Maria faded , hovered briefly on the still air, then dissolved into the hushed silence. The performance was greeted with polite but enthusiastic applause. Rosie surveyed her audience through eyes misted with tears. She lowered her instrument, the violin in her left hand, the bow in her right. She bent her head in deference to the solid ash coffin beside her and whispered her goodbye.

She was not entirely certain how she made it back to her place in the congregation, but somehow, she did. She retook her seat on the front pew, nestled between her parents.

“That was beautiful, princess,” her father murmured. “You did her proud.”

Rosie bit back her sobs in a self-conscious attempt not to break down with everyone watching. “She was always so kind to me,” she managed. “I don’t know how…”

“We’ll cope, sweetheart. We have to.” Nathan put his arm around his daughter.

Rosie leaned in to his solid, protective presence. Her heart might well be breaking, but she’d always be safe as long as her daddy was close. That was how it had always been, as long as she could remember.

On her other side, Eva wept silently. Technically, Eva was her stepmother, but Rosie always thought of her as more like a sister. Barely ten years older than she was, Eva had come into their lives and completed their family. Rosie adored her, and Eva transformed an already happy childhood into an idyllic one. She’d taught Rosie to play the violin and so much else besides.

Eva reached for Rosie’s hand and gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “We’ll miss her so much,” she whispered.

Rosie could only manage a nod.

The three of them sat in silence, listening to the final words from the pulpit.

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister, Grace, and we commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The vicar intoned the words of committal, then nodded to the pallbearers to approach for their final duty.

“Grace Richardson was always one for tradition,” Nathan muttered, rising to take his place at the head of the casket.

“Have you asked him yet?” Rosie dropped onto the sofa beside Eva, clutching a plate of salmon sandwiches and cheese vol-au-vents. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping as the coffin containing their old housekeeper and the closest thing she had ever known to a grandmother was lowered into the ground. Already her father was advertising for a new cook and someone to manage their household, but Grace Richardson would never be replaced.

Eva helped herself to one of the vol-au-vents. “No, not yet.”

“But you said you would…” Rosie wailed.

“And I will, if I have to. But it’d be better coming from you.”

“He’ll say no.”

“I know he will, at first. You’ll have to convince him.”

“What if he doesn’t let me go?” Rosie grimaced, not relishing the conversation she knew she needed to have with her father.

“Then, you won’t be going, will you? But he’s not unreasonable, you know that. You just need to tell him where you’re going, who with, and when you’ll be back.”

“He’ll demand to know every little detail.”

“Yup.” Eva grinned at her. “Welcome to my world.”

Rosie gave a snort. “It’s all right for you, you’re a professor of something or other exceptionally grand and lofty.”

“Linguistic and digital sciences,” Eva reminded her for the umpteenth time. “People pay good money for my advice. You should listen.”

“ He’ll listen. He respects you.”

Eva wasn’t having that. “He respects you, too, sweetheart. More important, he adores the very bones of you. Just talk to him.”

“Talk to me about what?” Nathan Darke wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist from behind and kissed her neck. “I assume you were talking about me.”

Eva turned in his arms to kiss him back. “Nothing much gets past you, does it? Rosie has an idea she wants to discuss. Don’t you?”

Cornered, Rosie managed a cautious smile.

“Okay. Go on.” Her father levelled his dark-chocolate gaze on her. “What’s on your mind?”

“I…” She swallowed, then blurted it out. “I want to go on a gap year.”

“A gap year? You mean you fancy trekking round India saving elephants or building orphanages or something? Instead of getting a good university education? At my expense?”

“Not instead of university. And not India,” she replied.

“Right. What, then, exactly?”

“And it wouldn’t cost you that much,” she continued. “I have a bit saved up, and Eva said she’d help me out a bit.”

He levelled a look at his wife. “Oh, she did, did she? You two have been planning this for a while, have you?”

Eva met his gaze. “Not planning, exactly. Rosie mentioned the idea, so we talked.”

“Okay.” He focussed on his daughter once more. “If not elephants and orphanages, then what?”

“I want to busk,” Rosie blurted. “Not even abroad. I want to go to London, or maybe Edinburgh and earn my keep as a musician. Just like Eva used to do.”

“I don’t recall Eva ever mentioning a career in busking,” he replied.

“I could teach, too. Tutor children.”

“Ah, right.” Nathan had originally met Eva when he’d hired her through an agency to teach violin to his ten-year-old daughter. It had been one of his better decisions, but even so… “Princess, I don’t think that’s a great idea. Anything might happen to you.”

“I’d be with friends. A group of us are going.”

He shook his head. “Not happening. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but the answer’s no.”

“But Dad…”

He took her hand. “Listen, let’s make a deal. You take up that place at Stirling University and get your music degree. Stay on for a master’s, if you want. Once that’s done, and you’re a few years older, then you can do what you like, and I’ll happily fund you. Are we agreed?”

Rosie subsided into silence. Her father rarely refused her anything, but growing up she had learned to recognise the note of non-negotiable finality in his tone. Those occasions were rare, but this was one of them. Even the combined efforts of herself and Eva wouldn’t shift him if he was certain he was right, and truth be told, she wasn’t that sure that Eva agreed it was a good plan either.

“Rosie?” her father prompted. “Agreed?”

“I suppose,” she conceded, banking down her disappointment. She had quite fancied the idea of just taking off as soon as school ended, but her determination had solidified when she’d learned that Jamie Phelps with his floppy blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, and wondrous way with a guitar was to join the intrepid group intent upon hitting the mean streets of London.

It wasn’t as though she thought herself in love with Jamie. Well, not especially. They’d never got beyond a few swift kisses on the way home from orchestra practise, mainly because cellist, Melanie Murgatroyd, had somehow managed to turn his head. When Jamie found himself in possession of a spare ticket to an Ariana Grande concert, it was Melanie he’d offered it to.

But Rosie hadn’t given up. Melanie had spoken of nothing recently except her plans to study philosophy at the University of Bath, so Rosie considered her a temporary hindrance. They would wave Melanie off on the train to Somerset, then she and Jamie would spend an idyllic year together exploring themselves and their art.

Nothing was going to stop her.

Her father helped her to lug her belongings down the stairs. His friend, Tom, came over to help, and between them they hauled the suitcases from Rosie’s room to the back of Tom’s Land Rover. Her father’s Porsche was too small for Rosie, her stuff, and all the kind souls who were intent upon seeing her settled in Stirling, so Tom offered. He ran the farm adjoining her father’s land, and he and Rosie’s dad had been friends for as long as she could remember. Rosie stopped calling him Uncle Tom by the time she was eleven, but he was still the man she loved most in the world, barring her father and Jamie, obviously.

Mercifully, even though she had thrown pretty much everything she owned in those cases, no one noticed her violin wasn’t there. So far, so good. She could do without awkward questions, especially as she was such a crap liar.

Her original plan was to be gone before the start of the first semester. The four of them heading for London were to meet up at Leeds station and hop on a train to Kings Cross. They planned to travel light, but Rosie would have had her violin with her. She needed it to make a living. But Katie and her boyfriend, Marcus, had both tested positive for Covid the day before they were supposed to go, so they had to delay by a fortnight, which took them beyond the day Rosie was to start at Stirling University.

If she didn’t go to university, there would have been an inquisition. Her dad would never have let up until Rosie explained why, and she knew how that would end. So, for a quiet life, well, quieter, she would let him think she was safely away at uni when really, she would be heading down south the first chance she got. She gave her violin to Jamie to take care of for her, until I could join him. This way, she could slip away with just a small bag, and no one would know for a while. A day or two if she was lucky, by which time, she would be with my mates in a squat in Walthamstow.

She did feel guilty, deceiving her dad. He didn’t deserve it, not really, and she knew he only said ‘no’ because he cared about her. But Ishe was eighteen now. She was an adult, she could do what she liked. So, this was it. She was off.

Tom and her father drive her to Stirling, to the shared house where he had rented her a room for the first term. She would be sharing with other students, and the place came as a pleasant surprise. There were six rooms, all occupied, each with an ensuite, a desk. and free Wi-Fi. They shared a kitchen and a television room. The place had been recently modernised and was really comfortable. One of the other students, Janey, greeted them at the door and showed Rosie to the first-floor single room which was supposed to be home for the next three months. She told Rosie she was at catering college herself. She knew the owner of the house, and he let her live there and rent out the other rooms to help fund her through her own course.

The rest of the occupants were males, studying useful things such as engineering and technical drawing and obsessed with such delights as rugby, football, and exploring how many pints of home brew they could swill down before they fell over. Nothing so whimsical as music for these practical souls.

Rosie got on well with Janey right from the start. She was quiet, but sort of sweet. Rosie got the impression her upbringing hadn’t been as smooth as hers. She let slip that she was in care for much of her childhood, but she seemed to have found her feet now, though Rosie couldn’t fathom how. If she was planning to stick around a bit longer, she thought they’d be close. But Rosie had other plans.

Her chance to put those plans into action came a couple of weeks after she arrived.

“Hey, do you fancy a night out?” She asked the question while she was sharing a pizza with Janey. “There’s an advert for an Eighties Night at the Students’ Union.”

“Eighties Night?” She looked up from her pepperoni, apparently not impressed.

“Yes. There’s a Duran Duran tribute band. And The Human League.”

“Who are they?”

“Never mind. Let’s go. It’ll be good.”

“Maybe, if you’re over fifty and need somewhere to go to show off your new support tights.”

Rosie shot her a surprised glance. “You never struck me as a raver. Am I right in thinking you’ve a better idea?”

“Well, as it happens…”

“Go on.”

“There’s a club I know. Here.” She handed Rosie a glossy leaflet, black with gold and crimson writing, proclaiming the delights of some establishment called Club Wicked.

Rosie examined the flyer with care. On the back was an image of a woman pole-dancing. She was topless but with her back to the camera and arranged into a position which seemed to defy the laws of nature. “Shit,” she breathed, taking in the finer details. “We’d never get in there. I bet it costs a fortune, to start with.”

“I know the doorman. I can get us in, and for free as well.”

Rosie turned the leaflet over to scan the reverse. “You must know him pretty well.”

She shrugged. “He’s a mate. I’ve been wanting to go for ages but not on my own. I need someone to go with. Come on, it’ll be a laugh.”

She wasn’t wrong about that, and Rosie couldn’t deny she was curious. “For free, you say? It says here it’s private members only and they charge fifty quid a time for guests.”

“I can get us a pass. As I said, I know people who work there. So, are you in?”

When she put it like that, Rosie was an easy sell. “Yeah, too right I am. When are we doing it?”

“Why not tonight?” She glanced at the clock. “It’s only nine o’clock. They’ll be open for hours yet.”

Rosie had nothing exactly suitable for such an establishment, and Janey soon set her right when she suggested that skin-tight jeans and a strapless top would do.

“No,” she insisted. “A corset. Borrow one of mine.”

Rosie couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Somehow, she’d never envisaged her new friend in crimson leather and latex, but the evidence was there, in her wardrobe. Who would have thought it? Rosie found herself squeezed into a fetching little halter affair made of black leather threaded with scarlet ribbons, and a pair of microscopic red satin shorts. She posed in front of the mirror and decided she did look rather fetching, even if she did say so herself.

Janey was similarly attired and seemed to be a lot more comfortable in her outfit than Rosie was, but she was committed now. And she didn’t intend to be at Club Wicked for long. Just enough time to have a wander round, take in the sights, the ambience. If she decided she liked the place, she’d be able to find somewhere similar in London.

They both covered themselves up in calf-length raincoats for the taxi ride across town. Rosie pulled on jeans over her shorts and convinced Janey it was for warmth on the way home later. She could peel them off when they got there and leave them in the cloakroom. Once they reached the entrance to the club, Janey exchanged a few words with the man on the door, and he gestured them past.

As easy as that. They were in.

They deposited their coats with a receptionist wearing a brief waistcoat that didn’t meet at the front, and fishnet leggings. Her heels were about six inches high, but she walked with effortless grace as she took their outer garments to the cloakroom. Janey was also teetering a bit on her spiked heels, but Rosie had insisted on flat pumps. She had plans for later which didn’t include killing herself falling off towering shoes.

To the heady beat of pulsing music, they spent an hour or so cruising around the club. The facilities seemed to mainly consist of lounges offering a choice of comfortable seating and what appeared to be instruments of torture. The evening was in full swing, so most items were in use. A woman, clad very much as they both were, was draped across a bench, moaning in appreciation while a man in a smart business suit applied a paddle to her rear end. Her buttocks were pretty much the same colour as Rosie’s shorts.

Another woman was strapped to a huge St Andrew’s cross made of polished wood. Her female companion was lashing her shoulders with a suede flogger, and both seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously.

“Christ, that must hurt,” Rosie hissed to Janey.

“Yes, I imagine so. Fucking wonderful,” she replied.

Rosie was keeping an open mind. Each to their own, she thought, though she couldn’t deny she was intrigued.

After about an hour during which Rosie acquaint herself with the mysteries of nipple clamping, intricate bondage, bare-handed spanking, and a truly spectacular display with what she gathered was a purple wand, there was an announcement over the PA system to inform the evening’s guests that a demonstration of wax play was about begin.

Janey grabbed Rosie’s elbow. “Come on, let’s go and see what that’s about.”

“I need the loo. I’ll catch you up.”

“Right. It’s in the Lilac lounge. I’ll see you there in five.” She trotted off to find a good viewpoint.

Rosie made her way through the throng of kinksters towards the toilets, making a detour to collect her coat and jeans on the way. A few minutes in the loo, and she was good to go. She slipped out of the back door and into the dark alley beyond, regretting that she didn’t have more time to explore, but she was expected in London. She texted Jamie while she was changing her clothes to tell him she was on her way. He would be waiting at Kings Cross.

It took her about half an hour to march from the club, across Stirling town centre, to the railway station. She checked the train times to London, and I knew that the last one left Stirling just after midnight. She had plenty of time as long as she didn’t dawdle.

The train glided alongside the platform just as she arrived at the station. Obviously, the ticket office was closed, but she had it on good authority that it would be okay to buy a ticket on the train. When the doors slid apart, she hopped on board and choose an empty carriage.

Rosie settled in and rested her head against the seat next to her

She was off.

She had made a huge mistake. Fucking huge!

London turned out to be cold, wet, and dirty. A lot like Leeds, really. Or Sheffield. Or Bradford, or Manchester. Of course, this wasn’t her first visit to the capital, but it was the first time without a swish hotel to return to at night, and without the benefit of her dad’s credit card to get a good meal at the end of a day sightseeing, or to pay for decent seats at a show or maybe a jaunt around Piccadilly Circus to take in the shops.

The squat was horrible. It smelled of weed and Christ only knew what else. They were sharing it with at least a couple of dozen others, all dossing down on bare floors, six or seven to a room. They lived off takeaways because there were no cooking facilities. There was no heating either, no fresh water, and Rosie felt filthy all the time.

Some bastard stole her Doc Martens. It turned out her Superdry jacket didn’t live up to its name. And she forgot to pack tampons so was reduced to scrounging them from Katy and the other girls.

But, worst of all, Jamie had got himself shacked up with some girl from Essex within the first ten minutes of arriving here. Rosie knew they never actually agreed anything firm, but she did at least think he’d have the good manners to wait for her to arrive before putting himself about. In the weeks she’d been mooning after him and trying to attract his attention, he’d fucked at least four other girls.

He did take good care of her violin and the few belongings she sent on ahead, so she had to suppose that was something. He thought of her as a mate, nothing else. Unless he happened to find himself at a loose end one day…

Fuck that.

Rosie came to a decision. She needed to scrape together enough cash for the train back to Scotland. With any luck, her dad wouldn’t even know she’d been away. Busking could make quite good money, as much as two hundred quid on a good day, she’d found. Obviously, you needed to set yourself up on a decent spot, when the shops were busy. Or maybe outside the theatres, or at a station. On the downside, there was a fair chance of being mugged as well, either for the day’s takings or her violin, but since her Docs went missing she had learned to keep a close eye on her stuff.

So, that was her plan. So much for her gap year.

Her preferred site was a corner in Tower Hill, close to the Tube station. It was a top tourist attraction, teeming with Japanese visitors who had plenty of money to throw about and who did seem to appreciate a good tune. So far today, she’d been there just under two hours and made over a hundred pounds. Added to the bundle of notes she had squirrelled away in her back pack, this should see her okay for the fare to Stirling. She’d finish the day then head back to the squat via Kings Cross, pick up a ticket, and hop on a train in the morning.

Her plans made, she launched into a lively rendition of ‘Come on Eileen’.

“Hey, you fancy making a bit of extra cash?”

Rosie squinted up through the steam rising from her overpriced takeaway coffee. She was just taking a break between sets, and didn’t really appreciate the interruption.

“Eh?” She peered at the tall man towering over her. He was bearded, shabbily dressed, sporting tattoos down both arms and up his neck. The wording of them suggested he may have difficulty remembering his own name. He offered her a yellow-toothed grin. It took her less than a moment to conclude hem was utterly repulsive.

“Extra cash,” he repeated. “Five hundred, in your hand.”

Rosie might have been new in town, but she wasn’t born yesterday. Her suspicions were on high alert instantly. She shook her head. “No, you’re all right.”

“Just a couple of hours, at a place I know. Mate of mine’s having a party, and the band let him down last minute. It’ll be cash in hand.”

“Oh. You mean you want me to play? To perform?”

“Yeah. What else?”

She’d been imagining all sorts of ‘what else’, primarily to do with sex trafficking, prostitution, exploitation, and white slavery. A lively gig at a party, and well-paid at that, now this was a whole new kettle of fish. She set her plastic cup down on the pavement.

“Where is this party?”

“Pub in Islington.” He handed her a tattered card. “Can you be there at eight? Play till around one?”

She examined the disreputable-looking card. She’d been past this place several times but never ventured inside. It always struck her as seedy, but she wasn’t proud. She could cope, just the once. “I guess. Five hundred, did you say?”

“That’s right. Half up front, the rest at the end of the gig. That suit?”

Too right it fucking suited. That was her fare home, right there, with a few quid to spare.

“What sort of music does your friend like?”

He waved airily. “Oh, just about anything. We’re not fussy. Eight o’clock, then? Don’t be late.”

She pocketed the two hundred and fifty quid he shoved into her hand, then watched him make his way down the road, weaving between the tourists. He disappeared into the crowd thronging the pavement.

Rosie picked up her violin and bow. Her busking career was drawing to a close, but since she was already there, she had time to earn a bit more cash before making her way over to Islington.

The Exeter Arms hadn’t improved since the last time she passed. Rosie arrived at around quarter to eight and took stock from outside. Grubby paintwork, windows that hadn’t seen a chamois for several decades if she was any judge, and three black bags full of rubbish dumped next to the front entrance.

Rosie reconsidered this plan, and were it not for the fact she had already been paid half the fee up front, she would have turned and marched away. But Rosie was honest. A deal’s a deal. She stood aside to let three men get past her, then followed them inside.

It was dark, and smoky. If she thought the squat smelled bad, this was in a whole different league. She dreaded to think what cocktails of illegal substances changed hands here. The place was busy, but she didn’t spot any women at the bar or any of the tables. The entire clientele was made up of men, for the most part well-dressed and clearly here for a good time. They were drinking, laughing, and shouting at the huge wall-mounted television showing an American football match. No one took any notice when she entered.

Rosie made her way to the bar and caught the eye of the server slopping ale into pint glasses.

“I’m here to perform,” she shouted across the bar. “A party?”

He leered at her and finished serving his customer before looking her up and down with proper attention.

“Perform? Is that it?” he sneered.

She held up her guitar. “I’m a musician.”

He grinned. “Yeah. Right.” He shouted over his shoulder into the back room. “Hey, Lenny. Some more of the entertainment just walked in.”

His choice of words puzzles her. Didn’t the guy at Tower Hill say the band had let them down? Was she not the only performer after all? Rosie already had a bad feeling, but all her antennae were waggling suddenly.

“Hey,” she said, “maybe I’ll just be getting off…”

He leaned across and lifted a section of the bar, then gestured with his thumb. “You’re in there,” he told her indicating that she should go through to the back.

“No, really. I think I may be in the wrong place. Sorry to bother you.” Rosie span on her heel ready to leave but let out a startled shriek when the barman grabbed her by the arm and dragged her through to the rear of the premises.

She stumbled into what seemed like a storeroom, to be confronted by the scruffy individual she met earlier at Tower Hill. He regarded her with satisfaction.

“You turned up, then?” he observed.

“What the fuck…?” Rosie shook off the barman’s hand. “Get off me. What are you doing?”

The bar keeper ignored her. He left, slamming the door behind him.

She grabbed the handle and tried to follow him, but it was locked. Outraged and suddenly terrified, she whirled to confront the man remaining.

“What’s going on?” she demand, her voice shaking. “Never mind. I’m off.”

She rattled the door handle. It didn’t shift. Panic really began to set in.

“Let me out!” She kicked the door and thumped on it with the side of my fist. “Help! Help me…”

Her companion—Lenny, was it, the barkeeper said?—grabbed her by the hair and hauled her away from the door. She was fighting in earnest now. Bewildered, baffled, the one thing she was sure of was that she had blundered into mortal peril, and needed to be out of there.

Her assailant had other ideas. He hauled her backwards out of the poky little room through a sliding door at the rear, then along a corridor. Her heels scraped along the floor, but she couldn’t get her footing. She was screaming, kicking, fighting for her life, but it made no difference. He had a firm grip on her hair and he was not letting go.

He opened another door and hurled her through it. She landed on her knees in a crumpled heap.

“Get her ready,” he snarled, and the door slammed behind him.

Rosie scrambled to her feet, ignoring the jarring pain in her scalp, and in her knees where she landed on the cold lino floor. The next few seconds were spent frantically clawing at the door before she spun around to confront whoever, whatever, was in there with her.

Women. Perhaps twenty women regarded her with varying degrees of disinterest, pity, or contempt. They were aged from late teens like Rosie, to perhaps thirty years old. All were dressed in more or less nothing, as though they escaped from an Ann Summers seconds sale. Corsets, fishnet tights, suspenders, spike heels, and garish make up to match. Had she wandered into some sort of kinky, super-tarty freak show?

“What’s going on?” she demanded to know once again. “What is this place?”

One of the women stepped forward. She was older than the rest, aged around forty, and dressed in severe and unrelieved black. Her hair, also black, was scraped into an austere bun at the back of her head. She glowered at Rosie, then beckoned her to come forward.

Naturally, that was not happening. Rosie stuck one finger up at her. “Go fuck yourself, lady. I’m leaving.”

She swiped her across the face before Rosie could even blink. She saw stars and crumpled to the floor. The taste of blood filled her mouth. Her head was ringing.

“Get her up and bring her over here.” The woman in black clearly gave the orders around here because two of the other women helped Rosie to her feet and frogmarched her across the room. They deposited her in a chair, in front of a wall-mounted mirror, then stood back.

Her head was still spinning when the Black Widow grasped her chin and angled her face for her inspection.

“Hmm,” she observed thoughtfully, turning Rosie’s chin from one side to the other. “Pity about the bruises. Never mind, slap some makeup on to cover it. She’ll still fetch a decent price.”