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I take off my jacket and sling it over my arm, then enter the premises and press the lift call button. The ancient machinery jerks and grinds its way to the fifth floor, where I emerge into a grimy corridor painted in a sickly shade of yellow.
Mr Fuller’s offices are behind the third door on the right, his presence there proclaimed by a decaying sign saying simply: ‘Fuller Enterprises’. I ring the doorbell.
A burly individual answers. His features appear to have been flattened at some stage, the bulbous nose showing signs of having been broken and left to heal as best it could. He’s thick-set, almost totally bald, and sports a variety of tattoos which include a dotted line across his throat with the words ‘cut here’.
I think I could be easily tempted to take up the offer. Instead, I ask to see Mr Fuller.
“Who wants ’im?”
“My name’s Jenna Delaney, and—”
“Oh. It’s you.” He glowers at me. “’Ave ye brought the cash, then?”
I assume this is the man who phoned me then passed me on to his boss. “I’ve brought some of it,” I start to explain. “Two thousand pounds.”
“Ye owe us more’n that.”
“I know, but—”
“Mr Fuller,” he yells over this shoulder. “That lass is ’ere ’an she’s no’ got the money.”
There’s a short pause, then, “Give ’er a slap an’ tell ’er tae come back when she ’as it.”
“She brought two grand,” the thug at the door explains.
“Well, take that off ’er, then give ’er a slap.”
The man shrugs and treats me to a view of his yellowing teeth, or those that remain in his head. “’And it over, bitch.”
“No. First I need you to—”
He lurches forward to grab my arm, then yanks me across the doorway into the dingy office. I catch a brief sight of a skinny weasel of a man seated behind a desk cluttered with paperwork. He looks up at me, his expression one of total disinterest.
“Get it sorted, then sling ’er out,” he instructs his lackey.
The thug hurls me to the floor, then snatches my bag.
“Hey,” I protest. “What do you think—?”
He kicks me in the ribs. I curl into a ball and watch in horror as he rifles through my bag to extract the thick envelope containing the last couple of days’ takings. He opens it, flicks through the notes within, then tosses it to the man at the desk.
“Ye think ye can short change us, do ye?” He bends to grab me again and hauls me to my feet.
Desperate, I’m ready to plead with them, promise anything. “I’ll bring you the rest tomorrow. I swear I will.”
“Not good enough,” he snarls, then punches me in the face.
My head is swimming. Pain explodes behind my cheekbone. I taste blood in my mouth.
“Please,” I beg, “Let me go. I…I’ll pay you…”
“Aye, ye’ll pay up. But just in case ye get it in yer head tae mess us about again, here’s reminder of what ’appens if ye piss us off any more.” He slaps me, hard, across the cheek.
I crumple to the floor, whimpering. I try to crawl to the door, but he’s not done yet. He drags me back by the ankle and delivers another rib-crushing kick followed by another to the abdomen. I’m rapidly losing consciousness, but still he lays into me with his fists and his feet. His maniacal laughter is the last thing I remember before my world goes dark.
CHAPTER9
Ruth
