Lord of London Town

The flicker of light that apparently still remained.

I was drowning in grief. Crushing waves of sadness were swallowing me whole, dragging me down to the depths. But the possibility of having Arthur—loving him and him loving me in return—was akin to having his hand delving into the choppy, rough sea and pulling my head above water.

I thought of my life now. The strange and unfamiliar path that now lay before me, the one now built from blood and the deaths of those I loved. Unease shuddered through me … but not when I thought of Arthur walking beside me. Holding my hand.

With him in my grip, I was calm.

“I love him,” I said again, stronger this time, with more conviction. “I have always loved him. No one else. Only him.” I laughed, not caring that the cut on my lip burned as I did. I had harboured that confession for too many years, never confessing it to a soul. But I was confessing it now, as honestly as a Catholic pilgrim emptying their soul to their priest.

It seemed fitting that confession would be made in a converted church, and ironically about a man who was aptly likened to the devil himself.

“Good,” Vera said, and I caught her fleeting smile. Maybe she wasn’t as difficult as she made herself out to be.

“Now, on to other business.” Ronnie pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and laid a picture before me. It took me a few minutes to refocus from the ember of hope that had sparked in my broken heart. The picture featured a mark of some kind, a brand on someone’s skin. It was circular with a V-type shape inside. “Do you recognise it?”

“No,” I said, frowning. “Should I?”

“It was on your attackers,” Betsy said, then carefully looked to Ronnie.

Ronnie sat up and took off her jacket and waistcoat. She undid her tie and the top few buttons of her shirt and pulled her shirt aside. Her dark skin was smooth and beautifully rich in colour, apart from a small brand in the centre of her shoulder blade. I leaned in to look closer, and I stilled. It was the brand in the picture. The one the attackers wore.

“You used to work for them?” I said, feeling instant fear sink in deep.

Ronnie snapped her head around, and her dark eyes turned ice cold. “I didn’t work for them, Ches. I was taken by them.”

“What?”

The room was silent and thick with tension as Ronnie dressed, right down to her jacket. She sat back on the bed. “It’s a story for another time, but I was kidnapped by them.” Vera took Ronnie’s hand. Ronnie squeezed her fingers tightly. Apart from that telling move, Ronnie was unreadable, appearing unshaken. “I was trafficked, Ches. I was whored out and made a slave.” Bile rose in my throat. Ronnie took a deep breath. “The Adleys saved me. Brought me into their fold.” She gestured to the picture of the unique brand. “I’ve been looking for these cunts ever since.” She lifted her eyes to mine, promise in her gaze. “And when I find them, I’ll murder them. Every last one of them.”

“They’re untraceable,” Vera explained. “Rarely leave any sign of themselves behind. No one knows who they are. We’re close to many crime families and organisations around London, shit, all over the UK. No one knows them.”

“Your video was the first bit of evidence we’ve had on them in years,” Betsy said. “We were hoping you could shed some light on them.”

I shook my head. “I have no idea who they are.” I paused when something came to mind. “My father. The men mentioned to me that my father and Hugo owed them money. That they hadn’t paid them for some kind of loan.” Another thought occurred to me. “Harlow Biscuits? Who’s running that right now? Are people looking for me? The police?”

“The board has stepped in at your family’s business. They have it covered for now. But you’re officially a missing person.” Vera smiled widely as she said, “We’ve sent the little piggies on a hunt to lead them far, far away from us. That buys us some time to work out exactly who we’re dealing with.”

“Arthur won’t stop until he finds them. They’ve fucked with what’s his. So they’re all going to die. That’s the law of his fucking land.”

“His …” I said, liking the way that sounded as it rolled off my tongue. I liked it far too much.

“Whether he admits it or not, you’re his,” Betsy said, pure mischief in her expression. “He’s been sleeping on it, Ches. I’d say it’s time to wake him the fuck up.”

A thought quickly came to mind. “My father’s computers. His work email. His phone. His home laptop. Maybe those can help you. Hugo’s too. They had to communicate with someone over all this. There must be something somewhere that can give you a lead.”