Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3) by Emmy Ellis

Author:Emmy Ellis [Ellis, Emmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Martin sat beside Clarke in the car, his wounds screaming from the pressure of the seat. The doctor had given him some salve or other, and the detective had found him a flat and a job, explaining Martin’s new bosses were allowing him two months before he had to start work. From his experience on the street, people didn’t help you, not like those videos on Facebook of randomers taking food and sleeping bags to blokes like him. Before he’d become a statistic, someone to either be ignored or derided, he’d thought those good folks were angels. No angel had come to shine their light on him, preferring to kick him or give him abuse instead.

Until now.

“What work is it?” he asked.

Clarke turned a corner, sticking two fingers up at someone who’d stepped out on the road to cross in front of them. “Got a fucking death wish, you utter plonker?” he shouted, then, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted, “That’s between you and them, but they mentioned needing a new cleaner at their house. If you don’t like what’s on offer, like if you think cleaning’s a woman’s job, you’ll have to find something else. Me personally? I like scrubbing stuff. There’s satisfaction in it, although I’m not talking about cleaning, more wiping out shits in my job. They mentioned two months being rent free.”

Panic soured Martin’s gut. If he didn’t clean, when would he be sufficiently healed to find work now he had an address? Would he earn enough to pay London rent rates? “How will I pay for the flat after that?”

“You can always go on the dole, get it paid for you. If it makes you feel better, apply for Jobseekers as soon as.”

“This is just weird. Are they good Samaritans or something?”

No one gave you something for free. There had to be a catch. His parents had loads of catches, doing his head in by springing them on him after he’d agreed to do whatever they wanted. Steal from the shop—usually bottles of booze, risking getting caught because they all had those little alarms on them now—or go and collect drugs off that smackhead fella he couldn’t stand, the one with a dripping nose. They’d said they’d give him a tenner for doing it, then when he had, they’d laughed and told him to go and fuck himself. He’d fallen for it time and time again, until he’d reached his limit and walked out.

The streets were preferable to their mind-fucks, the squalid house.

Clarke chuckled. “Um, in this instance, yes, you could call them good Samaritans. Look, I need to explain a few things so you understand, but it stays between you and me, right?”

Here it comes… “What does?”

“What I’m about to tell you. If you repeat it to another copper, I’ll deny we ever spoke about it, do you understand?”

Martin understood all right. This bloke was bent. “Okay…”

“Robins is a leader. Do you know what one of those is?”

Martin had heard about those.

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