Page 61 of Dead Fall

‘Oh really?’ Dropping her voice, she asked, ‘Was she a diva?’

‘She was a diva all right,’ he said darkly. ‘And she wasn’t very .?.?. friendly’ – taking his hand from her leg to pour them some more tequila.

Cassie could imagine how this creep defined ‘friendliness’ when it came to women.

His face darkened. ‘I’m probably not allowed to say ballbreaker these days.’

Except you just did.

‘Was it a case of too much fame too fast, d’you think?’ she asked.

He took his fleshy lower lip in his teeth, a vulpine gesture. ‘That’s exactly what I told her. She was just a pretty girl with a half-decent voice who got lucky.’ His voice rose in anger, lost in a memory. ‘She thought she could lay the law down – to me! Lecturing me about “musical authenticity” and being true to her “roots”. You know what I said to her?’

Cassie shook her head.

‘I told her, you’re a fucking nobody and your so-called “roots” are a one-donkey shithole down a dirt road in the Troodos where they don’t marry outside the family.’

His voice was full of entitled rage. It was blindingly obvious to Cassie then that he’d tried it on with Bronte and when she’d fought back had thrown insults at her – and worse? She remembered Ethan saying that SkAR and Bronte shared Greek-Cypriot heritage – had their families come from the same area? Maybe even the same village?

‘Did you know her hometown then?’

But just then the next set started up, the baying voice of the DJ and a frenzied electronic dance beat booming out. As if a switch had flipped, he reached over and slid his hand up her leg to her crotch, fumbling hotly at her knickers.

Cassie threw her tequila in his face and he leaped back with an angry shout, rubbing at his eyes. She scrambled to her feet and went for the door, but couldn’t work the lock quickly enough. Then he was behind her, one hand on the back of her head, pressing her against the wood face first, so hard it made her cheekbone hurt. His body had her pinned against the door and his other hand had cranked her right arm painfully high up behind her back. She scrabbled to reach him with her free arm but she couldn’t land a blow.

He said in her ear, ‘You’re just a fucking scammer, here to dig up dirt’ – hot spittle landing on her cheek and his erection pressing against her lower back. She tried to scream but was horrified when nothing came out. But in any case the music was so loud the vibrations were using her skeleton like a tuning fork.

One hundred and thirty beats per minute.

Now he was pulling her skirt up over her butt with his free hand, sending waves of panic through her.

Fuck fuck fuck!

Tugging at her knickers, he murmured in her ear, ‘You know what happens now, right?’ – savouring the moment, enjoying the power he had over her.

This couldn’t be happening.

Closing her eyes tight, Cassie saw Bronte’s face, looking fierce, mouthing something – and knew what she had to do.

Forcing herself to go limp, to stop resisting, she felt him relax.

‘See?’ he crowed. ‘This is what you all want, you bi— ’ His words curdled into a half-scream. She had slammed her boot heel down with brutal force and found his foot. Pulling free, she spun round and kicked him full in the groin. He folded like a cheap deckchair onto the scuzzy carpet, curling into the foetal position, hands over his groin, emitting a high-pitched moan.

Bending down, her face was level with his, Cassie said, ‘What’s up? I thought you liked edgy chicks.’

But by the time she reached the street, the fierce rush of the adrenaline that had held her together was ebbing fast and, leaning against a lamp post, she threw up the tequila. As she wiped her mouth, a bouncer approached her and bent down so their heads were level. ‘Are you OK? Can I get you an Uber?’ The concern in his eyes seemed genuine. For a fraction of a second she almost said, ‘I’ve been assaulted, call the cops.’

As if. Everyone knew how that went down. He said/she said. The flunkies who would say she went willingly to his dressing room. The unspoken and look at what she was wearing – the rapist’s get-out-of-jail card. The cops would think just another encounter where a silly girl bit off more than she could chew. Ha fucking ha.

FLYTE

The next morning, Flyte was making coffee in her flat when the entryphone buzzed and she checked the video feed.

Streaky.

He came in, wearing a rain-soaked overcoat. ‘It’s caning it down out there.’ He shook himself like a big dog, spraying water everywhere. ‘So I thought I’d call by to give you a lift to the nick.’

‘Where did you park?’ she asked with a puzzled look: her flat – part of the first floor of a late-Georgian house – was on Delancey Street, which was end-to-end double yellow lines.

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