Page 61 of Penance

“That’s my girl,” I wink, drawing her closer.

Clutching her to me, keeping her tight to my chest. Her injured hand trapped between our bodies, cradled by us both. I breathe deeply, her head dipped, tucked beneath my chin. I cling onto the seconds I’ve got left with her like this. I need to get her home to our boys,herboys, in one piece. I won’t let them down. I should never have taken her out the back, shoulda smoked out front. But I wanted to apologise. Or something. Without an audience.

“Come on, Lala.”

I shift beneath her, unfurling her body from mine. Climbing to my feet, I pull her up with me. Her good hand wrapped in mine, my hand easily double the size of hers. The train stops sharply, Lala’s foot wrapped around the bottom of a pole, helping keep her upright. Her independence, even in something so small, makes my chest burn. She’s had no one but her family to help keep her upright. Something so simple, I shouldn’t have even noticed it, but I do and then I shake it off. I can’t keep wallowing in the past. I gotta move forward, we’ve all got to move forward.

The doors slide open, I grip her hand tighter. Keeping her flush to my back, we move as one. Weaving through the crowds, my eyes scanning everyone we pass. Not that I know who I’m looking for. I didn’t see anyone’s faces, but I watch for people watching us and see nothing as we switch lines, change platforms, and duck onto another train. This one busier, as was expected, there are a couple seats I could sit her in, but I don’t. Instead, keeping our backs to the corner, both facing out, we stand the four stops, cataloguing every face we see, silently watching. Every time the doors open and close again without incident, we both relax a little.

Knightsbridge Station.

We take the steep escalators, rising higher and higher as we both keep an eye on our phone signal. Our attention flitting between our screens and everything else happening around us. I get signal first, my fingers flying over the screen as we ascend, shooting off messages for a pickup point.

“I’m fine,” I hear her exhale, my chest pinching uncomfortably as I hear Huxley’s timbre through the phone.

Frank replies with nothing but a coded location which I clearly am not privy to.Dragon?Just another reminder of how far removed from her life I really am. I twist in place, flashing the phone to Lala, her eyes pinch but she nods. We push out into the cold. Lala shoving her phone back into her back pocket, her fingers linking with mine on instinct. Just like old times.

“Come on,” she mutters, her too-large eyes flicking all around.

I let her lead, our feet working quickly to move us down the spit-shined pavement. God, how the other half really fucking live. I might have comfortable money now, but I grew up in a shit heap of a council house on an estate filled with screaming, fistfights, and drugs.

Skyscrapers tower around us, the windows immaculate, despite it being the middle of winter. Designer shops surround us on all sides, closed for the night but the streets still bustling with bodies. Red double-decker buses fly by, black cabs tooting their horns at cyclists and rogue pedestrians. Us Brits don’t have much patience when it comes to driving. Road rage is real. We turn down a slightly quieter street. Large townhouses with private parking spaces either side of the road, we turn down a few more, suddenly appearing beforeThe Cadogan Hotel.

The intimidating red brick building with white stone pillars is lit up and decorated for Christmas. Huge Christmas garlands dressed in red and gold wrap around the two huge pillars on either side of the entrance, glowing fairy lights intertwined. A huge round wreath hangs between, above the arched, glass door, a red velvet bow topping it. The doorman greets us with a huge white smile, his dark brown skin creasing at the corners of his warm eyes. Dressed in a deep red tartan coat, black trousers, shined black shoes and a black wool bowlers’ hat.

“Miss Swallow,” he inclines his head, he smiles and it’s comforting, familiar.

“James,” Lala replies happily, her voice soft. “I apologise for the attire.”

“Miss, not at all. Patrick will see you up to your rooms.”

“Thank you. You make sure you have a beautiful Christmas, James,” Lala smiles warmly, folding a fifty into his leather gloved hand.

“Thank you. Merry Christmas, Miss, Sir.”

He smiles at me, I offer one back, although my smiles are tight, I at least try.

We step through the black framed, glass doors. White walls and marble floors throughout, the ceilings high, the lighting homey. Armchairs and a roaring fire in the large foyer. A tall white man, whose back is as straight as an ironing board, greets us next. I can’t help but look at him, his posture makes my back ache, he’s never once slouched in his entire life, I shouldn’t think.

“Miss Swallow,” he bows, and I feel my head tilting to watch him, he bends like a folding switchblade.

“Patrick,” Lala greets.

Turning to me next, “Sir,” he says politely, “if you’ll follow me, please.”

Unsure of what’s happening, I look to Lala. Her cheeky wink has me rolling my eyes, but I simply follow behind. Knowing I can ask questions once we’re alone, but it’s obvious she’s a regular visitor.

Bypassing the front desk, we head down a dark, wooden panelled hallway. Pale flowers in the tiled floor, gold radiators beneath the windows. The hall opens up into what looks like a library, only the books can’t be checked out, they’re all decorative, an illusion. Patrick presses a gold button, a soft dinging has doors to a concealed elevator opening. The three of us step inside, Lala perfectly comfortable in the small space. We seem to keep going, the lift moving slowly. I’m sure we can’t possibly climb any higher when we finally stop.

“The Penthouse, Miss Swallow, Sir,” is all Patrick says as he hands Lala a key.

We both step out, the lift doors closing behind us, leaving us alone in the silent hallway. More rich wooden floors and wood panelled walls. Soft, orange light from sconces illuminating what I assume to be our destination door.

“What the fuck are we doing here, Lala?” I ask incredulously.

She turns her head to look at me, her large eyes glinting, her red lips curling up deviously.

“We’re going to get changed and have a drink at the bar whilst we wait for Frank,” she chimes, her voice melodic and sweet.

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