I go back inside, grab Ciara’s body from the floor, and toss her onto the back seat before slamming the door shut.
My house in Foxrock is closer than the others, so I opt to go there.
We clear Dublin City Centre in record time, only getting the one red light that I have to hit the brakes for, which in turn causes Ciara’s body to tumble from the chair and hit the floor with a thud.
Fuck it, she’ll be grand.
I park the car right outside the front door and grab the little spitfire first. Katie has a good three, possibly four stone on the women I’m used to carrying inside this house. I also discover, when I’m getting her out of her blood-stained clothes, that her tits and arse are real and filler-free.
I slip off the shirt I’m wearing and guide her arms through the sleeves, then turn to the ensuite and grab a damp cloth for her face.
“Your head is going to hurt like hell tomorrow,” I say, gently wiping away the blood from her cheek. “You’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.” Her brow furrows, and she winces slightly as I clean the dried blood from her face. “Get some rest now.” I pull the covers up to her chin, tucking her in snugly. “I’ll make sure to check on you throughout the night.”
I bring the soiled cloth along with her clothes with me as I leave, tossing them in the washing machine before going back out for her sister.
“Come on,” I grunt, hauling her lighter frame into my arms. “Up you jump.” I bring Ciara into one of the spare rooms and drop her on the bed. She stirs when she feels the duvet being placed over her, groggily opening her eyes. “What happened?” she mumbles.
“You should have listened to your sister.” I close the door behind me, sealing her in. Then reach for my phone in my pocket to check the time on the phone: 2:30 a.m.
I’m home earlier than expected; I might get some sleep tonight.
There is also a text from Tracy asking to come over.
Not tonight, love. Not tonight.
I’ve got two bodies to dispose of, a shower to take, and a vicious wank to indulge in.
9
KATIE
Is this what death feels like?
My head is lifting. I can feel my swollen eyes at the natural arch of my brow, my mouth is drier than that Sahara Desert, and to top it all off, my stomach is yo-yo-ing between my throat and my rectum. I don’t know if I need to throw up or reenact the food poisoning scene from Bridesmaids.
God help me.
I roll over, not quite ready to shit myself in this state of agony. As I lay on my side, I manage to just about peel open my eyelids, and it’s then that my stomach decides it’s time for a round of acrobatics. I clutch my abdomen, desperately trying to hold everything down, but the nausea overwhelms me. The room spins as I scramble from the bed and into the en-suite bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before my body violently expels everything in my stomach. The sound and smell are unbearable, I can’t help but think that this must be the lowest point of my life, which is really saying something.
Where, in the name of all that is holy, am I?
How the hell did I get here?
And whose shirt am I wearing?
Please, Jesus, say it is not one of those arseholes from the bar.
I sit on the cool tiled floor of this all-black bathroom and try to remember what happened last night. My gut is telling me I was spiked— it wouldn’t be the first time— but one look around this bathroom is telling me that wherever I am is far too pricey for the two dickheads that practically stalked us last night.
And where is Ciara?
I push myself to my feet and feel the room spin again. If I’ve been abducted, these arseholes are going to be sorely disappointed in me. If I can survive my mother, some traffickers shouldn’t be an issue.
I wonder if they’d take her?
I stumble back into the bedroom; apparently black is a theme here. Wherever here is.
There is a piece of A4 paper on the nightstand that catches my attention.
