The Aftermath (The Hurricane, #2)(3)
“Don’t,” Em croaked. “Please,” she added pleadingly. I knew then, as a tear rolled down her cheek, that whatever was inside had to be bad. Contained within a folded sheet of plain white paper were about a dozen or so photos. They were different sizes and all taken at different times, but Em was in every one of them. The earliest photo was of a smiling, happy nine-year-old. Just a normal kid out riding her bike. When the next one showed the same kid, fast asleep in her bed, I felt sick to my f*cking stomach. The older that Em was in the pictures, the more invasive they became and none of them looked like they were taken with her knowledge. The last photo was really grainy, like it had been through a window maybe, or with a really bad camera, but it showed, in intimate detail, her frail, bruised body taking a shower.
“Motherf*cker,” I yelled, wanting to f*cking hit something. Anything. I grabbed the envelope looking for some clue who’d sent it, like I didn’t f*cking know. Frank was still in prison, pending trial, so someone on the outside must have sent this for him. The postmark on the envelope read London, which didn’t tell me much. The knuckles on Em’s hand were white where she gripping hold of her legs so hard.
“Shit, love. You okay?” I said, hating that she looked so f*cking scared. She nodded unconvincingly, but didn’t answer. I gathered up the pictures and stuffed them back into the envelope, not wanting her to see them anymore, but I knew we’d need to give them to police as evidence. The idea of her being on display like that to the police and the prosecution lawyers was as bad as knowing what she’d been through. Sitting down next to her, I wrapped my arm around her tiny body and pulled her into my chest. She was stiff as a board and shaking slightly. Rubbing up and down her arms, trying to get her warm I waited for her to talk to me. That was the way of it sometimes with Sunshine. She needed to think shit over before she could get it off her chest.
“I didn’t know about any of them. He’s been taking pictures of me for years. How could I not know? How could I let that happen?” she asked me.
“You didn’t let anything happen. He’s a violent, abusive rapist who’s sick in the f*cking head. He did what he did because he’s a f*cking whack job. Nothing you said or did gave him permission to do this.” I could see by her face that the pictures shamed her. Fuck that. There wasn’t a single f*cking thing for her to be ashamed of.
“It was bad enough dealing with what happened, but he could have hundreds of these pictures and God only knows what he does with them. As if that’s not bad enough he knows where we live. Even in prison he can get to me. I’ll never be free of him, will I?”
“Sunshine, even if it means killing him, I swear he will never touch you again. This is just a sign of desperation. In a few more months he’ll be too concerned about how to pick up the soap in the shower without getting arse raped to worry about getting you back. He’s going away for a very long time and there’s f*ck all he can do about it. This kind of shit just gives the barristers more ammunition against him.” I did my best to reassure her, but I was as freaked out as she was. The fact that he could get hold of the pictures and post them from prison had me worried about what else he could do from the inside.
She wiped her eyes and leaned across to give me a quick kiss.
“You’re right,” she told me. “A few more months and this will all be over.” It had to be, because I hadn’t been exaggerating. If Frank came after her again, I’d kill to keep her safe.
*
Three days later I held up my right hand so Danny could tape my knuckles, while the grip of my left hand tightened on the bench. Why did the door have to be red? Of all the f*cking colors a door could be, this one had to be red. Changing rooms were pretty much the same in every place I’d ever fought in. This one was practically identical to the changing room I’d had when Em was kidnapped. As my mind played over that night, I started to lose focus.
“You’ve got this fecker, Con, but don’t go soft on this guy. It might be an exhibition fight but Temple wants to hurt you. He wants a show. The cocky little f*cker is top of his game and needs the world to know he’s staying there. He’s gonna treat you like a stepping-stone, so you show him you ain’t one, okay?”
I didn’t hear a word that Danny said. I couldn’t take my eyes off that f*cking door. My certainty that Frank was going down had picked Em up a bit, but truthfully, Frank’s letter had properly f*cked me over. He’d taken Em once on fight night, and just because he was in prison didn’t mean he couldn’t send someone else to finish the job. He’d found a way to get those photos to her hadn’t he? Once I walked out the door and into that ring, who would protect her?
The slap to my face woke me up. “Where the f*ck is your head, Con? You’re fighting in fifteen minutes, and right now I wouldn’t put you in the ring with Kieran’s feckin’ grandmother,” he roared. I hung my head knowing he was right. Six months ago, I had nothing to lose. Now I had Em and I knew what losing her felt like. It made me afraid, and going into the ring like this was a bad f*cking idea.
“Kier, he’s not going to hold it together.”
Kier swapped places with Danny and carried on taping. “What’s going on, Con?” he asked me.
“This place looks the same as the one where she was taken. I can’t think about anything else,” I told him. Maybe I should have made some shit up, but Kieran knew me well enough to call me on my bullshit if I lied.