Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter VII - Dead Woman Walking

-Emily-

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Carver does not press for answers immediately. He simply stands in front of me, chewing the tip of his cigar, the studs on his boots stained and his button-down shirt flecked with blood that is not his.

Trisha is trying to stand up, but her left wrist will not comply; it has been bent backwards, her fingers cracked from their sockets and skin taut with premature bruising. She has not lost consciousness, not yet, but she cannot stop gagging, spitting red mouthfuls between gasps, molars and canines littering the ground like black beads from a broken necklace.

Carver takes the cigar from his mouth.

"I've done so much for you," he says, with careful emphasis. "For both of you. I've given you shelter. I've given you food. I've let you sniff and shoot and drink yourselves to paradise. Am I not a generous man?"

The women behind me nod, numbly.

"And this is how you repay me?"

I do not speak.

He motions at the girls and they move on command, grouping together, forming an encompassing circle of fishnet stockings and garish lipstick. Carver wraps his arm around Lucy's shoulders and hands her his cigar, watching fondly as she takes a long, drawn-out drag from the dampened paper. He tilts her head to one side, displaying the mottled contusions to his audience.

"Do you see these?"

There are more nods of confirmation.

"My Goldie tells me you did this. Is that true?"

I can't find it in myself to move.

Carver takes my silence as corroboration and shakes his head, pulling Lucy towards him in a possessive pretence of protection.

"You can fetch me the money — my money — that you've been hiding from me, or you can stay where you are and watch my Tina-Lynne get her head kicked in. Your choice."

When I do not shift from my position, Carver sighs, as if this is all an immense burden on his part. He turns around, approaches Trisha and, with no prior warning or display of intention, kicks her squarely in her bleeding face, the sharp edge of his boot catching the ridge of her broken nose.

"Changed your mind, Scarlet?"

I move woodenly, my joints stiff with shock and uncharacteristic, phlegmatic placidity; the crowd parts as I make my way to the mattress and, with stilted movements, I reach down and extract my five hundred pounds. Carver takes the money from me and counts it out, thumbing through the notes with oily fingers, leaving little crescents of grease on the paper.

"That's a fair stash. You've kept that quiet."

Carver folds the money and tucks it into his shirt pocket, patting it in an exaggerated display of satisfaction.

And then, with a change of mood that rivals my own, he lifts up his hand and slaps me hard across the face.

I feel the vehemence behind the blow in the marrow of my jawbone as I stagger backwards, my head ringing and vision momentarily splintered. There is a metallic tang filling my mouth; I press two fingers to my lip and feel the ragged split — caught on the tarnished gold of his signet ring. Trisha makes an unintelligible noise of protest from her position on the floor and Carver stops, hand poised to deliver another blow.

He turns around. The smile is back.

"I haven't finished with you yet," he says, leering as she tries in vain to get back to her feet. He looks over his shoulder at Lucy and gestures in my direction. "Keep curly where she is. She needs to see this."