The Family Firm

Chapter 70

Lenny sighed heavily as he sank down onto the kitchen chair with a glass of milk. Frankie had done well for herself over the years, which was clear in how well-kept her drum was. It was a far cry from the old semi-detached in Barking he'd popped round once or twice in the old days—this place was clean and inviting, and there always seemed to be something good warming in the AGA whenever he came by. Despite her troubles here and there, old Frankie had done her best, hadn't she.

Everyone knew she was a bit off her trolley. She was an alcoholic and no stranger to the pills—then again, so was Freddie. It seemed as the years went on, the pair of them slowly began to deteriorate. It wasn't really Lenny's place to judge, and so he wouldn't, but he did care about the both of them, and Junior, and his bird Katie; they were good people no matter what anyone said, and people did talk.

But that didn't mean Lenny didn't think this was just a formality, stopping by in the middle of the night, that was. It was no secret that Frankie was a bit paranoid, and her brother was even worse, so Lenny was almost certain this would all turn out to be nothing at all. He wouldn't complain. Actually, it was a bit nice to be needed, no matter how mundane the task. His two daughters were all grown and he was on his Jack Jones, which meant there wasn't much use for old Lenny the Nut outside of work. Doing this sort of thing suited him right to the ground.

It was a quiet night, as was expected in a place like Gidea Park, which was why a distinct creak from the back of the house somewhat alerted Lenny. He paused a moment, listening for anything further, to no avail. Despite this, he decided to inspect the place as was his entire reason for being there, and stood from his seat quietly.

Carefully he tread into the darkness that lingered just past the kitchen, his large fingers resting on the Heckler & Koch he had strapped to his hip, his usually-dopey expression oddly alert. With his other hand, he reached for the door to the spacious larder, gently grasping the handle and mentally preparing himself before he yanked it open and drew his weapon.

It was completely empty, as suspected. Almost chuckling to himself at his brief moment of anxiety, he closed the door and turned back towards the kitchen. Before he could react, something hit him in the temple and he instantly fell into darkness.

Upstairs, Frankie's eyes snapped open. It seemed only a few minutes after she had fallen asleep that she was suddenly pulled into consciousness, which alerted her almost immediately. She wasn't entirely sure if she had heard something or if her own paranoia had startled her, so she lie still a moment, her back pressed to the mattress, eyes wide, simply listening.

At first, there was nothing. And then—the stairs creaked. Immediately, Frankie's heart began racing, pounding so loudly in her ears she could hardly hear if there was any other sound. 'Lenny?' she asked, weaker than she would have liked. 'Is that you?'

When she heard nothing, the panic seared through her veins like acid. 'Lenny?' she asked, louder, nearly tearful, though somewhere in the back of her mind she realised the effort was fruitless. As if God had suddenly spoken to her Himself, she remembered the gun in the end table and glanced towards it, blindly reaching through the darkness to locate it inside the drawer.

The door shot open with so much force it slammed against the adjacent wall. Frankie's scream was instantaneous, echoing off the spacious rooms that filled the house as a large man in a balaclava grabbed her. She shouted as loudly as she could as she was dragged away from her bed and the safety of the gun, kicking her legs wildly and clawing at any part of the man she could grab. But his grip was impossibly strong, and he was more than twice her size, able to keep her somewhat grounded despite her thrashing.

'Get off her, you cunt!'

Katie had jumped onto the attacker's back and began digging her fingers into his eyes, her legs wrapped tightly around his torso. He shouted out, a long howl of pain as he thrust his body from side to side in an attempt to shake her off. He had dragged the both of them into the hall in the struggle, knocking over a number of things in their path on the way.

Frankie managed to glance up and saw a tendril of blood drip down the man's cheek before he brought his head forward and then back again, cracking it straight against Katie's. He hit her so hard she fell off of his back and stumbled backwards, and with a casual kick of his boot blindly behind him that connected into her shin, she tipped back and tumbled violently down the stairs.

Franks hadn't realised she had been screaming the entire time until her voice was suddenly cut off by the attacker's large hand squeezing her throat. Her fingers dug into his wrist as hard as she could, drawing blood as he dragged her, kicking and struggling, down the steps.

'Hurry up, you old bitch,' he growled at her in a thick northern accent, which she noticed, even in her state of panicked delirium. He kicked the backs of her legs suddenly halfway down the steps, causing her to fall the rest of the way down and land at the bottom near Kate.

She gasped painfully for air, coughing loudly as her eyes fell on Katie's dazed form. The girl was out cold. There was blood bubbling from her nose with each breath she took, and her ankle was twisted grotesquely, certainly a result of the fall. Frankie only had a moment to notice this before the large man grabbed her by the hair and tried to yank her further away from the stairs. This time, however, she was prepared, and swung her leg backwards straight into his groin as hard as she could. He released her in shock, and she slipped from his grasp, running as fast as her legs would carry her across the hardwood floors.

She tripped once, but managed to right herself and dash into the kitchen, where she knew her knives were. Grabbing the largest one, she turned around and armed herself with it, watching as the northerner slowly approached her, looking even more hulking and intimidating as he stood before her; he must have been more than twenty stone. He was laughing, taunting her, extending his arms as if to welcome her into them.

'Well,' he said, all smiles. 'Give it yer best go then.'

Frankie gripped the knife tighter, frozen in her own fear. Somehow, even armed she didn't feel any safer at all. Gritting her teeth, she asked, 'What do you want, you dirty Manc bastard?' It came out far weaker than she would have liked.

He was enjoying her obvious fear, drinking it in really as he stepped towards her, his footfalls heavy and ominous. 'It's not about what I want,' he answered her. 'That's up to Mickey.'

Before she could say a word, a hand had grasped her wrist from behind and another clasped a rag against her mouth and nose. The scent was pungent and burned her eyes so strongly she could hardly scream as she struggled against the second man. Her limbs were feeling heavy however, and the knife slipped from her hands. She barely heard it clatter against the floor. Her head lolled back against the intruder's shoulder, and she caught something out of the corner of her eye—it was Lenny, lying on the ground nearly out of sight, with a slow trickle of blood dripping down his ear.

This was the last thing she saw before falling unconscious.