The Life and Times Of Erin Wilson

The transition from antiques to real estate was a brutal lesson in the true nature of power. The antique world was a genteel chess match; property development was a knife fight in a dark room. Erin learned quickly that having the backing of the Lord family was a formidable shield, but it also painted a target on her back. She was a woman in a man's world, and while some saw the Lords' protection and underestimated her, others, like John Macbride, saw her as the weak link in the chain, the soft underbelly they could press to get to the family's assets. Three years after her father drank himself to death, a death Erin noted with the same detached interest she'd note a fluctuation in the market, she found herself standing in the hallway of a house on Gordon Road. It was a neat, tidy street, a world away from the chaos of her youth. The owners, friends of friends, had given her exclusive access to value the contents and the property itself. After she had finished, a strange compulsion led her to visit South Avenue.

Number 29 looked exactly as she remembered it: damp, crumbling, and radiating despair. The two houses flanking it were in similar disrepair. But where others saw decay, Erin saw a goldmine. The London housing market was a bloodbath, and a mass exodus to the commuter towns was underway. South Avenue, with its proximity to the train station and its conversion potential, was a sleeping giant. Over the next few weeks, she did her due diligence with ruthless efficiency. She put in winning bids on four properties, including her old home at Number 29. She had just finished a meeting with a building contractor, a reliable man named George with ties to the Lords, when they walked into her shop.

One man, a brutish-looking thug, began a loud, deliberate circuit of the shop, his eyes scanning for security cameras as he clumsily handled delicate porcelain figurines. The other introduced himself as John Macbride. He was a weasel of a man, dressed in a cheap suit that strained at the buttons, his smile a greasy smear on his face. He was polite at first, his voice a conspiratorial purr as he explained they were in the same business. He claimed he too had an interest in the properties on South Avenue and, in a magnanimous tone, offered to do her a favor by taking them off her hands. Erin smiled, a thin, bloodless stretching of her lips, and politely turned him down.

"I think you're mistaken, Mr. Macbride," she said, her voice calm. "The properties are not for sale."

His smile vanished. "I wasn't asking, love." The room temperature seemed to plummet. Under the desk, her thumb found the small, disguised button. The hidden cameras Donna installed began recording. Macbride became more insistent, his voice rising. "You don't seem to understand who you're dealing with." To illustrate his point, the thug "accidentally" sent a Victorian vase crashing to the floor. Macbride smiled, a predator's grin. Another crash, this time a Victorian dish. Macbride gestured to his friend, his eyes never leaving Erin's. "We'll be back." They left, the bell above the door chiming cheerfully as they departed.

He didn't return. One call to Bob Lord, explaining the situation in clipped, precise terms, had made sure of that. A week later, Erin drove her ancient Ford Anglia to the old rope building in Chatham Dockyard. An offshoot of the main building housed a large, damp cellar. Two of Bob's men, Roy Jackson and another, were waiting outside. They greeted her with a familiar, respectful hug. They stood and smoked with her while she asked about their families, their health, the mundane details of their lives that grounded her. Then she got down to business. "How long have I got?" she asked. "A week," Roy replied, blowing out a plume of smoke. "The guards patrolling this part of the dockyard are on the payroll. They'll keep away for the week." She hugged them both again. Roy handed her a heavy, iron key.

She took the damp, crumbling steps slowly. It wouldn't do to fall on her arse in front of the men. The cellar was cold, the air thick with brine and mildew. Strung up by their wrists from the thick, wooden beams were John Macbride and his associate, Charlie Simmons. As requested, they were unharmed, just stripped naked, their bodies pale and vulnerable in the gloom. Macbride had clearly put up a fight; a nasty bruise was already purpling around one eye, and his nose had been bleeding, dried blood crusted beneath his nostrils. They both jumped at the sound of her dropping her bag, a large leather sports bag filled with some of her favorite toys from the chest. She enjoyed the profound shock on their faces when she looked up and said, her voice light and friendly, "Hello, boys."