First Revenge Read online

  First Revenge

  A Yami Johnson thriller

  J.S. Norrie

  Contents

  Foreword

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part II

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part III

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Yami Johnson Will Return

  Your free book is waiting!

  Foreword

  Exclusive Free Content

  Your free book is waiting!

  What were the seven doing when Yami was in prison?

  Seven short stories, each about one of the mobsters that ruined Yami’s life.

  Get your free copy of this exclusive additional content here:

  www.jsnorrie.co.uk

  Part I

  1

  Yami

  YAMI SAT in the dingy flat tattooing herself. It was her obsession. She went over each of her seven tattoos - making them deeper and darker.

  The rhythmic tapping of the wooden stick soothed her. Made her forget.

  It was a craft she’d learned in prison.

  She tucked a thick strand of black hair behind her ear and focused on the next one. This one was always tricky - it wrapped around her biceps and triceps. Where was that mirror?

  Yami got up from the unmade bed. She found the mirror on top of a maggot infested pizza box. Oblivious, she continued her work.

  Sounds of traffic below drifted through the closed windows. She didn't notice. She focused on the job at hand. Her OCD was at its worst when she was tattooing.

  Tap - tap - tap - tap - tap. Stop for ink. It had to be five. Five taps then ink. Had to be.

  ‘Ya - mi - means - dark - ness,’ she repeated to herself in time with the taps. Over and over. Tap after tap. ‘Ya - mi - means - dark -ness.’

  When she was done, she admired her work in the grubby hand mirror. Her pale East Asian skin looked good with the jet-black tattoos. She nodded. Yes, she was happy with her work.

  Was it a whole year since she got out of prison? What had she done in that time? Nothing. Just sat around this shit tip, waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for the right moment. That’s what.

  She stood up and stretched. Time for a run. She needed to stay fit and strong. It was important for what she was going to do. She pulled on her trainers and headed out.

  Yami ran fast. Her small but muscular body was perfectly designed for speed. Pounding through the streets of London, she left the morbid little flat behind. She always felt free when she was running. But sixteen years in the slammer will do that to you. She remembered how she couldn’t run free in prison, how it had almost gotten the better of her. Trapped. The wind rushed through her hair – it made her smile, she didn't smile much, didn't have much to smile about. But running made her happy.

  She turned when she reached Southwark Park and headed back. Back over London Bridge, over to her side of the Thames. She loved to run past Southwark cathedral and St Pauls. Didn’t know why - it just felt right. Then head back to Camden. To the grotty little flat above the bookies. Her run was roughly ten miles. She did it every other day.

  Back in the flat, she had a shower. Naked, in front of the mirror, she stroked her tattoos. Her reason for staying fit. A list. Her list. Tattooed onto her so no one could take it away. Each one a Japanese symbol. Each one representing a man. A man she was going to kill.

  2

  Maggie

  THE POUNDING on the flat door woke Yami up. She groaned. Not Maggie. She couldn’t be bothered with Maggie. Not today.

  ‘Come on, Yami, let me in. Stop being a dick.’

  Maggie, her faithful friend. Her only friend.

  Reluctantly, Yami got out of bed and let Maggie in.

  ‘Jesus, it stinks in here! Open the window,’ Maggie said, holding her nose.

  Before Yami could protest, Maggie had ripped the curtains apart and opened the window wide. Yami winced - it was too bright, but the breeze felt wonderful.

  ‘What do you want, Maggie?’

  ‘Well, ain’t that nice?’ she said, exaggerating her already thick cockney accent. She tutted, looking around the place.

  ‘Yami, this place is disgusting. Thought you had OCD. Thought that meant you were tidy.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that, Maggie, and you know it.’

  Maggie knew it.

  Yami watched as Maggie got to work cleaning the messy flat, tutting and complaining as she went about her work.

  Maggie. She was a busybody, but she had a good heart. She’d attached herself to Yami ever since prison. Ever since the time Yami put those three girls in hospital. They never picked on Maggie again afterwards.

  Yami sometimes thought Maggie only came around because she felt like she owed a debt to her. But Yami would’ve done that for anyone. She hated bullies. Maggie owed her nothing.

  ‘Maggie, you don’t have to clean up for me. I don’t mind the mess.’

  Maggie stood, hands on hips. ‘Yami, you can’t go on like this. All you do is mope around this depressing hovel. You’ve done nothing in a whole year. Except make those tattoos darker. Give me a look,’ she said, pulling Yami’s sleeve up.

  Yami slapped her hand away, ‘Knock it off, Maggie.’

  ‘Being in here day after day isn’t helping your condition either, is it? When are you going to do something with your life, Yami? You might as well be back in prison living like this.’

  Yami looked down at her feet. She didn't know, couldn’t answer. She didn’t have anything to do. There was only her list. It consumed her. Yami was nothing but the list. Once the list was done, what then?

  Yami couldn’t tell Maggie that she was frightened to start. Scared to cross the line - once it was crossed there was no going back. Once she had begun, nothing would stop her from finishing. Couldn’t say that once she had done what she was going to do there would be no more of Yami left.

  Maggie saw the strange expression on her face. She knew about her plan of revenge, of course she did. She’d tried to persuade her not to do it. But Yami’s mind could not be changed. She was the most stubborn person she knew.

  ‘Come on, get dressed,’ Maggie changed the subject, ‘it’s Sunday. Mum’s expecting you.’

  Maggie’s home was always noisy and full. She lived with her Jamaican parents, elder brother and four younger siblings. Some of the older ones had moved out in the past, but they were all back home for now.

  Maggie’s mum loved Yami. Wanted her to live with them. She would never forget she protected her eldest daughter in prison. Never. To Maggie’s mum, Yami could do no wrong.

  Yami remembered when Maggie got put in prison very well. She’d been surprised they’d put such a fresh-faced innocent on her wing. It was full of murders.

  She remembered her scared, young face as she walked past. Eyes wide, lips tight, blonde curls bobbing, the guards escorted her through the wing.

  Turned out she was Yami’s cellmate. She’d been caught stealing a car, she’d done it a few times, but this time they’d put her away for it. Why did she do it? For fun, she’d said.

  They’d bonded in prison. Yami had never had a friend before, not
one her age. She’d always been a loner. At first, Yami had been reserved, ignoring Maggie. But Maggie was so open and bubbly that Yami couldn’t help warming to her charm. They shared their life stories at night. Their hopes, dreams. Their secrets.

  Maggie was only twenty when she got put in prison with murderers and drug dealers. She was twenty-three when she got out.

  Yami didn't think she’d see her again - after all Yami still had another six years to do. But no. She was there, waiting at the prison gates when Yami got released. Crazy blonde Afro bobbing in the sunlight. Big smile on her face. Stolen car.

  Maggie took her home. Yami was overwhelmed. It had only been her and her quiet, reserved English father growing up. Her Japanese mum had died when she was young. She had never experienced such a vibrant, loud family. It was wonderful.

  Maggie’s mum had embraced her with tears in her eyes, saying ‘Yami, you are welcome here as one of my own.’ Then plonked her down at the big kitchen table saying, ‘Eat.’

  It had been like that every Sunday since.

  She’d lived with them for a while. Back in the beginning, when she first got out. But she couldn’t stay. It was making her soft, become part of a family. She needed to focus on the job she had to do. She needed to be alone. So, she rented the flat above the bookies in Camden - it would do - and stayed away from Maggie and her family.

  Maggie was upset. She wanted Yami to stay. The path she was walking would lead to her destruction, and she wanted to save her - like Yami had saved her in prison. So, she agreed to stop hassling Yami, on the condition she ate lunch with them every Sunday. It was something. She could make Yami normal one day a week.

  So here Yami was, driving to Maggie’s house in the passenger seat of a stolen car. She didn’t want to admit it to herself. But she was looking forward to seeing her surrogate family.

  One, two, three, four… She began counting the windows of the houses outside as the car passed by. When she got to ten, she began again. She liked the rhythm, the flow, of ten. Over and over she counted up to ten.

  They turned a corner and the houses stopped, giving way to a park. Yami had only counted four windows in this batch. She looked outside, searching for more windows to make it up to ten. She couldn’t stop at four, no, no, no - that would never do. The familiar panic rose inside her. She pulled at the tight jumper around her neck. It was too restricting. Why had she put this stupid thing on today? Her fingers were tapping against her thighs. She only needed six more windows. Only six. Frantically she scanned the area, eyes squinting. Beads of perspiration began forming on her top lip and brow. She swiped them away with the back of her hand. Think Yami. Six more.

  The car! The car had six windows! Relief. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. There. That would do.

  ‘Had this car a few weeks now, haven’t you?’ said Yami, trying to take her mind off her obsessive nature.

  ‘Yeah, I kinda like it!’

  The world went past outside Yami’s window. What was she going to do? She should start her mission. But would waiting another few weeks hurt? Would a few more Sundays with Maggie’s family be so bad?

  The car pulled up. Maggie’s youngest sister was at the door, waving. Cleo was ten years old and full of life.

  ‘Yami, Yami, come and see. Look at what I got!’ she shouted, excited.

  Maggie’s mum appeared behind her, ‘Slow down, Cleo, what have I told you? Let Yami get through the door first!’

  Yami got down on one knee outside the house.

  ‘Show me what you have, Cleo,’ she said, smiling. She loved the young girl. She reminded Yami of herself at that age, so eager, so open.

  Maggie’s mum shook her head and went indoors. She knew Yami would stay outside with Cleo for as long as she wanted, but it wasn’t long before they came in - Cleo leading, dragging Yami by the hand.

  They were all there in the house. Maggie’s five siblings and her parents - making nine people when Yami arrived. Max was there. Maggie’s older brother. He stared at her; it made her tingle inside.

  Yami hadn’t had much experience with men. She was put away at eighteen. Oh, sure, she wasn’t a virgin, but she’d only dabbled - never got right into it.

  Max stared at Yami; he knew it affected her. He was tall and well-built. At thirty-five, he’d had his fair share of women. He was confident in himself.

  Maggie’s mum smacked him out of the way, ‘Max, go and help your sister set the table.’

  Max grinned, not taking his eyes off Yami.

  Sunday lunch went as it usually did. Squabbling, singing, laughter, questions. And before Yami knew it, it was time to go.

  ‘Stay, pickni,’ Maggie’s dad said, affectionately rubbing her head, ‘there’s plenty room.’

  ‘Ah, I can’t. But thanks. I’ll see you next week.’

  He asked her to stay every time she came. But she always resisted.

  Maggie dropped her off at the squalid little flat and drove away. She couldn’t watch her go in there on her own. It hurt too much.

  Yami trudged up the dreary back stairs. She hated this bit - opening the flat door to emptiness and filth. It was a stark contrast to Maggie’s home.

  Yami lay on her bed and stared at the grubby ceiling. A cockroach ran over her arm. Absentmindedly, she brushed it off. She had so much vengeance inside of her. Why was she not acting on it? Was it Maggie and her family? She didn't know. She wasn’t in a good place. Her OCD was playing up. It was as bad as when she was in prison.

  During the sixteen years she’d been inside, she had planned this. Planned everything to the last detail. She knew where they all were, what they were doing and how she was going to kill them. It had consumed her.

  She had learnt some surprising skills in prison. Skills that would help her achieve her plan. Sixteen years of obsession. And now she was out, she wasn’t doing anything. What was wrong with her? Was she scared? Soft? Worse, indifferent? She wasn’t any of those things. She thought about why she was in limbo, but the only thing that came to her mind was Maggie. And Max.

  Kind, sexy, gorgeous Max. Stop it, Yami! Focus. Thinking about him won’t get the job done.

  She sat up and sighed. This place was a mess. She didn't have the energy to do anything about it though. It would have to stay filthy.

  She should go over her tattoos, but they were still hurting from the last time. They didn't heal so quick these days. They were scabbed and raw.

  She touched each one, saying their name aloud: Lust. Wrath. Greed. Gluttony. Sloth. Envy. Pride.

  Each one represented a man. She knew their names but didn’t want them tattooed on her. Too many questions. This was better. This way people thought the weird Asian girl had cute Japanese symbols on her. Sometimes they would ask her what they meant. She’d say she didn't know. Just thought they were pretty. They’d laugh saying things like, it could be a menu, it could say fuck you. She’d laugh along with them.

  Little did they know it was a death list.

  3

  Gabe

  YAMI HAD a bad night’s sleep. She’d dreamt about tattoos and windows. Cockroaches and Max. Prison and freedom. No, she hadn’t slept well at all.

  She groaned. Today was her weekly meeting with her councillor. Part of her prison release deal. She hated the nosy bitch. She knew nothing.

  Dreading it - Yami got showered, dressed and left. She made her way to the appointment.

  She was too early. So, on a whim, she took a detour past Lambeth. She felt the urge to walk past the tenement building she used to live in with her dad.

  It was old and run down, but she’d been happy there.

  She looked up to where she used to live, a smile on her face. She could almost imagine herself playing on the balcony with the metal railings, creeping nearer and nearer Gabe’s windows. Her dad’s voice shouting, ‘Now, my love, don’t you be bothering old Gabe, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  But she would still inch closer. Most times he would be there at the windo
w, big grin on his craggy face. He’d put his finger to his lips and open the window wide for her to climb in.

  She loved Gabe. Loved him more than anything - even more than her dad.

  Everyone was frightened of this giant of a man. But she wasn’t. They said he was a bad man, done terrible things in his past. But Yami didn't care. He was her best friend. She was safe when she was with Gabe.

  He’d tell her stories of dragons and knights and play dolls with her. Singing old-fashioned songs in his booming baritone voice, he’d make her giggle. He never got tired of her company. Never told her to go and play or be quiet. He always had time.

  When she turned thirteen, he taught her how to box - Queensbury rules - he said. He showed her many things - how to pick a lock with her hair clip, how to make a trap that would floor a man. He taught her how to fight with knives and unusual weapons. Took her to the woods and introduced her to guns. He always said she should know these things - be prepared. For what? She would ask. He’d smile. His flat broken nose crinkling up and his bright blue eyes sparkling. Said she’d know when it happened. Jesus, he’d been right.

  Older, she’d talk about clothes and boys. Gabe would listen, nodding. He’d tell her she was too good for them all. She was his princess. Find a nice bloke, not one from around here. A rich man, maybe a footballer with a yacht. Yami would laugh and shake her head. She visited Gabe every day. Until that night, the night he didn't open the window.