As I left the bedroom, I was finally able to appraise Nick's house through its interior. It was a 3-storey farmhouse style family home, secluded from its busy neighbourhood. As I climbed down its narrow staircase leading to the first floor, there was a corridor that connected five bedrooms, including its master suite. One of the rooms was used for study, another one was a snug lounging room located between two bedrooms. Nick's room was located on the second floor, an attic converted into a bedroom.

Then I went downstairs to the ground floor, I saw a large living hall surrounded by numerous family areas including a sunroom, snug, dining area and a family/TV room. A porch connected to the living hall that leads to a patio while the kitchen and laundry area was hidden behind the dining area.

"So, you brought me here all the way from the slaughterhouse?" I asked while pulling out a chair on the left side of a 6-seater dining table before resting my bum on its padded cushion.

"Yes, it's safe to keep you here, so that I can watch over you," he responded, walking around the dining table and placed a plate of toasts and a sunny side up in front of me.

"I thought gangsters live in a fancy house or mansion. Like those Cockney ones," I said sarcastically.

"You're watching too much films. Having fancy houses is like taking a selfie with a bag of cokes in your arm. You're luring the authorities. Here we keep it down the low," Nick explained in a mocking manner. "It's actually my parent's house – well dad's house now. Sometimes, I'd crash in and look after it while he's away for a business trip. I brought you here because it has more med supplies than my apartment."

"Where is he now, your dad?" I queried, observing Nick walking towards me with a bowl of cereal and a carton of milk before sitting next to me.

"In his room, he'll come down soon. Your breakfast is getting cold," he urged.

Moments later, I heard slow heavy steps plodding down the hall. I spun my head towards the hallway and saw a man in his 60s donned in black shirt and black trousers ambled into the dining area. Nick's dad was a fierce looking man with a tall big frame structure slightly hunched back making himself looking superior among us. I noted on his Persian-Turkic facial feature and understood where Nick got his looks from. His slanted grey eyes narrowed at me in disgust, his groomed sliver white moustache furrowed and his thin lips curved to a scowl. He had streaks of white hair on his sideburn while some few strands of whites on the rest of his neatly combed hair. His face was weather-beaten suggest he often travels to a lot of sunny countries.

As he entered the dining area and sat on his usual seat at the end of the table, I felt cold silence filling in the air. Nick got up to greet his dad with a kiss on his cheek. Nick casually introduced me to him before he went into the kitchen. I mustered a grin at him but he continued to look at me like he wanted to eat me alive, then I looked away.

"Here's your daily fix," Nick returned, placing a cup of tea, a glass of water and a few pills on a small plate in front of him.

"Cheers," his dad mouthed and gestured at me, "You brought another show girl to keep me entertained tonight?"

"Nope dad," Nick grinned. "Zahida's my personal assistant at the warehouse. She had an emotional meltdown while at work. So, I placed her here under my care for a couple of nights."

"A couple of nights?" he looked at Nick incredulously. "Why don't you convert this place to a rehab centre instead?"

"Thank you for the offer but I've got my hands full for now," Nick replied nonchalantly and went into the kitchen.

"Where are you from, young lady?" he asked me in his stern voice.

"Rusholme," I answered timidly, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Oh yeah?" he was not convinced. "Your parents, where are they from?"

"Malaysia," I answered honestly.

"Oh, Mahathir?" he responded, linking up to Malaysia's prominent figure which I responded with a nod. "So, you're the girl that makes Nekmat to go soft. I don't like it when he becomes soft."

"I appreciate that. Thank you," Nick responded to him, coming out from the kitchen and placing a plate of khubz (Arabic pita bread) with cheese and butter spread in front of him.

We ate our food as quietly as possible, making sure not even the slightest noise to emanate the dining area. Nick browsed through last night's match with his iPhone on mute while eating his cereal, his dad spread the cheese on a torn piece of khubz while still casting a watchful glare at me. His eyes didn't even move when I glanced at him, so I darted my eyes away towards my final piece of toast.

When we're done, Nick stacked my empty plate on top of his and asked me to wait by the living room. He collected the rest of the dirty dishes and cups on the table before taking them into the kitchen.

I sat quietly, admiring the classic expensive furniture and décor in this living room like they have been around for more than a decade. The house felt a little bit empty though, like some parts of homeyness to it were lost, taken away. I saw a couple of framed photos of a younger, chubbier jovial looking Nick placed by a mantelpiece and framed photos of his dad with some unfamiliar men hung on the wall but there were no photos of a woman in this room.

"See you tomorrow morning," Nick told his dad and gestured to me at the door.

We approached Greenheys Lane, heading for Oxford Road that connects to most neighbouring streets within Rusholme area including Wilmslow Road. Out of blue, the same gory images of the mutilated man suddenly flashed before me, causing sudden shortness of breath, mild headache and I was beginning to see stars in my vision. I fought back, trying to inhale deeply to calm myself but it didn't work. Nick noticed the sudden change in my face when he heard my heavy breathing.

"You alright?" he asked anxiously.

"I think I need some air," I said, trying too hard not to hurl. "Can you drop me here? I'll walk my way home."

He slowed down and parked his X351 by the pavement next to one of the flats at the corner of Greenheys Lane-Bronte Street junction. He insisted on walking me home, which I accepted as I was too tired to argue and felt safer when he was around.