Hatred for the Hollow

Homepage
Mail the author

THEN
The pub lounge emptied gradually as the last stragglers guzzled down the final few drops of their drinks and headed for home. For some, a warm embrace and the potential for romance awaited, for others the loneliness of a sparse flat, with only another bottle of alcohol for company.
Hazel watched as each departed whilst continuing her cleaning duties, working swiftly, eager to be away from The Seven Stars as soon as possible. Most of the chores had already been completed as the pub had been unusually quiet affording her the opportunity to load up the dish washer, scrub the work surfaces in the food serving area and even to lock the rear door of the building, which also served as a fire door. Though against regulations, Hazel felt confident that it was unlikely a blazing inferno would erupt in the last ten minutes before chucking-out time.
She wiped the front edge of the bar, an already moist towel coming away sodden as spilt lager, whisky, and myriad other fluids were absorbed. Only five feet tall, she had to stand on tip-toe to reach the furthest quarter, her back straining in protest at the awkward positioning of her body.
‘Night, love.’
Alf, a gentle giant who towered some one and a half feet above her called as he pushed open the pub door, one enormous hand planted across the frosted glass that bore the name of the establishment and braced himself for the outside world. Before taking the final step beyond the sanctuary of the pub, he pulled the collar of his black overcoat up further, unfurling the material to its fullest extent, all the better to ward off the autumnal chill that had taken hold over the last few days.
‘Goodnight, Alf. Love to Mary.’
‘I’ll pass it on. You coming to our Jim’s engagement party Saturday?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
‘I’ll let Mary know.’
And with that he was away, the wooden door swinging back and forth twice, three times, before coming to rest.
Hazel turned now, away from the bar and back through the functional kitchenette, emerging through the small saloon style doors that led from the staff only area behind the counter and into the pub proper. Eyes scanning assuredly, a practiced glance here and there was enough to inform her of the condition the patrons had left the establishment that night, and she was pleased with what she saw. Quickly, cloth in hand that she had automatically plucked from a shelf on her way through she wiped each table, the very model of efficiency. Finally, she gathered up the two glasses that perched on a far table, left there by ill-mannered customers, too lazy to bring their drinking vessels back to the bar which they had to pass anyway on their way to the door. Making a mental note of who had been sitting at the offending table to ensure she serve them last when next they ventured through the doors, she scurried back to the kitchenette and deposited the glasses in the dish washer. With one final, sweeping look around the interior of the lounge, Hazel made for the door, patting the back pocket of her work trousers to ensure the buildings keys were there. At the door, she primed the alarm, hastily grabbed her coat from the hook next to the exit, and stepped outside.
The wind whipped at her hair, stray curls cast aloft and she was forced to catch her breath, surprised at just how cold it had become since she had stepped through the entrance on her way to begin her evening shift, a mere six and a half hours ago. She struggled into the coat, a task made all the more difficult by the chilly gusts that battered the material but eventually she triumphed, buttoning it up as fast as she could and she too, as Alf had done just a few minutes previously, turned her collar up to fend off the chill.
Inserting the appropriate key from the set of six, she clicked first the top lock into place, then the centre lock with a second key, before stooping to engage the final one at shin level with a third. With a last push at the doors to ensure that all was secure, she turned and made for home.
He clung to the shadows, away from the betraying pools of light that cast downwards from the streetlamps at regular intervals. His breath was shallow, controlled, no sign of stress apparent as he stared at the entrance to The Seven Stars from across the street. He had chosen his position carefully; away from the prying eyes of those leaving the building at closing time, secluded in the darkness offered by the small alleyway between the Post Office and the chip shop, both of which were long closed. He wore a watch, but chose not to look at it, secure in the knowledge that the only way to leave the premises opposite was through the doorway right in front of him. There was no possibility that he would miss her. The time of her departure was irrelevant.
He would wait as long as he had to.
As he stood, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, he saw a familiar figure emerge. Alf, a huge, brute of a man, though known locally for his kindness and compassion more than for his sheer physical strength stepped over the threshold and made into the frosty night. A good sign. Alf was almost always the last to leave. It seemed curious to the watcher, as if Alf had no desire to return home, though he knew that the domestic life of the old man was about as perfect as someone could wish for.
But tonight, the activities of others were of no consequence. Tonight, there was only one thing, no, one person occupying his every thought.
She would emerge soon.
Motionless, he continued his vigil, not once shuffling his feet, nor rocking from one to the other. Statuesque, he stared at the doorway, willing it to open so that his endgame could commence.
At last, the hefty wooden doors swung open and Hazel appeared, struggling against the elements, finally managing to clamber into her warm coat before locking the doors tight and marching towards her home, a walk of some ten minutes or so.
He moved.

The wind bit deeply, seemingly able to locate and penetrate holes that weren’t apparent to the naked eye. Hazel tugged at her collar, a futile gesture aimed at defeating the elements and, when she realised that no matter how high she yanked the collar the cold was still winning, she reached into her pocket instead and retrieved a pair of thick woollen gloves. The yellow material of the mittens in no way flattered the deep red of the coat but, what the hell, she thought, the fashion police were unlikely to be out on patrol on such an evening as this.
Brown, withered leaves danced and skipped at her feet, the last few survivors of an unusually sharp Autumn. The street she walked was lined at roughly thirty metre interval with large, imposing trees, all of which stood naked now, bereft of foliage as the annual battle against nature played out once more and the ravages of the season took hold. Their bare branches poked skywards, skeletal figures pointing accusing fingers at the Heavens, as if angered by the perennial defrocking. The natural litter that tumbled underfoot made her weary and the thought of making this journey over the long, dark months ahead seemed more depressing than usual. It wasn’t that she disliked her job, in fact the opposite was true as the gentle banter and warm-hearted humour of the natives made her feel wanted, made her feel like she belonged and gave her a sense of community that she had seldom known. But the bone-numbing trudge from place of work to place of habitation seemed to take longer with every passing week as the temperature dropped and the wind chill increased.
As was her habit, Hazel reached again into her pocket, this time pulling a packet of chewing gum from their depths and, with difficulty due to the thick material of the gloves, liberated a single stick. Using a combination of teeth, tongue, index finger and thumb she managed to unwrap the minted treat and pop it into her mouth, screwing up the wrapping and placing it back into the same pocket as the remainder of the sweets, making a mental note to empty her coat of the rubbish as soon as she got in lest she stockpile debris to the point that it became an irritant. Somehow, the motion of chewing seemed to act as a slight defence against the freezing air, as if the few tiny muscles employed during mastication were enough to inwardly warm her. A nonsense and she knew it, but she chewed with vigour all the same.
A pair of headlights caught her attention, maybe a hundred feet ahead, and Hazel felt her heartbeat quicken a touch as the vehicle glided slowly her way.
‘Why are they driving so slowly?’
Not wishing to stare directly at the approaching car, instead she alternated between looking at the pavement just in front of where she walked to check for any dog related hazards and glancing briefly in its direction. The headlights appeared to be on full beam, dazzling her somewhat as it neared, making it impossible to ascertain who was inside. She sped up slightly, aware that her response was slightly irrational – there had been no reports of serious crime around these parts for as long as she could remember – but unwilling to be caught off guard should she be the unlucky one. As the car moved steadily nearer, her glances towards it became more frequent, until she decided just to stare outright. A wave of relief washed over her as she caught sight of the blue beacon atop the vehicle. The fashion police may not be on duty but, it seemed, the genuine article most definitely were. Strangely, she had to resist the urge to wave at the officers as they cruised past, content instead merely to watch as it glided by, just managing to catch sight of a pale face turned in her direction, studying her just as she studied him. The theme tune to The Bill popped into her head, and before she was even aware of it she was whistling it quietly to herself. She hadn’t even seen the damn show in several years, yet the mere sight of a police car in the small hours of the morning had prompted instant recall of the decidedly irritating title music. A slight smile played across her lips, amused by her own random thought processes as she walked towards her home. A friend’s anecdote presented itself in her mind. John, one of the regulars at The Seven Stars, spent an entire evening insisting that his absent uncle used to work as an extra in London, taking any minor acting jobs that he could get. The legs of the male police officer seen at the start of the title sequence of the show belonged to that very uncle, or so he claimed. Every so often, his fellow drinkers still ribbed him about it, and no-one had believed a single word of it as he was widely known as a weaver of tall tales.
‘Could be true,’ she thought, before deciding that it was much more likely that it had simply been the beer talking.
Still smiling inwardly, she walked on.

He matched her pace with ease, moving all but silently on the rubber soled shoes specifically purchased for an occasion such as this. He walked on the opposite pavement, maintaining sufficient distance that it was unlikely that she would see him, even if she choose to look around to check out what was happening in her vicinity. The unwelcome intrusion of a set of headlights forced him to make a quick decision, and he ducked into the doorway of the small art shop that served the area’s student community so capably, as well as affording a convenient toilet stop for the night-dwellers on the way home from their drinking establishment of choice. The ammonia laced stench of stale urine stung his nostrils, and he was compelled to place one hand over his face in an effort to block it out, but still it found its way through. Even breathing through the mouth was no defence, as the deplorable odour seemed to possess taste as well as scent.
He listened carefully as the sound of the cars engine approached, placing one hand on the wall in front of him, facing away from the road, hoping to give the impression of a drunkard in the process of urinating should curious eyes happen his way. He need not have feared. A glance over his shoulder as the police car drew level revealed that the occupants of the vehicle were disinterested in his location and, convinced that he had not been spotted, he relaxed. Caution still his byword, he remained where he was standing for several seconds after the vehicle had passed by, fearful that a chance glance in the rear-view mirror by the driver would alert them to his presence and, tonight, stealth was essential.
Anonymity his ally.
As the engine noise faded, the figure emerged from the doorway, glancing in the direction that the car had been travelling to ensure that it had indeed continued its journey uninterrupted. The tail-lights were still visible as the police car approached the roundabout that would send the occupants either into the town centre proper, or off into the suburbs and, certain now that they were oblivious to the watching eyes, he returned to the task at hand.
He scanned the other side of the road, seeking his prey, not yet alarmed by the absence of visual contact. He knew her route home only too well and, if necessary, would sprint to catch her. Loathe to commit himself to such an action as he knew that she would detect him, he was pleased to see her appear from behind one of the large trees, continuing her journey homeward, unaware that she was under scrutiny. More quickly now, he rejoined the chase, for the first time feeling his pulse ratchet up a notch as the night-time encounter drew nearer. Briefly, he thought she had spotted him, but soon determined that she had merely been checking the roadway for oncoming traffic before crossing, as he knew she must. At the end of the small cluster of shops, past the take-away and the tattoo parlour, she turned into the side road that acted as a short cut to the house she shared with a former college friend. Once she had rounded the corner, he picked up his pace, jogging to the point where side road intersected main, risking a quick glimpse around the corner.
There.
Ten metres ahead.
Breath coming in shorter gasps now, he hugged the wall of the tattoo parlour as best he could, moving ever nearer to the woman who remained utterly unaware of his presence. He moved more swiftly still, only five metres away now and every step towards her he feared that his footfalls would betray him, that she would turn and spot him before he made his move.
Three metres, and still no sign of detection.
Two.
One.
He raised his hand.

She gasped, sensing movement behind her just moments before the hand clutched her shoulder. Spinning, she instinctively drew her arms up to chest level, balling her hands into fists, ready to strike out at whoever or whatever was sneaking up behind her.
‘Don’t hit me. I come in peace.’
He raised his hands in mock surrender, a smug grin smeared across his features.
Anger pulsed through her, both anger at herself for feeling so frightened and vulnerable, however fleetingly, and anger at the other for placing her in the situation in the first place.
‘You scared the hell out of me.’
Cold. Accusatory.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I was going for ‘surprise’ rather than ‘terrify.’
She relented slightly, unsure as to her feelings. True, it was something of a relief that the unexpected visitor was somebody she knew, yet she was still resentful at the nature of the introduction.
‘You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Especially at this time of night.’
‘I know. I called out,’ he lied, ‘But you mustn’t have heard me because of the police car.’
She frowned at that, running the explanation through her head, trying to determine if it was even remotely plausible.
“So why didn’t you call louder?’
He shrugged, appearing helpless, apologetic and amused all at the same time.
‘I didn’t want to scare you.’
‘You bloody managed it.’
His face fell, and in an instant he looked hurt.
‘I know. I’m really sorry.’
The near pathetic look that stared back at her was enough to thaw out the last of the bitterness, and she took his hand in hers, reaching forward to plant a delicate kiss on his smoothly shaven cheek.
‘You are forgiven. This time.’ Then, with a sternness meant to convey sincerity she followed it up with, ‘But don’t do it again.’
‘I get it. I won’t. I wasn’t thinking.’
Eager to dispel the tension that seemed to be building, she leaned into him, placing her arms around his shoulders and drawing him towards her. She drew in a deep breath, her nostrils filled with the scent of his aftershave, and suddenly she was pleased to be with him.
‘You didn’t have to meet me,’ she said quietly against his shoulder.
‘I wanted to.’
‘I’ve been thinking about you all day.’
He pushed her away from him, but kindly, and looked into her eyes.
‘I’ve been thinking about you too.’
She looked at the ground, timidity the over-riding emotion.
‘We can’t go back to mine. Sandra’s there.’
Disappointment soured his features before she quickly added. ‘I can pick my things up, though. We can go somewhere else.’
‘Still ashamed of me?’
‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Seems that way to me. Nobody knows about us, right?’
His words stung her and, like an errant child before a strict teacher, she bowed her head, not able to meet his gaze.
‘Right?’ he demanded again.
She nodded her head, a confirmation of the secrecy with which they had conducted their relationship so far.
‘Do you remember what you said the last time we saw each other.’
The memory was painful, and still she could not look at him. The resentment was building again, and the pleasure at seeing him just moments prior seemed like a memory from long ago.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What do you remember.’
She simply shook her head, not wanting to think about the words let alone utter them once more.
‘It’s important. Tell me what you said.’
His tone had changed and a new cadence was detectable, one that she didn’t care for at all.
‘Jesus Christ.’
A flush of anger brought with it renewed confidence, and she raised her eyes up to meet his, defiance in the gesture that belied the apprehension that gently tickled at the base of her spine.
‘What the hell is this about?’
‘I just want to hear the words. Then we can move on.’
She analysed the statement instantly and decided that she would play his little game. Whilst she could fathom neither motive nor reason for him needing to hear the awful statement once more, she could also see no harm in repeating it. After all, they both knew what had been said. If that was what it took to get things back to how they had been before, then so be it.
Quietly, a sense of shame burning deep inside her, she spoke the words.
‘Couldn’t hear you, Hazel.’
She glared at him.
‘Are you taking the piss?’
He shook his head, two swift jerking movements, but said nothing.
More loudly this time, she said it again.
‘I said ‘I’ll tell your wife about us.’’
‘That’s right.’
His hands shot forward, one catching her round the throat, the other clamping over her mouth. Stunned, she felt herself propelled backwards, powerless to resist as he out-muscled her by five stones at least. Her back slammed against the wall behind, knocking the wind from her, the air releasing with a hiss from between his tensed fingers which painfully gripped her mouth. Eyes bulging, she shook her head and attempted to fight him off with her fists, but he simply ignored the blows that fell on his shoulders, no more a threat than a gnat bite to a bull elephant.
‘I’ll tell your wife about us,’ he taunted, grunting as he spoke, the muscles of his neck taut, eyes wild, aflame.
‘I’ll tell your wife about us.’
And on the last word he jerked her forward briefly before slamming her back against the wall, her skull cracking hard against the red brick construction. Again, he spat the sentence into her face, and again the crunching impact of spine against stone.
Quickly now, he changed tactics, dragging his unwilling companion along behind him a few metres further up the road. The wall here was shoulder height to him, and beyond it was dense undergrowth, the furthest boundary of the run down eye infirmary that acted as subsidiary to the local hospital.
The hand around her throat tightened and, for the first time, she felt genuine terror as suddenly his intentions became clear.
He wasn’t here merely to serve a warning.
He had something altogether more permanent in mind.
‘It could have been so good, Hazel,’ he said, voice raising in pitch though not in volume, his eyes maniacal in their savagery as he observed his own crime, a coldness in them that numbed her.
‘It could have been so good.’
Perversely, there was sorrow in the words and, in that moment, she hated him, a deep, primal loathing that almost overrode the fear that coursed through her. A grey fog began to descend, her vision clouding as her oxygen starved brain began to shut down and all she could think of was how stupid she had been. However angry she had been, however spiteful she had felt that night, the callousness of her words had shocked her. Not at the time, but the following day, when she reflected back upon the argument between them she had been horrified by the severity of her parting shot. And now, here, four days later, the last thought that would go through her mind was a poisonous one.
‘It’s my own fault.’
And she believed it. Whether as a result of shock, denial, or outright confusion, her final thought was an accusation aimed not at her attacker, but at herself.
She died.
The figure lifted her, almost casually, a savage indifference in his actions as if he were throwing away nothing more noteworthy than a bag of rancid meat. Carefully, not wishing to disturb the vegetation behind the wall, he lowered her body, dropping it so that it came to rest whilst still in contact with the brickwork.
He walked away calmly.

NOW
The window was open wide to allow the tiny whisper of summer breeze that stirred the atmosphere at least a fighting chance of cooling the cloying temperature of the bedroom. Net curtains danced slightly in the warm breath, the gossamer material the only thing that seemed to stir within the room, save for the steady rise and fall of the woman’s chest as she slept an anxious sleep. She moved now, rolling over onto her side, legs curling up beneath the sheets, adopting the foetal position that comforts us all in times of sadness or regret, sending our minds tumbling back to the warm embrace of the mother womb, a reminder of innocence and peace of mind, mental states that so often elude us as the years sweep by. Strange that, even as we slumber, we take up this pose on the horizontal as if our unconscious, sleep-dosed brains are seeking succour from the hells and trials of the daily grind.
She murmured a soft, meaningless noise, not really a word but a brief exhalation of breath passing over vocal chords through half pursed lips, tongue clacking against the roof of her mouth to form a kind of strangled ‘aah’. Perhaps somewhere, deep in her psyche, the words she was trying to form had meaning but here in the real world it was of no consequence either way.
Nobody was nearby to hear.
One arm was raised, fingers splayed across the pillow next to her face and the digits dug into the material intermittently, almost forming claws for a brief moment before relaxing, returning to their original state, flat against the pillow. Whatever dreamscape she currently occupied it would have seemed to an observer that it was not a pleasant one for her shifting motion and periodic twitches suggested a struggle of some sort, perhaps flight from an unknown presence, or even a fight for life itself.
The telephone cried out, astonishingly loud in the silence, a digital banshee, warning not of imminent death as legend foretells, but of an incoming call from afar.
She stirred, lips fluttering, tongue darting back and forth in her mouth as if still desperate to utter the words that had no meaning. Her eyeballs swivelled wildly behind the closed protection of the lids as, unwillingly, she became a victim of consciousness. Rolling quickly now, awareness returning as swiftly as sleep subsided, she flung an arm in the direction of the piercing bringer of voices, snatching the receiver from the plastic casing that served as a temporary housing for the device whilst she slept.
‘Hello.’
‘Heh you.’
‘Greg.’ Though her voice was still clogged with sleep there was a warmth to it that was unmistakable and, when the late night caller spoke again, she could practically hear the smile playing on his lips.
‘Sorry to wake you,’ he teased.
‘No you’re not,’ she replied, drawing herself into a sitting position, using her backside and lower spine to push the pillows along behind her to act as cushioning against the headboard of the bed and raising her knees, hugging them to her chest with her free hand.
‘It’s a whole different time zone out here, you know,’ he said, continuing the game a few moments longer.
‘I know all about it. You don’t have to remind me, Mr Jet-Set.’
He laughed at that, amused at the old-fashioned slang, all too aware of the pride she felt at his accomplishments but knowing also that somewhere, deep inside herself, she resented the sacrifices they were forced to make continually to accommodate his career.
‘How are you, precious?’
I’ve been better, Greg,’ she answered honestly then, after a pause loaded with unspoken sentiments, she said the only thing she could think of.
‘I miss you.’
He sighed at the other end of the line, though not a sigh of bitterness, resentment or, heaven forbid, emotional fatigue, this was a sigh of weary acceptance for he knew the price they paid was a high one indeed and he shared her displeasure.
‘I know you do. I miss you too, honey. Wish I was there.’
‘I know.’
The conversation lulled, both brimful of thoughts and feelings too intense to do justice during this brief, long distance call. For her part, Heather was merely grateful to hear his voice and, on his side of the Atlantic, he felt a yearning to be near her that was almost too much to bear. As they had been speaking, Heather realised that she had used her free arm to grab onto Guilliam, her comfort cushion, a battered blue and yellow relic given as a present by a much loved Aunt that should have been cast into the refuse long ago but which, during nights such as these, helped her sleep, at least fitfully. She drew in a lungful of its soothing scent, a mixture of her own sweat, saliva and hair oils deposited over many years as, in its bedraggled condition, any attempt to wash him would surely be the death of him.
‘You need to sleep, Heather. I shouldn’t have woken you.’
She laughed, a brief, near sardonic sound that warned of the emotions that churned within.
‘It’s a good job you did.’
Greg’s I.T. Consultancy firm had been operating for just over five years now and, whilst they had struggled financially to begin with, the business was going from strength to strength to the point that Greg, as Director of the company, was now regularly required to attend meetings both at home and abroad. As she spoke, sitting up alone in the bed they usually shared, he himself seated in an unfamiliar hotel suite in Manhattan, his evening only just getting started, hers already at an end.
‘How did the meeting go?’ she asked, her interest genuine, not feigned as a means of prolonging conversation.
‘It was fine. The hospital board seemed impressed with our specification. They’ll do their sums, we’ll do ours, and hopefully we can agree on a figure.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, attempting to stifle a yawn, but not quite managing it. ‘I think you were right. I do need to sleep.’
‘I’ll call again tomorrow.’
‘Make sure you do. Earlier if you can.’
‘Love you.’
‘Backatcha,’ she replied, before replacing the receiver.
She slid down the smooth sheet, buttocks lifting slightly, legs shuffling downwards until she was lying flat on her back, arms by her side and she closed her eyes knowing, with total certainty, that sleep would be a long time coming.

NOW
I walked with purpose towards my place of work, Telecommunics, a mid-sized telecommunications company that specialises in bespoke software solutions for small to mid-sized companies. At least, that is what I have gleaned from the spoutings of the grunts who infest the place. Vile, insufferable little shit-stains to a man, they strut around in their cheap suits and cheap shoes, faux executives, unable to grasp the true reality that, as specimens, they are utterly fucking worthless. Apparently, to these fucks, wearing a crisply starched shirt to work somehow implies that you are a more worthy individual than the builder who wears a hard-hat, or the road worker who wears a luminous flak jacket. Never mind the fact that without the builder or the road worker there wouldn’t be an office to work in, nor a road to drive your bottom of the range BMW along.
Blind pricks.
Rounding Hill Street corner with Clark Road the building itself appears, one hundred metres further along. A modern structure, all red brick and steel panelling, its sharp edges suggesting an organisation that deals in the absolute: clinical and precise, distinctly lacking in imagination and flair and so perfectly representative of the organisation itself.
A quick glance at my watch confirmed that I was easily on time for my shift, the old nine ‘til seven duty, ten hours providing security for the human slugs that grease their way around Telecommunics, gastropods masquerading as mankind, though the genuine slime-bringers have more humanity about them than many of the moribund souls who dwell inside the building.
I reached into my pocket and produced my security pass, a slim piece of white plastic with a magnetic strip on the reverse side and a digitally etched image of my grisly visage on the front, along with my name, employee number and job title.
Clive Wilkes, 1149, Security Guard.
I reached the main entrance of the building and swiped the magnetic strip side of the card against the wall mounted scanner, the doors swinging inwards somewhat dramatically, ushering me into the guts of the building where even from the doorway I could see my post, a small desk situated against the back wall of the foyer and, for some reason, I couldn’t help but think about the anglerfish waving its bioluminescent lure around in the inky darkness of the ocean to attract unwitting prey towards its enormous, tooth-filled mouth.
Question was, am I the prey, or am I the lure?
I reached my desk and pulled the swivel chair back a little to allow me easy access and reached down beneath the desk to turn on the computer. Another quick look at the watch told me I had another three minutes before I had to be on duty and, though I despise the people that call this a place of work I am fiercely committed to my job and thus far, in three years, have managed a one hundred percent record of both attendance and punctuality. Not once have I missed a shift through illness or family problems, or any other excuse, for an excuse is all it can be thought of, nor once have I commenced work even a second late. I pride myself on my unblemished record, knowing that, of the three hundred or so foreskins that are employed by the company, none other than myself can lay claim to such a boast.
I am unique here, standing tall, superior in every regard to the weak of mind and body that I am compelled to interact with.
And such conversations.
I have to hold myself back for fear I may fucking burst with interest as they witter on endlessly about network protocols, convergence and platform dependence.
The dullards.
As if I care?
But at least they deign to talk to me. Many simply choose to ignore, walking through the main doors and past my post without so much as a glance, let alone a cheery ‘Good morning,’ or ‘Hi, Clive.’ I suspect they don’t even know my name. Watching them put so much effort into pretending I do not even exist gives me some understanding of how the homeless must feel. There is one derelict guy locally who always situates himself on the bridge just outside the train station, forcing commuters to walk past him on their way to and from the building and I have actually seen people physically leaning away from him as they walk past as if they believe that even passing close by him may contaminate them in some way. These freaks treat me in much the same way; eyes down, walking swiftly, pretending to do something on their phone even though it’s not even switched on.
Ignorance taken to breath-taking levels.
So, yeah, I love my job, I just hate the animals I work with.
All save one.

NOW

A light breakfast was all she could stomach, and weariness blurred her vision as Heather sipped from the too hot coffee. Greg’s call from the previous night still played in her mind and she could not help but picture his face in her minds eye as she gazed absent-mindedly out of the kitchen window, watching as two cats eyed each other warily in the garden. The felines were unfamiliar to her, though her back garden was often home to myriad animals; wild birds, hedgehogs and domesticated cats all roam there on occasion, so perhaps these creatures were treading new ground in the hunt for a mate, or searching for food fresher than that found in a can and handed to them by a well trained human. She wondered which way this encounter would go: would they fight, or would they retreat from each other and go their separate ways? They certainly did not appear to be partners in either crime or companionship, as the bristling fur at the nape of their necks suggested hostility at play.
Turning away from the drama unfolding outside, she took another mouthful of the cooling liquid, glancing at the clock mounted on the kitchen wall to ensure she was still in plenty of time for work. Though grateful for the late night call, the hour of its reception meant that her usual sleep pattern had been interrupted as she had been unable to reclaim sleep for more than an hour after hanging up and she was suffering for it now. Swallowing the last of the coffee, hoping that its stimulating effects would counteract her own natural tiredness she stood and moved to the sink, swilling the mug under the cold tap before placing the vessel onto the draining board to dry whilst she was away. Another quick flick of the eyes towards the clock told her it was definitely time to make a move, and she made for the front door, pausing briefly only to claim her shoulder bag from the living room sofa, swinging the handle over her head so that the leather satchel swung comfortably into place, just below hip level.
Leaving the living room, she plucked her car keys from the wooden rack that Greg had crafted last Easter – he’d made one hell of a mess with the wood plain in the garden, and Heather still teased him about how much timber had been required to fashion an object so small to his complete satisfaction – and left the building.
Her mind began to tick over, planning the day ahead feverishly, feeling altogether disorganised, something she prided herself on avoiding. Usually, the last thing she did before getting ready for bed was make a few notes in her diary about the following day’s schedule, before placing the diary into the shoulder bag, then the shoulder bag onto the sofa ready for the morning routine; drink, grab, leave. The absence of Greg, though, had clouded her mind and she had resorted instead to curling up on the sofa with a large glass of red wine and a well-watched DVD of Bridget Jones’s Diaries. Though comforting and pleasant enough at the time, it had meant that her planning had been overlooked for once and she was feeling the anxiety of that decision now.
The keys swung between finger and thumb as she held them by the blue Smurf figure her mother had given her as a pretend gift two birthdays ago (the real present had been a very good bottle of gin) and, as she approached her car ready to head for the office, something caught her eye, causing a frown to crease her brow. The car was parked in its usual position, just as she had left it the previous evening, but something on the pavement beside the driver-side door seemed out of place. The early morning sunlight was reflecting back at her off a multitude of tiny items at ground level and, briefly, she had no idea what she was looking at. As she neared the vehicle however, the source of the sparkle became clear and, whilst pleasing to the eye in an aesthetic sense, as the multi-faceted surfaces reflected and refracted the weak light, a rainbow of colours and shades, it also caused a shiver of nervousness to run through her body. The wing-mirror of her small Fiesta hung limply from its plastic casing, three cables of coiled steel holding it in position. The objects she had seen at a distance on the pavement were the shattered fragments of the mirror itself, which had been damaged beyond repair. She walked closer still, stooping slightly to inspect the wing-mirror where it hung, lifting it away from the side of the vehicle to get a better look.
The mirror was totally destroyed, lying in pieces at her feet, but what troubled her most were the markings on the plastic housing. Mud was smeared across the matt surface, though the smudging effect was not sufficient to conceal the fact that there were patterns present, clearly identifiable as a footprint, revealing that this had been an act of vandalism, not a chance accident. The circular, spiralling shapes she was looking at were similar to those on the soles of her own trainers, though she had certainly not been the perpetrator. During the night, some dubious creature had walked down the street and wilfully swung a leg at the wing-mirror of her car, smashing it to smithereens and, what troubled her the most was the thought that this had been no random attack. What if she had been targeted deliberately? Had she angered someone sufficiently in the immediate past to cause them to vent their fury in this mindless manner? She could think of no sound reason anybody would have to be upset with her and, certainly, not to the extent of committing this act of cowardice. Perhaps she had caused a grievance of which she was unaware – different people’s minds work in very different ways to each other, of that she was certain – in which case she may never know the true reason for the damage inflicted.
Stepping back, dropping the wing-mirror back to its original position, hanging loosely against the paintwork of the drivers door, she cast her eyes up and down the street, unsure what she was expecting to see. The perpetrator was hardly likely to have remained in the vicinity once the crime had been committed, but still she could not shake the thought that she was under scrutiny. What if the vandal had indeed remained and was, at that precise moment, enjoying the sport of watching her in distress. No-one was in sight but, a little further up the road, on the pavement, next to another car was another smattering of glass fragments. She made towards it, crouching when she reached the damaged mirror, pondering what sort of person wanders the streets at night damaging strangers’ cars.
And there, further still, another wrecked wing-mirror.
Somewhat relieved, the vandalism to the other cars revealing that whoever had done this had clearly not been targeting her directly and had instead been on a destructive rampage of random abandon, the worry that she had been feeling was alleviated and, in its place, a new sensation: anger. The thought of a mindless buffoon stalking the night, no doubt out of his mind – it was bound to be a he, she knew – with drink or drugs, finding his only source of amusement the wanton destruction of other people’s belongings. Never mind if the owner of the vehicle could afford the repair bill, for such a low level of damage would not be covered by all but the most generous of insurance policies. Never mind the inconvenience and general nuisance that his behaviour caused. He was drunk, he was high, he was just having a bit of fun. It’s harmless really, a victimless crime, where no-one gets hurt and the act is forgotten by the time the hangover passes.
‘Jesus.’
She hissed the word, teeth clamped together, jaw pulsing with a simmering rage. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became and, again, she was looking around, only this time she wasn’t worried about being spied upon, this time she hoped to see the culprit so she could walk up to him and cuff him one with the back of her wrist. Anyone who can be so cowardly is undeserving of the respect implicit in fearing them, as only an individual with no moral fortitude would behave thusly.
Spineless thug.
Still furious, Heather glanced at her wristwatch, dismayed to note the amount of time she had spent examining the villains handiwork. Running fifteen minutes late already and all too aware that, as the traffic built up as nine o’clock neared, she would only become later still the more she delayed, she moved back to her Fiesta and clambered behind the wheel, already reaching for the mobile phone in her shoulder bag to place a call to her boss to inform her that she would be a little late.
She dialled.



THEN: November
The Seven Stars brimmed full of life, all manner of customer eager to claim their liquid prize at the bar, two members of staff struggling to keep on top of the unusually heavy flow of foot traffic that passed through the establishment. Saturday nights were always lively but, due to the combination of a home football match for the native team and a popular band playing at the local music venue, the customer count was well above the norm.
‘You keeping up?’
John glanced across at Sarah, his work colleague, taking the opportunity to briefly run his eyes up and down her profile, eyes drawn to the small swelling at chest level, a momentary distraction but enough to cause the drink he was pouring to overflow.
‘Damn.’
With a practiced hand he tipped the last quarter from the top of the glass and refilled it, allowing sufficient room for the head to develop as the brown ale settled over the next few minutes.
‘67p, please.’
The customer handed over the money and plucked the glass from the bar counter, retiring to his customary seat in the furthest corner of the room.
‘Doing ok. Just difficult to remember the prices sometimes.’
‘Don’t worry. Took me two months or so to get them all off pat. The customers will normally help you out. ‘Specially the regulars.’
She nodded, grateful for the tip, however trivial. After one week behind the bar, she felt that her ‘honeymoon period’ was over and that now, any mistakes made would reflect badly upon herself and her ability to learn swiftly, something she had emphasised during her interview for the job.
‘Is it always this busy?’
It was her first Saturday night proper. Even though she had started work the previous Saturday, her initial shift had ended at seven in the evening so she had not experienced the full onslaught of customers, many waiting until later in the evening to commence the weekly ritual of gross inebriation.
‘No. This is about as bad as it gets.’
She leaned forward, tilting her head slightly to take the next order, a rum and Coke, before spinning on her heels to prepare the drink. Unable to locate the rum, she asked for assistance and John was only too happy to come to her aid, standing slightly closer to her than was necessary as he pointed out the correct optic.
‘Make sure you get every last drop. They complain if they think you are serving short measures.’
‘OK. How long should I hold it for?’
‘Drain the optic, then hold it for another couple of seconds. Shake the glass a bit underneath so they can see you are getting as much out as possible.’
She smiled to herself, amused at the theatrics required to perform such a rudimentary task, but thankful nevertheless for his help. John had been good to her since she started, showing her the ropes, giving her useful hints and tips, the kind of things no staff training manual would ever have taught her. Not that she had been provided with such a document. The Sevens Stars was a nice enough pub, but it wasn’t the bloody Savoy. The clientele were sociable enough, but what they wanted was cheap grog, not high culture and finesse.
She stepped away from him slightly, aware of his unnecessary proximity, neither threatened nor allured, instead mildly entertained. He was a nice enough chap but definitely not her type. Still, best to play to his ego if she wanted his assistance. She plucked a tumbler from beneath the counter and held it in position beneath the dispenser, pushing up gently to activate the mechanism that would release the appropriate measure into the glass. The fluid drained swiftly but, as instructed, she held the glass for a second or two longer, tapping the glass against the plastic casing that bore the legend ’25ml’ in large lettering. She moved the glass away from the bottle, watching as the small optic refilled itself with the potent brew before turning back to the bar and placing the drink in front of the customer.
‘And a bitter splash, please.’
Sarah proceeded to pour the requested drink, this time without recourse to assistance from John, and placed the second glass in front of the customer.
‘Anything else?’
‘No thanks, that’s fine,’ the portly fellow replied, handing her a five pound note.
She trotted dutifully to the till, a large, vaguely old-fashioned affair with oversized plastic buttons that had to be depressed with considerable force to ring in the required amounts, pressing the yellow subtotal button with a straining thumb to reveal the amount owed, the white plastic numbers displayed behind a small perspex window.
‘That’s one fifty two altogether.’
The man just nodded as he handed over a five pound note, apparently impatient to complete the transaction so that he could set to work on his beverage. Sarah grasped at the coins in the segmented areas in the till tray, doing the arithmetic mentally, slamming the till draw shut slightly harder than she intended, feeling unaccountably nervous due to his apparent shift in demeanour.
‘That’s three forty eight change. Enjoy your drinks.’
He looked at her strangely, as if she were some breed of imbecile unworthy of a response before uttering, ‘Only one is mine.’
Sarah didn’t know where to look, her attempts at polite intercourse having fallen well and truly flat, and found herself gazing distractedly at the floor, unable to meet his gaze.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean….’ She began, before silencing herself.
‘I know what you meant.’
Irritated, the man snatched the two glasses from the bar, not affording her another glance and stormed off to claim his seat.
‘Christ,’ she muttered under her breath, shaking slightly, vexed at both her own reaction and the individuals irrational response to a fairly mundane statement. Making a mental note to not repeat the mistake, her mental musings drifted to a darker place. The last barmaid who had worked at The Stars had been found murdered the morning after completing her shift, the police alerted to her disappearance by her flat mate. Though no-one had yet been implicated in the killing, the police had interviewed all staff members, as well as several of the regular drinkers who frequented the pub. The commonly held theory locally was that the killer must have been known to her and may well have been a customer known to all. She stared at the back of the departing figure, still unnerved by his behaviour and she began to wonder. It had become a habit of hers since starting the job to ponder over each of the men that frequented the pub, analysing the behaviour and body language of each and the disturbing thought that kept recurring was simply:
‘Have I looked into the eyes of the killer?’
And more besides: ‘Have I spoken to him?’
‘Have I touched his hand as I passed him his change? The very hand that he used to strangle poor Hazel to death.’
With a shake of the head, not to mention a slight inner shudder, Sarah continued with her job, taking the next order of drinks and dismissing the notions as swiftly as they had materialised.

‘What took so long?’
Thomas looked up at his companion enquiringly as the drinks were placed on the wooden table, leaning forward immediately to clasp the pint of bitter. He held it up to eye level as his friend positioned himself in the seat opposite, enjoying the sight of the froth of the ale settling into a perfect head, roughly an inch deep.
‘That new barmaid’s lippy,’ came the explanation and by the tone no further elaboration seemed likely.
‘Well, cheers.”
Thomas raised the glass to his lips, taking a deep, prolonged sip, drawing the dark yet clear fluid up into his mouth, savouring the flavour momentarily before swallowing. With a satisfied sigh, he wiped his top lip with the back of his hand to remove the excess foam.
‘I needed that, I can tell you.’
“Cheers,’ intoned Neil, repeating the same process with his smaller glass of rum, imbibing a small sip of the fiery brew, holding it in his mouth for a second or two to release the rich, aromatic flavours before allowing the liquid to burn its way down the back of his throat.
‘You bring the cards?’
‘I did indeed.’
Neil reached behind him, tugging awkwardly at the sleeve of his jacket which was placed over the back of the chair, attempting to draw the item towards him, around his somewhat well proportioned belly to allow him access to the inside pocket. After a moment or two of struggle the object he sought was located and he liberated the pack of playing cards from the coats innards, dropping the coat back behind him and placing the cards on the table. Thomas plucked them from the surface, popping open the flap of cardboard at the top before tipping them vertically, jigging the pack slightly from side to side to assist gravity in freeing them from their packaging. Task complete he placed the deck in the centre of the table, dropping the packet onto the seat next to him, out of harms way. Without a word needing to be spoken, Neil split the deck, ensuring that the card at the bottom of the split he held remained obscured from Thomas’ view, and Thomas did likewise. Neil held his cards up, flashing the underside of his mini pack at his friend before glancing at it himself.
‘Four of clubs. Good start.’
Subdued.
Thomas revealed the card he held, a nine of diamonds, meaning he got to choose the evenings game.
‘Not bloody cribbage.’
Thomas frowned.
‘I thought you liked crib?’
‘I do, but I’d have to go and get the board. I don’t want to speak to her again for a while.’
‘Bloody hell, she has upset you. ‘
Neil just nodded, still unwilling to divulge the nature of the distress. For several weeks he had been feeling particularly unwell and was at present awaiting the results of a blood test he had undergone a few days previously. At thirty seven, he looked almost ten years older, two decades of heavy drinking and even heavier smoking finally catching up with him. A routine visit to the doctor some four weeks previously to seek advice as to why he felt so lethargic had resulted in her noting concern as to his lifestyle, as well as suggesting that he may be suffering from early onset liver disease. Cirrhosis was the word she had used and she had insisted that she examine him there and then. Demanding that he strip to his waist, she had proceeded to prod and probe at his abdominal region, pushing her fingers sharply into his ribs, even forcing her fingers underneath the ribcage slightly. Her initial findings had not been promising. Explaining that his liver felt slightly enlarged, she then took a blood test, apparently to analyse the activity of his liver enzymes. Trouble was, the hospital had botched the results, mixing up two batches of samples rendering the findings useless, resulting in him having to return to repeat the procedure.
That had been two days ago, and the actual results were expected any day now. The barmaids off the cuff remark had only served to remind him of the quantities of alcohol he had been drinking for so many years and self-inflicted guilt had coloured his reaction.
‘I know. It’s been a bad day.’
‘Okay, no crib then. How about Rummy. It seems appropriate. In honour of your Caribbean friend.’
Thomas pointed at the glass of rum on the table, looking at his friend for a reaction, expecting at least a flicker of a smile but Neil remained stony faced.
‘Fucking hell. Just deal the bloody cards.’

Neil laid seven cards onto the table, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he declared ‘Rummy.’
‘Four in a row, my friend. You’ve got some work to do.’
Thomas nodded absent-mindedly, thoughts not really on the game.
Neil waited a second or two, expecting his companion to gather up the cards to commence another round, but his eyes seemed distant, not in the same place as he.
‘Earth to Tom. Calling Tom.’
Thomas glanced across at his friend somewhat sheepishly, forced to admit that he wasn’t quite in the right frame of mind for the game.
‘We can call it quits if you want. Chalk it down as a default victory to the plump one.’
Thomas smiled, amused by the self-deprecating nature of Neil’s humour and shook his head.
‘No, let’s play on. I don’t want you getting carried away with yourself in your moment of temporary glory.’ He collected up the cards, shuffling them with the skilful dexterity of a lifelong player and redistributed them appropriately, eight for Neil and seven for himself.
Neil studied his cards for a moment before rearranging them in his hand into his preferred positions, from high to low left to right, with matching pairs lined against each other, but following suited sequences wherever possible and logical to better enable him to ascertain precisely what he held in his hand with the briefest of glances. As the game proceeded, the actual make-up of the hand was liable to change often so, by constructing the hand into the preferred format upon first deal, he felt more confident that he wouldn’t miss a potentially vital opportunity.
‘Do you want to talk about it Tom? Or not? Either way…..’
Thomas glanced up from his own cards which he too was rearranging according to his own preference; low to high right to left.
‘There’s not much to talk about mate, in all honesty. Just home stuff really. Cheryl’s getting under my skin and I get the impression she’s doing it deliberately.’
‘Really? That doesn’t sound like Cheryl to me.’
Reluctant to engage in an argument, even of the most gentle nature in his present mental mode, Thomas merely accepted the comment without refute. Though the statement had brought a momentary flash of annoyance, he was able to keep his emotions in check and not let his outward demeanour betray his inner state.
‘I know. Maybe it’s me misinterpreting things.’
His mind wandered off again, nothing really being processed, simply a vague white noise occupying the place where thought should reside, the only external stimuli that registered being the latest single by Spandau Ballet, ‘Gold’, a crushingly awful New Romantic number blaring from the Wurlitzer Barcarole jukebox situated just to the right of where the two men were seated, only serving to add to his irritation.
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’
‘Until I’m blue in the face. Listen, I don’t want to be rude but can we talk about something else?
Neil held his hands up in a placatory manner, indicating compliance and hoping to suggest that no offence had been intended.
The two men continued their game in silence for several minutes, Neil winning the next two, making six in succession, with Thomas managing to get his first point on the board with the third hand dealt.
Neil, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the unusual tension that seemed to have developed between the pair searched his mind for a subject that he could raise to break the silence.
‘Still no news on Hazel.’
Thomas shot him daggers.
‘Why are you bringing that up now? Can’t we have one fucking night without mentioning Hazel. I’m fucking sick of hearing about her.’
Tom’s breath was ragged, coming in short rasps and, in his eyes, a genuine fury blazed.
Neil sat back, dropping the cards onto the table as he did so, though ensuring that they landed face down so as not to reveal his hand.
‘Tom, just trying to start a conversation.’
Thomas sat back himself, leaning firmly against the cushioned back of the wall-length seat on which he was perched and raised a hand to his face, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them with thumb and index finger attempting, though unsuccessfully, to dispel the ache that gnawed behind the orbs. He dropped his hand away from his head and opened his eyes, his breathing more controlled now and eyed his companion coolly.
‘I’m done for the night. Sorry Neil. I’m just not in the mood.’
And with that he stood, picked up his coat and left the public house, leaving in his wake a bewildered friend of long-standing gaping open mouthed at his departing figure and a glass half full of warm bitter.

NOW

Heather made to pull onto the car park of her place of work, driving a little more quickly than usually she would due to her tardiness and was forced to slam down hard on the brakes as a lady wheeling a pushchair stepped into her line of sight. In her haste, she had been paying insufficient attention to what was going on around her and, save for a weighty brake pedal foot she could well have mown down the unfortunate pedestrian, child and all. Her breath came out in a hiss between clenched teeth, annoyed at herself for her anxiety despite the fact that she had informed her line manager of the reason for her late arrival, but feeling guilty regardless. It was out of all proportion to the crime committed and, to compound her irritation at her own level of self-criticism, this was the first time she had been late for as long as she could remember. Always punctual, always in attendance she was a model employee yet now, because of the actions of some club-footed Neanderthal venting their frustrations on her wing-mirror, she was working herself up into a real state of agitation.
‘Calm down, Jenkins,’ she told herself, and she managed to follow her own advice, at least partially.
As the pushchair-bound pedestrian cleared the entryway to the car park with a wave of acknowledgement, Heather eased her foot off the brake, raised the clutch pedal to bite and pushed down on the gas, inching forward now whilst she regained her composure fully. She spied a likely parking spot, near enough to the entrance to be convenient, but not so near as to attract the interest of the local constabulary. She wasn’t at all sure that the vehicle was road-worthy now that the mirror was hanging limply at the side of the car, and had been totally preoccupied on the journey in, watching her rear-view mirror almost constantly for fear of seeing a white car pull in behind her, blue beacons on top of the vehicle flashing demanding that she pull over. Unsurprisingly, no such event had occurred and again she was forced to mentally chide herself for her nervous disposition. It was as if she had inherited the mind of a criminal, constantly on the lookout for danger, always alert, suspicious, never able to relax entirely. Greg constantly scoffed, though kindly, when she became convinced that she had done something wrong, either in a legal sense or in a moral sense, particularly when it came to other people. It seemed she was always the one to hold the door open for the old man or help the pregnant woman with her shopping and, on the rare instance when she had a lapse in judgement or, indeed, when she simply had not noticed the person in need, she berated herself severely.
‘To err is human,’ he reminded her on occasion, even buying her a second hand copy of the major works of Alexander Pope to read and contemplate, something she had yet to accomplish.
Vehicle safely ensconced in the parking bay, Heather opened the door and clambered from the drivers seat, gingerly pushing the door closed again, applying just sufficient force for the latch to engage to enable her to activate the central locking, not wanting to bang the loosely hanging wing-mirror against the paintwork any more than she already had during the drive in. Car locked, the dropped the keys into a back pouch on her shoulder bag before attempting to iron out the ‘journey creases’ in the back of her trousers with both hands, running them from buttock down to knee level, fully aware that it wouldn’t make one jot of difference, but feeling better for the act all the same.
She headed for her office, the large, illuminated sign atop the building looming large before her eyes:
Telecommunics.
As she neared the double doors, Heather reached automatically into her shoulder bag, not having to search, knowing by touch alone precisely where her security card was located and producing it just as she reached the obstacle. A quick swipe of the magnetic strip against the scanner and she was allowed entry, the dimness of the interior accentuated by the bright sunlight of the outside world that promised another searingly hot day. Every time she had turned on the weather lately it seemed the forecaster was describing another new high ‘since records began,’ a phrase that always made her smile as it seemed somehow pompous to her ears, putting her in mind of a medieval scribe jotting down his calculations and readings with feather quill scratching noisily against rough vellum. The heat had been overpowering during the day but, thankfully, the temperature seemed to drop considerably at night and she was grateful that she worked in an office with an air-conditioning system more than capable of standing up to the power of Mother Nature. Just yesterday, on her drive home from the office she had seen a troop of road workers, stripped to the waist, dripping sweat whilst operating hot, oily machinery and had genuinely felt for them, realising just how lucky she was. She was no fool though and realised that those men would have been as out of place behind a computer desk as she would have been operating a pneumatic drill, yet the empathy she felt was genuine.
Blinking to allow her eyes to adjust to the lower light levels, Heather entered the building, feeling at once the soothing flush of the cool air pumped around the buildings interior in a constant flow. She dropped the card back into the inner compartment of her bag and walked forward, noticing Clive sitting behind his station, alert as ever, watching every individual as they walked past, impassive. He reminded Heather of Alan Sugar during one of his boardroom grillings in the way that he, like Sir Alan, was utterly unreadable. Though she had a fondness for Clive, he seemed a genuinely kind man, his expression always remained neutral, and she found this, not troubling just…unusual. Every morning, if at his post, she would go out of her way to engage him in conversation – nothing huge, just a little chit-chat – and there were never occasions when it felt awkward, both parties contributing sufficiently for the small talk to flow freely. But his expression never altered. Whether she was cracking a joke, complaining about a work colleague or telling him that her best friend’s cat had died, his face never changed at all, betraying no emotion, almost robotic in its neutrality, though the words that came from his mouth were always appropriate to the situation.
A strange guy, but pleasant enough.
As she approached, Clive stood, pushing back the chair on its rollers so that it banged against the wall behind him. He ignored it, instead inclining his head slightly in her direction in his customary greeting, towering above her, a genuine giant of a man whose physique alone made him more than qualified for his duties as a Senior Security Officer, his official title at Telecommunics.
‘Morning, Clive.’
‘Good morning, Heather,’ he said affably, though a smile did not crack his features as would have been normal if anybody else had uttered the words. ‘Late today? Not like you.’
She nodded agreement, pleased to hear the acknowledgement of her own punctuality, particularly from somebody such as Clive, a man whom she knew prided himself on both his professionalism and his punctuality.
‘A nightmare morning, I’m afraid. Don’t ask.’
‘Too late.’
She smiled at him, not expecting the gesture to be reciprocated.
‘My car was vandalised over night. Somebody kicked the wing-mirror off.’
‘You serious?’
The question was pertinent, though again his features remained unaltered.
‘Afraid so. Not just mine. Two or three other cars had been damaged as well. Probably some drunk thinking it was funny.’
‘Are you ok?’
She appreciated the concern and, now that she thought about it, after the initial bout of nervousness quickly followed by anger, she realised that she had calmed down completely now any lingering anxiety was only associated with running late for work.
‘I’m fine, Clive. Thanks for asking. Listen, don’t want to be rude but you know I hate being late. Maybe speak to you later….’ She said, backing away from his post.
‘No problem, Heather. Nice to see you.’
She turned completely, heading for the lifts that would take her up the three floors to her place of work. She rounded the corner, out of the building foyer now and approached them. There were three lifts in all, servicing the six floors that made up the Telecommunics offices, more than sufficient to transport the steady flow of workers from floor to floor. Pressing the call button that served as a signal to any available carriage, she waited for her vertical ride, mind already busily engaged planning the finer details of the first call she needed to make once her work day began in earnest.

I held the black biro tightly, gripped between both fists, hands held underneath the desk out of sight, away from prying eyes. As each new employee arrived I watched them, but it was as if they didn’t see me at all. As if I wasn’t really there. As if I were a thing of no substance, a transparency. Simultaneously as insignificant yet essential to them as the air they breath for I am the one that keeps them safe and ensures the smooth running of the building, yet as invisible to them as the gas itself.
They disgust me.
Here’s one now, Stephen from Human Resources. I’ve seen the way he behaves, though he has no idea I have been observing. His behaviour alters dramatically depending on whether he is dealing with a male or female employee. With the men he is business-like, professional, dealing with problems and personalities with a detached authority that, reluctantly, I admire. With the women he becomes an altogether different animal, all smarm and ego, preening and boasting, chest puffed out and head held improbably high like a peacock putting on a performance. I’d like to gut him like a fucking fish, slice him from top to tail, see how self-important he feels then.
The biro snapped in my hand, small plastic splinters embedding themselves in the soft flesh of my palms.
Here’s another, Jenny from the second floor. I am not entirely sure what she does, besides waste the planet’s vital oxygen supply. A stuck-up, arrogant, self-serving Über-bitch if ever there was one. She has only deemed it necessary to speak to me once, and it was a visibly difficult act on her behalf. Her lips were curled down, her nostrils flaring slightly, frowning the whole time. It was as if she were conducting a conversation with the dog shit encrusted sole of a shoe, not a fellow human being, and it took all of my reserves of willpower not to strike her down, there and then. Wasp-like, with a facial expression that suggests she is sucking on warm faeces, she is the kind of woman the word harridan was invented to describe. Deeply unpleasant, I could linger over her demise. Teach her a thing or two about manners while I’m at it:
Thank her after every slash of the blade.
I was getting agitated, and I knew it, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to control my rage with every passing week. As the cattle passed before my vantage point, few even bothering to glance this way, even fewer acknowledging that an actual real, flesh and blood person is sitting here, I counted the ways I could exterminate them, from the mundane to the truly murderously morbid, plotting the downfall of each and every one of them.
To soothe myself, I reflected on an article I had read in a back issue of Redwatch. It has become something of an obsession of mine but, after several years of effort I have almost completed the entire back catalogue, no simple task as, in these hideously liberal times that we live tracking down neo-Nazi material is not as easy as simply looking it up on Google. I suppose many would consider my interest in such subject matter a little odd, even unpalatable but the world view of such writers is in keeping with my own, in an ideological sense.
I’m not crazy though.
I just happen to share some of their views, particularly with regards immigration and, especially, the ideology of the Übermensch as set out by Nietzsche. We are weak as a species, getting weaker by the generation as the loony left find excuses for the limp-wristed, the morally bereft and any other Tom, Dick or Imran to continue to exist. It seems tolerance is the watchword, as long as the tolerance only goes one way. And I’m hardly committing crime of the century. All I want is to gather together a complete collection of Blood & Honours’ Redwatch magazine for future posterity but, should I follow normal channels no doubt I would be ear-marked, flagged up on some database or other as ‘one to watch’ by a government content to pay state benefits to extremist Imam’s.
I was getting angry again, trembling a little at the injustice of it all, unable to shake the conviction that the whole system was weighted against people like me. How else to explain the fact that I was standing here, earning barely minimum wage whilst they, the snivelling shit-stains that paraded before me got to ride in the lifts to the upper floors to do their work and count the zeroes at the end of their bank balance. I should set fire to the fucking place. I had it planned. I knew it could be done, during the lull between eleven and lunch, stand outside and watch the fuckers burn. Maybe even set a tape recorded announcement going over the tannoy so they knew why it was happening. Just the sound of me laughing, every so often telling them….
She walked in.
I only saw her in silhouette due to the ferocity of the sunlight behind, but I knew it was her. For one fantasy moment I even thought I could smell her, as if her pheremones were strong enough to be physically detectable, but I knew that not to be the case.
I’m not crazy.
I watched her discreetly from where I sat, eyes flicking intermittently between computer screen and her lovely form. I watched as she dropped something into her bag – her swipe card presumably, and delighted as she noticed me sitting here and began to approach, though I pretended that I had not seen her to begin with. Only when she was a few feet away did I look up and stand, courteous as always, the chair banging against the back wall in my haste, but I didn’t respond to it, just let it be.
‘Morning, Clive,’ she said and my eyes focused on her lips, imagining what it would feel like to slip a finger or two between them
‘Good morning, Heather,’ I said in as calm a tone as possible, hoping not to betray outwardly any of the lustful thoughts that tumbled, one over the other in my mind, the kind of thoughts that would make a pornographer blush. ‘Late today? Not like you.’
She nodded at me, smiling a little as if pleased with the fact that I had paid her a small compliment, however indirect.
My hands were on her breasts, toying with them before rising higher, grabbing her shoulders, pushing her down so that her eager mouth could claim me.
‘A nightmare morning, I’m afraid. Don’t ask.’
‘Too late.’
She took my full length without flinching, saliva greasing her throat as my erection glided over her tongue and she set to work proper.
She smiled again, and in those eyes I thought I saw my lust reflected back at me, hot and intense, though only for an instant. Could it be that she was thinking similar thoughts as me.
‘My car was vandalised over night. Somebody kicked the wing-mirror off.’
‘You serious?’
I thrust deeper, deeper, and she started to protest a little, pulling back, but I held her firm, grasping the back of her head with both hands, not allowing her to withdraw, forcing myself into her.
‘You bite me I’ll slit your throat, bitch,’ I hissed
‘Afraid so. Not just mine. Two or three other cars had been damaged as well. Probably some drunk thinking it was funny,’ she said
‘Are you ok?’
I held her in place, my hips jutting forward, back, forward, back until I could contain myself no longer, gushing into her before pushing her away. I looked down at her and tears spilled over her cheeks.
‘I’m fine, Clive. Thanks for asking. Listen, don’t want to be rude but you know I hate being late. Maybe speak to you later….’ She said, backing away from me, as if somehow she had sensed the darkness of my thoughts and was repulsed by them. Or perhaps she was afraid. Afraid of the white heat that seemed to have built up there momentarily between us betraying, for just a fleeting second, the pent up frustration we both felt at having to live our lives so separately.
‘No problem, Heather. Nice to see you.’
I watched her go, away from me and towards the lifts, not really seeing her anymore, at least not in the real world for I had delved back into the realms of fantasy; she tied down, thrashing madly, unable to break free of the bonds fashioned from plastic binding that dug deeply into ankle and wrist, drawing blood.
I fell upon her.

RECENT
The building was old-fashioned, a small, thatched cottage affair, though larger than most of the same style, set against a backdrop of towering elm trees that dwarfed the structure, the distinctive upwardly pointing branches of the breed seeming to claw their way skywards, as if the plant were seeking escape from the Earth upon which it was rooted. A small country lane wound its way through the perfect picture-postcard landscape, passing some thirty metres in front of the structure, the distance between covered by a well-tended lawn, a privet hedge and three parking bays, more than sufficient for the usual flow of customers and clients.
Crozier Cat Sanctuary had been operating for as long as anybody in the surrounding area could remember, having been founded in the early sixties, back when it was still fashionable to kick dogs for sport and under-nourish cats in a bid to utilise their natural rodent catching instincts. Times had changed, though whether for the better was an argument that spanned generations, yet still the Crozier Sanctuary was much needed, her enclosures always full to capacity, seventy two felines all seeking new owners. The cats, though captives within their individual units, were nevertheless well cared for, twenty four hour supervision provided as well as, to the amusement of many that visited the centre, a full central heating system and plenty of space to stretch their legs. Tucked in the corner of each room was a scratching post, all the better to vent their frustration at the temporary confinement.
Janice walked along the first row of enclosures, peering in through the windows to take a look at each inmate in turn, the sunlight reflecting off the glass impairing her vision slightly. The first three animals had seemed fine and it was only now, as she looked through the window trying to make out the tiny form of Little Joe, a delicate bundle of fur that had been abandoned by his owner some two weeks ago, that she was given reason to pause.
She could not see him.
Little Joe, adorable, a black and white hairball, small for his age, estimated at five months yet still he could sit in the palm of your hand quite comfortably, had been left on the doorstep of the sanctuary by an owner who had run out of either the means or the desire to care for him. Worse still, for reasons Janice could not even begin to fathom the owner had elected to tie one front paw and one back paw to the steel wiring that made up the walls of the cage he had been dumped in meaning that, from the time he was placed inside until the time she had found him upon arriving for work poor LJ, as she had come to think of him, had been completely unable to move and had struggled so fiercely to free himself that the string used to bind him had cut savagely into his back leg, a wound that had not entirely healed even now despite her best efforts.
Where was he?
‘LJ’ she called, hoping to see his ears prick up, perhaps believing it to be feeding time, but still he was not in sight.
‘LJ’ she said again, this time reaching down to her waistband to grab at the key ring. She pulled the item free and swiftly selected the key to LJ’s enclosure, unlocking it and stepping into the small room, making sure to close the door behind her.
‘LJ,’ she repeated, but had no need to repeat herself further. There he was, curled up right in the corner nearest the door, so small and compacted when balled that he had not been visible from the window. He moved now, sleepily uncoiling himself and lifting his head to look at her.
‘Morning sleepy bean,’ she said to him, and he yawned at her in response.
‘Sorry to wake you. I was a bit worried. You get back to your dreams, there’s a good boy,’ and she backed out of the room, adopting the well-drilled exit strategy – legs close together, eyes on animal at all times, body pressed against doorframe and the door itself to minimise gaps that an opportunistic animal may exploit - though she knew that there was no risk of flight here.
She continued her rounds, encountering no problems as she went other than an errant wasp that seemed intent upon scaring her half to death, without ever intending to make good on its threat and actually sting her, content merely to menace her as she walked. Once the rounds were complete and all enclosures and occupants checked, she headed away from the back garden of the property where the animals were housed and traipsed down the side of the cottage. As she rounded the corner and made to walk along the front of the building, she was surprised to see somebody standing on the front doorstep of the sanctuary, peering through the glass door, imitating her posture from just a few minutes earlier. As she approached, she looked him over surreptitiously, putting all of her experience to the test as she attempted to ascertain the suitability of this gentlemen for cat adoption by looks alone, for surely that was his reason for being here. Though not foolproof she found that, nine times out of ten, first impressions were accurate in this business.
‘Good morning,’ she called cheerfully when she was five or so metres away and he stood up sharply, appearing startled.
Not a good sign.
‘Oh, er, good morning.’
Janice expected that the stranger would hold out his hand to be shaken, but when no such gesture was forthcoming she took the lead, pumping his hand firmly when he reciprocated, surprised by the lack of warmth that eked from his flesh on a morning so fine and fresh. The feel of his skin made her think of cold car seats and park benches on a frosty October morning and she released his hand with some relief.
‘Can I help you? She enquired as she set about unlocking the door, pushing it open fully before using a foot to guide a small wooden wedge into the gap between door and carpet to keep it in place throughout the day. She walked into the reception area of the sanctuary without waiting for a response, fully expecting that he would behave like a rational human being and follow her in with no further bidding.
When she turned around he was gone.
Janice stared at the empty doorway for a second or two, mouth agape in the position of cliché before returning to the front door once more.
Of the man, there was no sign, and the only clue that he had actually existed at all and had not been some bizarre figment of her imagination were his footprints on the doorstep, muddy impressions carried from puddle to paving.
‘What a strange man,’ she thought.

NOW
I sat, sentinel still in the four wheeled office chair at my post, eyes gazing unblinking at the computer screen, absorbing nothing that was displayed save for the information displayed bottom right.
16:43.
The time for action was approaching, and I felt a shiver of anticipation as I imagined the coming hours, thrilling at the audacity of coming events and at the prize that I would claim at the end as just reward for the hard work and planning that had been required.
A cautious man, this moment had been building for months. Everything had to be just right. Every element carefully measured and controlled, as there was simply no room for error.
And tonight was the night.
Such joys awaited and, almost over eager, I felt a stirring in my groin as blood rushed to my glans.
‘Calmly Clive,’ I told myself, ‘Plenty of time for that later.’
The digital display flicked to 16:45 and I stood, moving swiftly, though not rushing, knowing I had all the time I needed with a few minutes to spare to take account of any unforeseen circumstances – an unwanted request for assistance by one of the slugs that staffed the place, an unexpected visitor to the premises, anything unforeseen that could delay me.
First stop, I moved to the corridor that housed the three lifts that serviced the building, walking by the three sets of doors, using my set of Security Officer keys to unlock a door at the far end of the corridor, perpendicular to the lifts. I slipped inside and moved to the monitoring equipment that was ostensibly used for crime prevention and detection, but in reality was used to snoop on staff members with neither their knowledge nor consent. Upon first commencing employment at Telecommunics, the prospect of the monitoring room had excited me greatly as the thought of surreptitiously spying on people appealed on so many levels and I must confess to a sense of disappointment when I had first laid eyes on the facility. Instead of the wall mounted banks of monitors, each depicting a real-time stream of live-action from the buildings rooms and corridors as I had imagined, instead there were only two monitors, both situated on the same, admittedly large, desk. Between the two monitors was the master control, with one to thirty written in small white lettering, beneath each of which was a black button simply labelled ‘Auto’ and ‘Manual’ at opposing ends, a small, red LED and a long, thin, metallic flick switch that jutted in an ugly fashion from the plastic casing that fronted the device, looking like something you would expect to find on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, not in the security suite of a high-tech telecommunication company. The monitors on either side each displayed an image, indeed in real-time, of events currently occurring in the building, but only two images were ever shown at any time, one on each screen and the machinery itself scrolled automatically through the twenty three cameras that were located at strategic points around the building as, by default, the black button was set to ‘Auto.’
I set about changing that situation.
Knowing by rote which camera was assigned each number, I quickly flicked the buttons from the ‘Auto’ position to manual, one to thirty even though only twenty three were in use before changing the flick switch position from off to on for cameras numbered twenty and twenty one. On the monitor to my left, the screen became momentarily blank as the camera feed it had been displaying was terminated before being replaced by a new feed, the corridor leading to the lifts on floor number three. To my right the other monitor also momentarily lost all picture before rendering a fresh image, that of the main office space on floor three, the camera positioned in such a way as to take in a panoramic view of the work area, the wide angle lens aiding its quest to be all seeing.
I studied the images.
The left hand monitor showed no activity so I quickly turned my attention to the screen to my right, peering at the all too small figures sitting at desks, walking to the photocopier, talking on the telephone. Thing is, I knew precisely where to look as I had disabled all but this camera on more than one occasion previously, though only ever fleetingly, fearful of being caught by a nosy manager. Occasionally, and to my great shame, I had relented once or twice and spent a few precious moments in this room, watching her on the camera.
Watching her as she worked.
Touching myself through my trousers as I thought about her face and arms and neck.
Watching her.
Wanting her.
Yearning.
I moved away from the screens, to a small table secreted at the rear of the room and arranged a couple of mugs in line in front of myself. I reached across the table, flicking the switch on the wall socket to allow electricity to flow to the plug and hit the button on top of the white plastic kettle, lifting the item from its base unit briefly to ensure there was sufficient water inside to allow for two drinks.
Moving back across to the seat near the monitors I spied on my prize in total secrecy, pleased with myself for my own cunning. As I watched, absent-mindedly I lifted one leg onto the opposite knee, scratching at the soles of my shoes, attempting to extricate the tiny glass fragments that had become embedded in the soft rubber.
I waited for the water to boil, content to wallow in my own thoughts for the time being, assured now that everything was in hand.

Heather tutted to herself as she rifled through the contents of a folder on her desk, searching desperately for a document she had seen not five minutes before but which now, mysteriously, appeared to have vanished without trace. A quick flick of the eyes towards the mounted clock on the office wall furthered her irritation. She had determined precisely what she wanted to achieve before she left the office that evening and was some thirty minutes away from doing so, give or take, but the absence of the vital piece of paper was proving quite a hindrance. Without it she couldn’t update her electronic files accordingly and she hated to fall behind in her book-keeping.
The telephone rang. She snatched up the receiver, jamming it to the side of her face angrily, almost causing herself some damage.
‘Heather Jenkins,’ she trilled, her tone of voice completely concealing the annoyance she felt simmering.
‘Oh, hi Clive.’
She listened for a second or two.
‘Yep, you know me. The guilt is overpowering me for being late this morning,’ she quipped, though she knew it was all but the truth, pausing to take in the security man’s words before replying.
‘I know, but the world doesn’t stop turning just because I have an issue.’
She listened again, seeming to puzzle over his words, glancing once more at the clock before reaching a decision.
‘That would be lovely. You’ll have to stop doing this. People will start to talk,’ she said smiling, genuine warmth in her voice.
‘You may be right,’ she concluded before hanging up the receiver, her irritability of just a few moments earlier all but dissipated.
What a nice guy.

I picked up the telephone situated just to the left of the master control unit for the CCTV system, and dialled the extension number that I had memorised so many months ago. I had dialled the number frequently as the weeks had gone by, always at the end of the working day when everybody else had left for home, save for the cleaning staff and Heather. A diligent worker, she often stayed well into the evening, though her terms of employment did not demand that she did so. With careful questioning, subtle and over a great deal of time, I had learnt that her partner often worked away, sometimes even overseas and, on those occasions, she was more prone to put in extra time at work, a way of keeping herself occupied whilst her beau was away on business.
I suspected the worst of him, though. Without ever having met him, I knew he was up to no good.
Greg she had called him, was no doubt indulging in a spot of extra-marital entertainment whilst abroad. Alone in a big city in a foreign country, no strings, no familiar faces, no-one to rat him out, how many men could resist the lure of the lights and the ladies. The scumbag was probably planning his evenings enjoyment even now, not once thinking about Heather, here, all alone back in Engalnd.
Greg was away tonight.
I knew.
I listened as the ‘phone rang once, twice, then ‘Heather Jenkins.’
‘Heather, it’s Clive.’
I kept my voice even, steady, not wishing to betray my excitement at what was to come.
‘Are you working over tonight?’ I asked, knowing full well that she was, studying her on the security camera, allowing my free hand to roam beneath the table, rubbing at myself gently through the cloth of my trousers.
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly your fault.’
I smiled to myself, pleased with my performance, convinced that she was utterly fooled.
‘Fair enough. I’ve just boiled the kettle. You fancy one?’
She paused then and, for just a few moments I thought that she was going to decline. I gripped the receiver, hard, the plastic casing groaning slightly under my ministrations but was able to relax a second later when she agreed.
‘Let them talk. They’re only jealous,’ I said, before finishing with ‘I’ll be up in a bit.’
I moved back to the table at the rear of the room that served as a tiny canteen area. I poured two drinks, one for myself and one for Heather, and popped a dozen or so squares of chocolate onto a plate before transferring all three items onto a tray.
I headed for floor three.

THEN: January

The noise poured through the wall, a deafening cacophony of drums and other more exotic instruments. Over the sound of the music, a high-pitched female vocalist sang in a language that he did not understand, nor cared for in the slightest.
Thomas slammed his fist down hard on the coffee table, causing the tea in his mug to slop from the top, pooling around the base of the beige drinking vessel.
‘Can’t you do something about it?’
Cheryl, his wife of some eleven years stood over him, hands on hips in the characteristic pose of a woman annoyed, eyes bearing down on him, almost challenging in their demand. To Thomas, the look she cast his way communicated with him on so many levels, as myriad questions and accusations passed from she to he by sight alone.
‘Why are you so worthless?’
‘If you were a real man you’d go round there and sort them out.’
‘Did I really marry this?’
Well, fuck her.
He stood suddenly, causing Cheryl to jump back slightly as if afraid that he were about to strike out at her. Whilst the intention had not even entered his mind, the very fact that she seemed a little afraid of him gave him a small sliver of satisfaction.
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘Make sure you do,’ she challenged, always eager to have the last word in any discourse, be it general conversation, raging argument or planning where to go on holiday over the summer break.
‘I said I’ll deal with it.’
‘Don’t let them palm you off. You know what you’re like.’
Slowly losing the will to live, Thomas considered continuing the conversation before deciding it was a pointless exercise. Whatever he said next would simply be countered, disregarded altogether, or give rise to a more heated exchange and, quite frankly, he had neither the energy nor the motivation to prolong the agony. Moving away as calmly as he could, he shinned past the coffee table and headed for the living room door.
‘Give ‘em a piece of your mind. Give ‘em a piece of mine as well, while you’re at it.’
‘Yeah,’ was all he could muster, grateful to pass through the doorway and swing it shut behind him, silencing the advice and admonishments that were still being channelled his way.
‘Bitch.’
In the hallway now, Thomas undid the latch on the front door, a blue, council issue slab of cheap wood and pulled it open, crossing the threshold, temporarily blinded by the glaring wintry daylight, the sun low on the horizon casting it’s weakening rays directly into his eye line. Shielding his face with an upraised arm, he marched up the driveway, composing himself now, reflecting on the choice words which were going to be necessary in the next few moments.
Should he appeal to the neighbours’ good nature with a plaintive plea for peace and quiet, or go in all guns blazing, hope to overpower them by taking an altogether more aggressive stance?
Thomas had only spoken to his neighbours once since they had moved in, alarmed at the thought of an Indian family living right next door. Not that he was a racist, as many exchanges down The Sevens Stars had confirmed, most of the denizens there sharing his viewpoint, he simply felt that it was more acceptable for Indian people to live with other Indian people and for white families to live amongst their own kind as well. Not that the local council saw it that way, or the bloody government for that matter. Twice now he had written to his local councillor expressing his dissatisfaction with having to share a street with coloureds, and twice his entreaties had fallen on deaf ears. The first time the councillor had responded with a standard issue letter, simply signed by the man himself, not actually written by him and the second letter had been ignored altogether, no response forthcoming from the powers that be. No doubt the views of the people sat uncomfortably with the Moët swigging champagne socialists that now infested the nations’ political hierarchy. True, the current incumbents of Downing Street were of the blue persuasion, but even the reds these days seemed more eager to dine out on canapés and foie gras than give one flying shit about the people they were meant to work for.
His train of thought was an empowering one, causing his anger levels to spike so that, by the time he strode down the neighbours driveway, past the rusting Austin Allegro, brown in colour (‘same as them’) he was all but livid. Stepping confidently onto the single concrete step that led to the same style door as on his own council semi’, he rapped sharply against the wood panelling. Several seconds came and went and it seemed his desire to be noticed was going unrewarded, so he knocked again, harder this time, becoming increasingly agitated as the seconds ticked by.
‘Are they fucking deaf?’ he hissed, red of face and was about to raise his hand to pound a balled up fist against the door when it swung open.
The sight that greeted him was unexpected; a child, no more than nine, dressed in some sort of traditional Indian garb from under which protruded a fashionable pair of blue jeans, brown feet clad in red sandals that looked three sizes too large for her.
‘Hello?’
She was shy, blushing even, eyes flicking intermittently between himself and the floor.
‘Erm, could I speak to your Mother or Father, please?’
‘I am sorry,’ the double ‘r’ coming out more as an ‘l’ than anything else which, had it not been for the age of the speaker, would have annoyed him even further. ‘My parents are not at home at the moment.’
Polite, well spoken if the accent was ignored, her charming, gracious manner completely side-swiped him, his anger of a few moments ago evaporating instantly.
‘Who shall I say has called?’
‘Erm,’ he began again, unsure of himself now. ‘My name is Thomas. I live next door. Number 22. With the orange car.’
He was babbling, and he knew it.
‘I just came round to ask if the music could be turned down. We can’t hear ourselves think.’
The young girl smiled timidly.
‘I am sorry,’ she repeated, the ‘l’ sound again distinctive. ‘I told my sister that it was too loud.’
She turned then, away from the door and bellowed a name into the interior of the house with a voice that was surprisingly strong for one so small. To Thomas’ ears it sounded a little like ‘a cheetah’ but he couldn’t be entirely sure. From within, an older girl, but only just, bounded down the stairs two at a time, coming to a standstill mere inches from her sister who would surely have been knocked off her feet and out of the doorway had she misjudged her movements by even a fraction.
‘Yes?’
Confrontational.
The younger of the two girls looked at her elder sibling and repeated the request that Thomas had relayed to her, finishing with ‘Please Ajita. We’ll only get in trouble.’
Ajita eyed the man coolly, seeming to weigh him up as if wondering what his response would be should she refused. Clearly thinking better of it, she relented.
‘OK. Sorry for the disturbance.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, before finding himself staring at the flaking green paintwork of their front door.

‘Well?’
Cheryl stood in the middle of the living room as Thomas re-entered the room, hands on hips and, he fancied, it was very probable that she had remained in that pose for the duration of his time away.
‘They’ve turned it down,’ he offered.
‘Well, I can bloody well hear that. What did they say?’
With a weary sigh, he sank back down into the threadbare cushioning of the settee, not in the mood to go into details.
‘Not much really. It was just kids.’
‘Kids?’
Cheryl uttered the word as if she had no clear understanding of its meaning.
He was getting annoyed.
‘What do you want me to say? It was just two kids. Two girls. The older sister playing her music. The young one seemed as annoyed as us.’
‘Thhhhsss.’
That was how he heard it, Cheryl’s just audible exclamation of disgust more a noise than a word in itself.
‘I bloody knew this would happen. Soon as they opened that Paki shop at the end of the road.’
He felt weary, all too aware of the invective that was to follow and not wanting to hear any of it, despite usually sharing the same convictions. Somehow, the brief conversation with the little Indian girl had mellowed him, however fleetingly and the dislike of his darker skinned neighbours had thawed. For now.
‘I know.’
‘First the shop, now the bloody natives are moving in. Before long, we’ll be the minority, not them. It’s called Great Britain, not Little India.’
Again, all he could manage was a tired sounding, ‘I know.’
She moved to the settee, positioning herself to his right, but leaning forward, reaching for the half-empty packet of Benson & Hedges in the middle of the coffee table, pulling a cigarette from within and sparking it with a practiced hand. She took a lengthy drag, the nicotine laced smoke drawn deep into her lungs before exhaling, the space in front of her turning blue as the fumes diffused with the cleaner air of the room.
With a shake of the head she continued her diatribe.
‘I don’t mind them living here. I just don’t want them living next door to me.’
Thomas did not even bother to respond this time, instead closing his eyes and hoping, praying that she would just leave him in peace. Apparently sensing his disinterest, in a heartbeat Cheryl changed the subject.
‘How’s Neil getting on?’
Surprised by the sudden compassion in her tone, Thomas opened his eyes again, turning his head her way. His drinking companion was a rare topic of conversation.
‘Not good. Doesn’t look like he’ll be coming out again. He told me last night that his doctor has given him only a few more weeks.’
She made the same noise again, the sucking of air through the teeth, though this time the ‘Thhhhssss’ somehow had a softer edge, less a noise of disgust as a filler of time whilst she processed the information.
‘Poor thing. How does he look?’
‘How do you think he looks, Cheryl? He’s got cirrhosis of the liver. Last night when I got there he was swinging from the light fittings, wearing a fucking tutu and singing ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.’’
He took a deep breath, instantly regretting his outburst but glad that he had felt the courage to spit out his annoyance.
‘What’s wrong with you? I only bloody asked.’
He reached for the cigarette packet himself, plucking a carcinogen from the container before searching for the lighter.
‘Here.’ Cheryl handed him the small plastic object which she still held in her free hand.
‘Thanks. Sorry I snapped.’
She didn’t reply and instead took to stroking his knee in acknowledgement of the apology.
‘I’ll put the kettle on, love,’ she said. ‘You fancy a cuppa?’
‘Yeah.’
Cheryl moved through to the adjoining kitchen, and Thomas listened as she busied herself making them both a brew.
A sharp stabbing pain cut through his head like a cleaver and he was compelled to squeeze his eyes shut once more, the bright light of the sun beaming through the window causing him considerable discomfort. At forty one, he had always been fortunate health wise, barely having had call to so much as visit a doctor and had only once been hospitalised, the result of a collision in a good-natured football match when he was in his late teens. Playing a five a side match with work colleagues, he and his then manager had gone for the same ball and had both connected at precisely the same moment. It was a full blooded challenge for the ball, though well within the rules of the game and free from malice on either part, but the nature of the contact meant that something had to give; either his managers foot, the ball or, as it turned out, his own ankle. The snapping sound the joint made as his fibula gave way echoed around the school hall they used for their weekly kick about, but was soon drowned out by his own squeals of agony. The joint itself swelled up to the size of a tennis ball and his manager, in a fit of guilt, drove him to the local A & E and stayed with him the full four hours it took for his condition to be treated. Besides that one incident, his state of health had been exceptional, but these last couple of months a number of symptoms seemed to have manifested themselves, amongst them shortness of breath, an acid stomach and, most severely, the bloody stabbing pains in his head. Thomas wasn’t entirely sure as to the cause, but he had often wondered if it could be because of the…..
‘Here you go.’
Cheryl returned, placing his drink on the coffee table before leaning over him and planting a delicate kiss on his cheek. She sat back down beside him, this time leaning back into the seat and recommencing the knee stroking. For a few awful seconds he thought that she was building up to a sex initiation ritual, but his fears were abated when the motion ceased and she contented herself with resting her hand palm down upon his knee.
‘What are we going to do for food tonight?’ he asked her, trying to sound as casual as possible, despite his lingering trepidation as to her ultimate intentions.
She thought for a few moments.
‘You’re working late next week aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘The regional manager has asked that the full proposal be signed off by next Friday at the latest. We’re up to our eyeballs, especially as they keep changing their fucking minds about what they actually want.’
‘I don’t know why they are doing anything at all. The bus station looks fine to me. What a waste of money.’
‘Thanks for the support,’ he said sarcastically, resulting in her tightening her grip on his knee.
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
She hesitated momentarily. ‘I tell you what, why don’t we go out to eat? I’ll be eating by myself the rest of the week, so it will make a nice change. I can get Mom to baby-sit the girls.’
‘Suits me.’
‘It will give me a chance to dress up. Make my Mr. Project Manager proud to show me off.’
Thomas smiled, though it took a considerable effort.
‘I really fancy a curry,’ she said.
‘Sounds great.’
Cheryl gave his knee one last squeeze before heading for the stairs, intent upon selecting an appropriate outfit for the evening to come.

NOW
I walked towards her, tray clasped tightly to avoid any rattle. I had made my way up the stairwell cautiously, not wishing to spill the contents of the two cups that rested on the tray, eager that she drink down every last drop. As I neared, I slowed my pace, taking in every detail of her that I could see, catching her profile fleetingly as she swung gently back and forth on the swivel chair, deep in thought, utterly oblivious to my presence. Her auburn hair, tied severely – too severely I thought – into a ponytail swung in sympathy with the rest of her, pendulous in its motion, drawing my eyes, mesmerising me as surely as a hypnotists watch mesmerises a client.
A cup rapped lightly against the plate loaded with chocolate squares and she turned, biro protruding form one corner of her mouth, frown creasing her brow, but a frown that quickly dissolved as she saw me laden with supplies.
‘Thanks, Clive. You’re a life-saver.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ I replied modestly, meaning every word as I placed the tray on the desk next to hers, handing over her coffee, making damn certain I selected the correct mug.
‘How long are you here for?’ I asked, attempting once more to retain neutrality in my inflection and apparently succeeding as there was no pause before she responded.
‘Another half an hour, give or take. I’m in no rush.’
‘You’re fella’ away again?’
A dangerous question, perhaps too inquisitive, but again she seemed indifferent to any perceived malice behind the enquiry. But why had I risked asking her a question to which I already knew the response? It didn’t seem to make any sense, and I mentally rebuked myself, committing to eliminate such unprofessional behaviour from that moment until…well, not long to endure now anyway.
‘Yeah, he is. It seems to be getting more frequent. Not that I’m complaining,’ she said, doing just that.
‘You put up with a lot,’ I said honestly, ‘He must be very special.’
I felt nauseated by the words that were flowing from my mouth, yet entertained at the same time. A fine performance was what it was and, on some level, I was deeply proud of myself. To fool her so completely, to have her trust me so clearly. Well, it was a master class. Step back De Niro, Wilkes is in town. But the feeling of sickness remained, a slimy, residual sensation that owed more to the bile inducing platitudes I was spewing forth than to the forthright acts to come, both criminal and carnal.
‘You’re the last one in, you know. Everyone else has gone home.’
‘Ain’t it always the way,’ she said with a smile, taking a sip of her drink. I watched her carefully at this point, anxious lest she taste the foreign substance added to the brew, but she seemed not to notice.
‘I brought you something that might cheer you up,’ I said, indicating the plate of chocolate. I lifted it, offering it to her physically to make any chance of refusal slimmer, using a little armchair psychology to weaken her resolve. Point at something desirable yet unhealthy and say ‘you want some?’ and most people have sufficient willpower to say no but place it under their nose, make it so they can see the texture, even smell the sweetness and the icy resolve quickly thaws.
‘Just the one then,’ she said, plucking a square between thumb and index finger before popping it into her mouth whole.
By God she was sexy.
I moved the plate away slightly, placing it onto her desk within easy reach should she want some more, even using a mind trick of sorts by pointing at it and inclining my head, an unspoken signal that it was perfectly acceptable to keep on eating should she wish.
‘I’ll leave you to it then, Heather. If I don’t see you when you leave, have a good evening.’
It was a formal goodbye but then, that is my way and anything else would have felt unusual or inappropriate. I had to resist the urge to add ‘See you later’ or ‘Can’t wait,’ or ‘Looking forward to fucking you ‘til my cum dries up,’ or all manner of alternate niceties, restricting myself to precisely how she would expect me to behave.
‘Bye Clive. And thanks again for the coffee.’
I walked away, chancing one backward glance before I turned the corner onto the corridor leading to the stairs and lifts and was pleased to see her already lifting a second square of chocolate from plate to lips. Before she left, I felt certain, the plate would be devoid of confectionery.

Quickly now, moving hastily as I knew I must, I grabbed two ‘Out of Order’ signs from the cleaner’s cupboard, yellow plastic fold out affairs that you sometimes see in shopping malls sporting the legend ‘Careful, Sir’ or ‘Mind Your Step’ during inclement weather. Propping one under each arm, I remounted the stairs onto floor three and placed one in front of both the far right and the far left doors.
Only one option was now available to her, if you discounted the stairs.
As it was intended.
And Heather always took the lift.

The desk was all but overflowing with clutter, seemingly a haphazard mish-mash of papers, files and envelopes, strewn around with reckless abandon, as if a particularly playful puppy had been let loose in a stationery shop for a morning and had gone on the rampage. Heather Jenkins stood back, studying the chaos she had wrought, still unable to find the single document she needed to complete her work for the day to her own satisfaction. The stray piece of paper was nothing of great importance, simply an invoice from a shipping company for a container full of microchips that had been despatched to India some two months ago, but the company in question was chasing the cash and, without the paper copy she sought, Heather had no way of verifying the amount in question. It wasn’t that she distrusted the shipping company as, on the many occasions she had had dealings with them they had been the very model of professionalism and efficiency, it was just her desperate need to control things, to double and triple check things. Almost obsessive compulsive in her persuasions at times, the missing item was causing her some distress, as was the paper-based mess she had created on her own desk in a bid to locate the damn thing. Her filing system in tatters now, she knew that the first two or three hours the following morning would be taken up re-ordering, putting everything back into its rightful place, where it belonged, so that it could be found on an instants notice. That was the plan at least, though today it had failed spectacularly.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered to herself, hands on hips, eyeing the chaos before her and wondering how she could have mislaid the invoice.
‘Where are you?’
Deciding on one last effort, she rifled through the papers, lifting the edges of each piece to spy the contents of the sheet underneath and, where some lay eight or nine deep on the desk, she had call to move some aside to allow her access to the bottom layers. Swiftly, almost manically, she thumbed her way through two, three piles and was right at the point of admitting defeat when, in her haste, her hand slipped and unintentionally moved some of the papers she was yet to come to, fanning the next pile out. A letterhead caught her eye and, moving two steps to her right, she scanned the newly revealed paperwork, looking for the familiar logo that had so interested her. Where the hell was it? She was convinced that she had spotted it. Had her mind been playing tricks, fooling her? Was she so eager, no, obsessed by the recovery of the document that she had imagined the blasted thing? She hoped not. She really didn’t want to be that Heather Jenkins, worried more about work and filing than anything else in her life.
Yet she had been so sure.
About to move back to the pile she had been working through, she saw it. The large calligraphy at the top centre of the page spelt out the letters B.S.S. and, beneath the lettering, in a paler tone, an old fashioned ships compass, skewed at a forty five degree angle for reasons of artistic impression confirmed that it was the very paperwork she had been after for the past thirty minutes or so, save for the one telephone call she had been compelled to take.
Beaumont Shipping Services Ltd.
God bless them.
Though how the hell it had ended up with the invoices relating to freight within the UK she could only guess at, as her filing system was usually flawless.
Still, it was found now, she could worry about the failings in her methodology later.
She snatched at the document, eyes quickly scanning down the sheet, confirming what she already knew, that the amount of money they were requesting from Telecommunics matched precisely the amount quoted on the invoice, eight hundred and fifty pounds, a drop in the ocean in real terms in the world of telecommunications, though it still seemed a lot of money just to move some microchips from one place to another as far as Heather was concerned. Dropping the invoice onto her keyboard, she quickly grabbed a Post-It pad, scrawling a brief message to herself to confirm the amount with Finance the following day, sticking the small, yellow adhesive rectangle to the invoice before starting to clear up. Confirmation of the time, five past six, told her there was no point in even starting to sort out the paperwork she had jumbled up in order to locate the missing invoice, so instead she set about organising them into neat piles, shuffling them all together then squaring them off by tapping both top edge and side edge against the desktop until all sheets in the pile were flush. Once complete there were eight piles of A4 paper in all, as well as a separate pile of randomly sized envelopes, which she arranged in size order, largest at the bottom to smallest at the top. Ten minutes elapsed before she was content that all was in order and, even then, she didn’t feel entirely comfortable about leaving her work area in such a condition, but time was against her. Clive liked everyone to be out by half six so that he could commence his final tour of the building and be out himself by seven at the latest and, as she was so fond of him, she would feel guilty if she caused him any delay. He worked long enough hours as it was for scant financial reward. Moving to the mouse, though remaining standing, she scanned the taskbar at the bottom of her screen, ensuring nothing was open that required saving, then clicked on the Start button, opting to switch off the machine entirely. The I.T. guy Milos, the Greek geek, always reminded her that she should leave the machine on overnight, to allow any system updates to be carried out automatically whilst the workforce slept but she tended to ignore his requests, not happy with the wasteful energy implications of leaving a computer on, unattended, for more than half the hours in a day. Though it meant that at times her machine became cripplingly slow when updates were carried out as she was working, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make in the name of her own carbon footprint.
‘Up yours, Milos,’ she thought to herself as she shut it down, a slight smile playing at the corner of her lips then, more randomly, ‘Save the Whales,’ and she was unsure where that thought had come from.
One more quick examination of her work area, anxiety still working its dark magic in her mind before she turned on her heels, heading for the lift to send her on her way home. She reached the corridor in seconds, rounding the corner and was surprised to see a yellow ‘Out of Order’ sign in front of each of the far lifts. Presuming there to be some maintenance work taking place that she had been unaware of, she briefly contemplated taking the stairs for a change, actually pausing in front of the door that would lead to the stairwell before deciding, what the hell, be lazy again. She approached the centre lift and pressed the Call button, having to wait ten seconds, no more, before the carriage arrived, the doors sliding open with a gentle ‘ping.’
She climbed aboard.

I watched the screen, my excitement growing as each minute passed by, delighted by my surreptitious study of her. Intermittently, I stroked my penis through my standard issue security trousers, my state of arousal testament to the pleasure that coursed through my veins and I had to resist the urge to sate my appetites there and then. Reluctantly, I kept the zip of my trousers resolutely shut, though in my mind I pictured it wide open, Heather prostrate over the desk in front of which she now stood, one of my hands held firmly around her throat whilst the other busied itself bringing my organ to climax. I visualised the sticky fluid spurting high, two, three gushes of the stuff, staining her smart business suit in its viscosity, one glob on the belly, another on the lapel whilst the third even managed to reach her face.
She wouldn’t be angry though.
In the scene I was painting, as the warm semen rained down upon her, Heather was smiling at me, even as my grip around her throat tightened. I knew that wasn’t reality though, knew that she wouldn’t willingly give herself to me in that way.
I’m not crazy.
I concentrated, all too aware that, imminently, timing would become critical and, in my current state of sexual excitement I was likely to make a mistake. Reluctantly, I moved my busy hand away from my groin, upwards until I found my hip at which point I pinched myself, hard, painfully, refocusing myself mentally whilst extinguishing any carnal desires which still lingered. For now, Heather Jenkins was but an enemy and, like any enemy, she needed to be treated with respect and not underestimated. Lusting after her would only lead to failure and, ultimately, failure in this instance would lead to only one thing.
My own demise.
Thinking more clearly now, I checked my watch, not interested in the actual time at present, merely ensuring that the stopwatch function was activated and that the count was set to zero. Double checking that I was familiar with the controls, I hit the top right button that stuck out from the side of the wristwatch, nodding slightly as the counter began ticking away the seconds. By pressing the same button again, I was able to stop the counter, and by depressing the bottom right button the counter was reset once more to zero.
All was as it should be.
Now it was just a question of time.
Studying the screen, I saw Heather start to collect the papers together on the desk, having to squint slightly to make out the details precisely. I couldn’t be entirely certain, but it looked for all the world as is she were tidying up, meaning that her bid for freedom would commence within minutes.
My heart rate increased, just slightly.
And so it began, as predicted, Heather moved away from the desk, making for the lift corridor. As she left the main work area, I swivelled in the chair, pushing it back at the same time so that, as my view changed to the second monitor I came to my feet as well, eyes fixed on the lift corridor as Heather entered the frame. She paused when she saw the ‘Out of Order’ signs and, for one agonising moment I thought that she was going to use the stairs, which would have been a first. Briefly, I thought I saw her make for the door, but no, at the last instant she seemed to change her mind and I could just make out as her hand reached forward and she pressed the ‘Call’ button to bring the lift to the correct floor. After just a short pause the doors opened and Heather climbed in and, desperate as I was to make my move, I forced myself to stay where I was, waiting for the exact moment which came a few seconds later as her hand again reached out, this time to press the Ground Floor button.
Still I held my ground, bringing the watch up and poising a finger above the counter activation button.
The lift doors began to close.
I pressed the button.
Forty two seconds from now that lift would reach the ground floor.
I moved.

Heather hummed to herself idly as the lift descended, totally unaware of the activity her descent had prompted. Random thoughts flitted, most centred around Greg, and she wondered what time his call would come in this evening. Her stomach fluttered briefly at the thought of him, surprising her somewhat and she wasn’t sure if the butterflies were caused by the eagerness she felt to hear his voice, or the certain knowledge of the lonely ache she would yet again feel once the receiver was placed back in its cradle.
When he returned from New York in two days time, she decided, they would have to talk about their future and see if their was some way to reduce the time he spent travelling. She hated to be a nag and desperately didn’t want to be the sort of partner that needed him with her every second of every day, but a compromise between ‘total acceptance’ and ‘clingy nightmare’ must surely be possible and, she knew with absolute certainty, their relationship was strong enough to see them through the most arduous of emotional upheavals.
A change needed to be made and she was confident Greg would agree.
In his absence, she loved him more than ever.

I exited the security room, walking quickly though not running, through the short corridor and out into the foyer area of the building, the front doors now firmly locked. The only people in the building were the two cleaning ladies, and they would be gone in fifteen minutes or so, and would wait patiently by the front doors until I arrived, suspecting nothing as the routine was the same every day. Today, however, I would ensure that I was there promptly and usher them from the building with all necessary haste.
I wanted no interruptions.
Quickly circumnavigating the foyer, past my main duty post and beyond, to the corridor directly on the opposite side, into the small adjunct that serves as access to the toilets for any visitors to the building, as well as housing both the cleaners cupboard and the access door to the basement. It was to the latter that I headed, having taken the opportunity to unlock the door a short while ago.
A glance at the timer revealed seventeen seconds had passed since the lift had started its descent.
I pulled open the basement door and traversed the stairs swiftly, the room already illuminated and I headed for the control panel on the opposite side of the room. Unlike a basement in a domestic property, this one had been professionally damp-proofed and could almost pass as prime office space, but for the shoddy workmanship of both floor and walls. As only a select few ever entered this room, scant regard had been paid to the aesthetics and I had no time to dwell on the ugliness either, moving across the room and quickly scanning the circuit breakers on the panel.
Another look at the watch.
Thirty three seconds had elapsed.
Just a couple more to go. The timing had to be perfect.
Thirty four.
Thirty five.
I tripped the appropriate breaker, a small sound escaping me involuntarily, almost a snarl, a noise more animal than human.
Thirty six.
Thirty seven.
The back up power supply was designed to cut in immediately should the main power be lost, but this was no problem as the control panel for the back up was situated right next to the main. I gave it one more second.
Thirty eight.
I threw the circuit breaker for the emergency power.
Everything had gone precisely according to plan.
Upstairs, in the lift shaft, the emergency braking system that all such devices are fitted with would have activated upon the loss of power. A three tier redundancy system ensured that, once power is disconnected to the elevator system, brake shoes are deployed against the side of the shaft, stopping the downward motion quickly, but safely, paralysing the vehicle until such a time as power is restored. Anyone trapped inside the carriage is then required to use the emergency intercom to call for help but, planning ahead, I had ensured that the intercom was no longer functional. In addition, the emergency power supply was intended to ensure that the lights within the compartment remain illuminated, to lessen the chance of panic in a crisis situation but, again, by eliminating the emergency power, I had also prevented the continuation of the interior lighting.
At that moment, Heather was in the lift, trapped exactly half way between the ground floor and the first floor, in total darkness.
Despite my best intentions, I felt my erection pressing firmly against the material of my underwear. For how much longer I could contain myself, I was utterly unsure.

The lifts steady descent continued and she eyed the indicator lights that displayed the current location of the vehicle. As the second floor light flicked on briefly before blinking off, the lighting set into the lifts ceiling flickered once, twice, before going out altogether and, at the same moment, the lifts progress was halted, a strange groaning sound emanating from both sides of the compartment. Heather tensed, heart racing, unsure what was happening and knowing that there was nothing she could do about it anyway. Briefly, for no more than half a second, it seemed the lights attempted to come back on again without success and the lift itself juddered, feeling as if it dropped a few inches, though she could not be entirely certain of this. Regardless of whether the movement she believed she had detected had been real, the craft was completely motionless now, crippled between floors and she felt her chest tighten as she analysed her predicament. In all likelihood power would be restored at any second, she sincerely hoped so anyway, as the prospect of spending more than a few minutes in pitch blackness, suspended an indeterminate distance above the ground, was not a pleasant one. She determined to sit it out without resorting to panic, reasonably certain that she had read somewhere that the chance of dying in an accident in a lift is roughly equivalent to that of being hit by a meteor not once, but twice in a lifetime and she didn’t know anyone to whom that had happened.
She waited patiently.

I proceeded back up the basement stairs, in no rush at all now knowing that the fly had been well and truly caught in my web and I could take all the time I needed. As I entered the foyer, I was a little surprised to see the cleaning ladies already finished and waiting for me, but this was only good news.
‘Evening ladies,’ I said cordially enough, and they simply nodded at me, as was their way. On the occasional evening I got the odd grunt of either ‘Hello’ or ‘Thank You’ for my troubles, but not usually. Instead, they simply feigned ignorance, as if their powers of English were insufficient to deal with the day to day niceties of polite conversation.
Fucking worms.
At the bottom of the food chain, I held the conviction that we should stick together, us against them, the lower classes against the high achievers, but these particular specimens did not seem to share my world view so, in a bid to demonstrate to them how to behave, I always did my utmost to remain upbeat around them, was always polite and sociable with them, even when they were just downright ignorant.
I approached the main entrance and slid in my master key, swinging the large door open to release the captive women who didn’t even acknowledge my existence as they headed out, off back to whichever hovel it was that they called home.
Miserable cunts.
As soon as they were through the door I allowed it to swing closed once more, twisting the key to lock myself inside the building.
There was one more task to perform and then the night was my own, to do with as I pleased.
I moved to my usual workstation, positioning myself on the swivel chair, using my finger to scan down a list of numbers, a laminated piece of A4 card stuck in place on the desk itself which listed all essential numbers for the smooth operation of the building. As well as the names and numbers of the managers and heads of department, external numbers were also provided including the local police in the case of unexpected trouble, the catering firm that provided food for the canteen – quite why I needed that number, I had not one clue – and, most importantly of all, the offsite security firm that dealt with any alarm issues. I picked up the telephone housed next to the computer monitor and dialled.
Three rings, then the call was taken.
‘Abacus Security, can I help you?’
‘This is Clive Wilkes at Telecommunics, Securiy Code 47946. Just to let you know we are having some maintenance work carried out on our lifts, so the alarms won’t be set at the usual time.’
‘Thanks for letting us know, Clive. Any idea how long, so I can update the system?’
‘Not a clue,’ I replied casually. ‘Talking to the engineer, he said it could be a late one, perhaps even an all-nighter. I’m here until they’re done. Any problems, I’ll give you a call back.’
‘No problem. Have a good night.’
‘Thanks. You too.’
It was as simple as that. Without the call, when the alarms were not set by the specified time of seven fifteen in the evening, a call would have been placed by Abacus to the local police force. By alerting them to the fact that the usual procedure would not be taking place and by providing them with a valid, authorised security code, the potential visit from the local constabulary had been negated.
Everything was running like clockwork.
I stood now, striding slowly back towards the security control room, pondering how best to spend the next few hours, delighting myself by the deviancy of some of my thoughts. Like a King in his own Castle, I could do precisely as I wished. I entered the control room and put the kettle on again, deciding to have a cup of tea to soothe my nerves before commencing the festivities. As I waited, I glanced at the two empty packets still on the tabletop, evidence of the drink I had prepared for Heather just an hour or so ago. I read the names on the packets, Ex-Lax Chocolate Laxative and Dulcolax 5mg, the latter being mixed into the drink I had given her and the former consumed with some gusto by her as she completed her work for the evening.
I smiled as I contemplated the damage I was doing.

RECENT
The semi-detached house was in a state of dreadful disrepair, the front garden a veritable jungle of both flora and fauna, though none had been placed there by human hand. Grass, overgrown by half a decade of neglect, competed with weeds of all varieties to suck the vital nutrients from the earth beneath, and where vegetation provides shelter, life teems. Woodlice, myriad beetles and colonies of ants did battle for space. Amidst the life, inanimates lurked too; a discarded rusting shovel, a single child’s trainer, the laces removed and numerous cast off cans and bottles, making it fraught with danger should anyone attempt to walk through the chaos.
But of course, no-one did.
The old man lived alone, forgotten by a society he no longer cared about, the only visitors to the property the occasional call of duty by the postman or the more hardy breed of Jehovah’s Witness, for most of their ilk were put off by the dilapidation that greeted them, the milk of human kindness souring slightly when faced with the harsh realities of genuine depravation.
He lived alone, at least as far as his fellow man was concerned but, living amongst the grime and filth, sharing his hovel were cats.
Lots of cats.
He had lost count of the number that dwelt in his midst. Truth was, he had never started counting in the first place, but he knew the number to be late teens, perhaps early twenties. He wasn’t sure. Not that it really mattered. For the most part they fended for themselves, using his house as a sanctuary from the elements as well as a place to sleep. True enough, he put food down once a day, but certainly not sufficient to sustain this level of population, so only the largest, the strongest managed to find nourishment for free. The others, the smaller animals, were forced to find food of their own, either from the hand of another adopted human or by obtaining it the old fashioned way with a spot of good old-fashioned hunting.
The adult population dwelt all over the house, save for one room. Upstairs, at the rear of the three bedroom property there was one door which was always locked, the key always safely ensconced in his back pocket. He made his way there now, his gait awkward as he struggled up the stairs, his spine, always painful, even as a young man now curved so acutely through scoliosis as to cause almost unbearable agony, an ‘S’ shaped bend in the bone construct that was even visible through the thinness of his skin. He groaned involuntarily as he pulled himself up the stairs, both hands gripping the bannister on the right hand side of the stairway, literally dragging himself upward hand over hand, grinding his teeth with every fresh stab of pain until finally he reached the summit, steadying himself against the far wall, pausing for breath on the landing until he felt able to continue. He moved once more, a shuffling gait that put years on him and reached into the back pocket of his filth stained trousers, unwashed in weeks. A fierce stench permeated from him, both body and clothes, but he cared not for no-one was around to complain, only the cats and it was they who contributed the most to his odour, a combination of feline musk and human sweat. He pulled the single key from his rear pocket, bereft of key ring, a sight as lonely as his lifestyle and inserted it into the lock of the rear room, swinging the door open cautiously, not too wide for fear of losing one of the creatures as he entered. With his restricted capacity for movement he knew that, should an animal elude him and make a bid for freedom he was no match for it and would have difficulty in catching it again. As quickly as he could manage, he was inside the room and shut the door behind himself, even before he switched the light on.
The box was situated in the far corner, beneath the old-fashioned writing bureau that had been there for as long as he could remember, though no letter had ever been scribed on its surface. He moved towards the desk, eyes straining, trying to make out the forms that resided within the box. There were five in all and each was lying atop the other forming a mound of kittens that looked for all the world as If it were one entity, as if they had somehow fused together to form a gestalt, myriad limbs intertwined, a many headed beast of unnatural conception. Blinking up at him, the light clearly having woken them, one of their number opened its mouth and let out a feeble sound, more a squeak than a meow and the old man smiled down at the creature kindly, contemplating bending down to stroke the animal but resisting the urge due to the certain knowledge of the pain such a movement would induce. Instead, still admiring the kittens through eyes grown milky with cataracts, he pulled a chair perpendicular to the writing bureau, unable to adopt the usual position at the desk due to the box in the foot well, instead sitting sideways on. He leaned forward and pulled open the top drawer of the unit, removing a battered journal from its depths, opening the book to the first page and scanning the contents.
His tears were flowing in earnest before the second page had even been reached.

NOW

The minutes dragged on as time seemed to distort within the confines of the elevator, one second becoming five, ten, fifty, the slow-motion effect enhanced dramatically by her inability to take her eyes off her mobile phone for more than a few seconds at a time. When the lights had first gone out, Heather simply assumed that it was a temporary power loss, a few seconds at best and certainly no more than a couple of minutes. As that timeframe came and went she had fumbled in her shoulder bag, searching blindly in the bottomless realms for the telephone, finding it with some difficulty amidst the clutter. Once retrieved, the device had become a source of illumination as well as a chronometer and, for the first time, she became grateful that the model she possessed was replete with a flashlight. By the simple expediency of two swift thumb clicks to the Clear button a small, white LED lit up and, whilst its power was rather less than she had hoped for, it was still preferable to standing in inky blackness for minutes on end. In her mind, she recounted the myriad silly conversations she and Greg had had about the feature, both wondering when it could ever come in useful. Her favourite scenario involved making a desperate call from a mini-submersible that had lost all power, whilst his preferred flashlight emergency held the form of an air crash in the Andes taking out a plane load of rugby players and, as survival instinct takes hold and the ultimate decision needs to be made, one of the surviving would-be cannibal athletes searches the dark cargo hold for a really good steak knife.
‘Come on, come on,’ she urged, willing the motorised mechanisms either above or below – she was unsure which – to burst into life, realising the irrationality of speaking to the inanimate even as she did it, but continuing with the action regardless.
‘Jesus Christ, how long?’
The curse words were surely not far behind the blasphemy, she felt certain, annoyance now dampening the edges of the fear that she had felt when first the lights had gone out and, involuntarily, she lashed out a fist, though softly, as if vaguely embarrassed by her own impatience, striking the metal wall with knuckles exposed though lightly enough to cause nothing more than a moments discomfort.
Another glance at the digital display revealed that, since her last check, only thirty five seconds had elapsed, a staggeringly disproportionate amount of time between her perception and the reality as she had convinced herself that two minutes had gone by, probably more.
‘Christ, this is miserable,’ she muttered, the helplessness she felt more troubling than the pitch blackness. Almost unconsciously, Heather drew her shoulder bag against her chest, pulling it close, wishing that it were Guilliam she were holding instead of the satchel, pondering briefly why she longed for the comfort cushion even before she longed for Greg. But, deep down, she knew why. The isolation and solitude of her present situation, however fleeting, was an all too real reminder of the frequent nights she spent alone as Greg conducted his business elsewhere. Whilst she made every effort never to feel resentment for the time he was compelled to spend away from her and from the place they had made their home, as each month went by the strength of will required to keep things in perspective intensified. Whilst she had never once doubted his fidelity, dark thoughts bubbled to the surface with increasing regularity as she was forced, in the bleakest fits of loneliness, to wonder if he really needed to be away as much as he was, or if it were by design. Though the question had never been voiced, not even aloud to herself in isolation, the doubt lingered, and grew in strength as time went by.
Is he growing tired of me?
She clutched the bag more tightly, having to resist the urge to sniff at it, knowing that she would only be disappointed as the musty smell of her own self, infused over many years, would not be present as it was with Guilliam and the smell of leather, however pleasant on most occasions, simply would not do at that moment.
‘Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look,’ she sang to herself, before defying her own advice and pressing the Clear button once with the pad of her right thumb to illuminate the display screen, but not the flashlight. As her frustration grew at the passing of each minute she found herself checking not just on the time but on the signal strength indicator on the right side of the mobile phone display, annoyed each time when the strength bar remained resolutely at zero on each occasion. It seemed, trapped in a metal box in the middle of a concrete and steel building, her phone had become useless as a means of communication.
‘Come on, come on, come on, come on,’ she hissed, genuine anger starting to flare as another glance at the time confirmed that she had now been motionless and in complete darkness for the better part of twenty five minutes.
‘What the fuck is going on?’
She pinched herself sharply on the thigh, a habit she had developed over many years every time she was compelled to curse severely. She would allow herself the occasional ‘bloody’ or ‘damn’ without recourse to the pinch principle, but nothing stronger. Though far from a prude, in general she found the use of expletives a vulgarity and, though occasions sometimes elicited such a response from her, she was never proud of herself for their use, so had conceived of the curse pinch trade-off.
Every time I swear, I suffer.
Pain for pleasure.
It was a maxim she stuck to in even the most trying of circumstances and her present predicament seemed to satisfy that particular criteria.
Something brushed against the back of her neck.
Almost undetectable in ordinary circumstances but, in pitch blackness, with no stimuli other than her own internal thought processes the whisper of….what…?
Wind?
….had been unmistakable. It came again, a gentle stirring of the air directly behind her and she was compelled to drop the shoulder bag to the ground to allow herself to reach up with a free hand to scratch at the nape of her neck, as the stirring had tickled the fine hairs that resided there. It came again and Heather wondered if the ventilation system had kicked in. Maybe some backup system had been activated due to the fact that the lift had been out of action for so long. Her confinement thus far had lasted about thirty minutes so, perhaps, after half an hour the air circulation was activated to ensure that the occupants of the lift were supplied with sufficient oxygen in the event of a malfunction. It made sense and Heather turned now, lifting the mobile phone up to head height, about to hit the Clear button twice in succession when she felt a new sensation, one that chilled her to the marrow, as something passed against her. Flinching back, she was certain, something had moved within the confines of the lift. The thought that she was not alone terrified her, however impossible it seemed to be, but the sensation of movement against her midriff seemed to bear no misinterpretation. Not thinking, suddenly in fight or flight mode, she lashed around with her hands which she had balled into fists, hoping to make contact with whatever it was, if indeed there was anything there at all.
‘Who’s there?’ she cried out, unbidden, not even realising that she was about to speak until the words had already been uttered and still her fists flailed as she attempted to reach every corner. She punched and punched in the darkness until, energy sapping, a semblance of rationality returned and she stopped the assault on thin air, reverting instead to the trusty mobile phone with the hithertofore ridiculed flashlight function – never again – uncurling her right hand to gain access to the key pad with her thumb, tapping once, twice in quick succession, spinning on the spot, wielding the device as Scully wields her pen light whenever she enters an unfamiliar and potentially dangerous environ, jabbing at every corner, attempting to illuminate the entire interior of the lift in one go, a futile act that only served to feed the paranoia that threatened to spill over into outright panic as, at any one time, three quarters of the area remained in darkness. She span once, twice, and was on her third circuit when she felt it again, something behind her, brushing against the exposed skin of her wrist and she swivelled towards the point where she thought the touch must have originated, to be confronted only with emptiness. Again, a touch, this time on the other wrist, and her heart felt as if it were about to burst, adrenaline spiking, flooding her system, spots forming before her eyes. Suddenly, the hand that held the mobile phone was struck more powerfully, causing her to drop the device, the sound of cracking plastic echoing off the metallic walls, a sharp, brittle sound that brought to mind the snapping of small bones. Before she even had time to react, strong hands grabbed at her from behind, clasping at her neck at the same time as pushing at the base of her spine, firmly, so she was propelled forward, her head cracking against the numerical keypad that, in theory at least, designated each destination floor. Her head spun and the spots that had begun to form moments ago flourished fully, blinding her even in the darkness, lending her vision a reddish tinge that was a little too much like blood. The pressure at the bottom of her back increased until she was pressed flat against the steel walls, pain lancing through her skull from the blow to the temple, tears stinging her eyes which were rendered useless by the blackness anyway.
‘Ge-ge-ge…’ she began, the word she was trying to form coming out as nothing more than a garbled stammer until she was silenced once more by a mighty blow to the back of her head, as if someone with well practiced technique had struck her with a karate chop. She stopped trying to speak, convinced that that was what had angered him – for it was bound to be a he, she knew – hoping that complicity would mollify his fury. She sensed motion again and a warm body pressed against her from behind, pushing against her, rubbing against her and, even through the clothing she wore, she could feel his excitement and it terrified her. Hands now, around her throat, and still the weight pressing against her from behind as if he were leaning into her, pinning her using nothing but his own body weight, though any hope that briefly flickered that this somehow made him vulnerable was soon extinguished as the hands moved down her body, against her flanks, groping forwards in the darkness, seeking out her breasts.
And still she held her tongue.
The hands found what they sought and groped for only a few seconds before being removed, as if bored or disappointed by what they found and it was then that the voice started, a whisper at first so quiet that she was unable to make out what was being said, but rising in volume with each repetition.
Two syllables, over and over, over and over.
‘Heather, Heather,’ a demented, sing-song quality to the incantation, the second syllable increasing in pitch so that by the time the sound completed it was all but a shriek, louder each time it was repeated, louder, louder, so that she was forced to clasp her hands over her ears, shaking her head, willing the maddening sounds to stop until she found that she too was shrieking, only not in sympathy with the repeated mantra, more in defiance, a howl of desperation, fear and anger all rolled into one deafening, echoing ‘No.’
The silence was so sudden she thought, momentarily, that she had been struck deaf.

THEN: March

Thomas sat in the living room, television flickering in the corner of the room, but he paid it little heed. The volume was down low, but he could just make out the voices of reporters and interviewers as they discussed the walk out by the National Union of Miners of a few days before, the repercussions of which were only now beginning to be suspected. Arthur Scargill’s face filled the screen, his red-brown hair dragged ludicrously severely across his scalp in an improbable comb over, and Thomas’s interest picked up slightly. Whilst he considered himself something of a political animal, over the last few months his attention to current affairs had wavered. Now, with the miners sticking it to Thatcher and all she represented, he felt he had a duty to keep abreast of the situation.
He glanced at his watch, wondering what time Colin was going to arrive. Thomas had been good friends with Colin for a considerable amount of time, ultimately resulting in hiring him for the current bus station project he was managing as a building contractor, breaking one of his personal unwritten rules never to mix business with friendship. So far, despite his initial concerns, Colin had been an excellent addition to the workforce and it was with regret that the first time he had cause to invite him to his house was for an occasion as sad as this. Both men were now faced with one of the most unpleasant duties he could imagine, acting as pallbearer to a shared friend and associate, someone taken from the world well before their time, at the desperately young age of thirty eight. Neil’s lifestyle, lack of exercise and reluctance to alter the patterns of behaviour that now found him in an early grave meant that this fatal outcome had always been a possibility, but that did nothing to lessen the impact upon those he knew.
Suddenly, Thomas found his eyes filling with tears and, surprised, he tried to blink them away, glad that no-one else was present as they refused to be denied, the flow instead intensifying. Within moments he was gushing, huge salty droplets raining from his tear ducts, cascading down against the side of his nose before falling into his lap. He stood, dashing through to the kitchen and beyond, into the small downstairs toilet the council had fitted last year in a bid to justify the ten percent increase in rent they had foisted upon him. In the small room, little more than a box really, he groped for the toilet paper by the side of the cistern, pulling a few sheets from the roll and dabbing his eyes, then folding the paper in half and blowing his nose. Under more control now, he side-stepped to the sink and bent at the waist, turning the cold tap on as he did so to enable him to splash his face, to hide from Colin, due at any moment, the fact that he had broken down.
‘Jesus,’ he said as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Dark shadows stained the area of his face just beneath the eyes and his skin in general appeared pallid, almost ashen. He pulled at the fleshy flaps that formed his lower eyelids, stretching them so that the normally concealed lower portion of his eyeballs were exposed, astonished at their condition, being both bloodshot and yellowed.
A knock at the front door brought an abrupt end to his impromptu facial examination and he grabbed at the towel on the rail beside the sink, giving his entire head a once over, allowing himself one final glance into the mirror to confirm that no sign of his momentary weakness was evident. He left the cramped bathroom and made for the front door. He grasped the handle, but delayed for a second or two, giving himself just a little more time to compose himself.
As mentally fortified as he was ever going to be under the circumstances, he opened the front door to greet his friend, who looked as depressed as he felt.
‘Hi, Tom. What a shitter.’
He couldn’t agree more.

The funeral had been a sensitive affair, kind words spoken by clergy and family alike, a fitting send off for such a well liked figure as Neil. As the last of the mourners made their way from the grave side, Thomas lingered a while, in his hand a small fistful of dirt ready to be cast down upon the wooden coffin lid of his departed friend. He felt a reluctance to initiate the final act as if, by that simple gesture, he was in some way acknowledging the finality of it all. We are born, we live, we die and, though he knew that to be an incontrovertible fact, the palpable sense of loss he felt stung his insides a little and he wished to delay the last farewell for a few moments longer.
Unable to think of a good reason to wait any further, Thomas stepped nearer to the side of the freshly dug hole and opened his palm, releasing the small amount of dirt, a gust of wind catching the powder so that it fell in a sprinkled line against the top of the casket, rather than straight down in one clod.
With a last glance into his friends’ grave, he moved away.

He scanned the front windows of the houses that lined the street as he made his way towards his destination. Though he had travelled most of the way by car, he had felt compelled to park up several streets away to complete the remainder of the journey on foot. Should anyone chance a glance at the outside world from the sanctity of their living room, he felt sure that he would be viewed as nothing more conspicuous than a door to door salesman or, perhaps, a Jehovah’s Witness donned in the same smart suit and tie that he had worn to the funeral earlier in the day, an incongruity in these parts, but still he felt ill at ease.
The sooner he arrived the better.
The sooner he was with her, the more relaxed he would be.
Passing beyond the last privet hedge before her driveway, he turned onto the short pathway that ran from the gate to the front door, loosening his tie slightly and attempting to loosen up his demeanour at the same time.
He knocked.
Three sharp, impatient strikes of knuckle on wood.
The door before him opened, and suddenly he was swept inside, her arms around his shoulders, tugging at the jacket of his suit, eager, grasping, desperate. Before he knew it, the door was banged shut behind him and his jacket was on the floor. She leaned into him now, pressing her mouth against his firmly, her lips parting, tongue flicking forward, almost serpentine, as if tasting him.
He responded.
Pushing her back against the stairs behind her, pinning her in place, hands roaming, exploring her, animal instinct over-riding all else so that, within minutes, they were coupled, without moving from their position at the foot of the stairs.
He ran his hands up her neck, grabbing her sharply with both hands, grasping a handful of hair in each so that her neck became taut as he bent it back almost to the limits of tolerance.
As he plunged deep within her, she uttered four words into his ear.
‘I love you, Thomas.’

He turned the steering wheel hard to the left, the whiskey in his system impairing his judgement slightly. The car was travelling too quickly, the front wheels of the Austin Maestro squealing their protest at the excessive pressure brought to bear upon them and Thomas was forced to slam the brakes on hard, narrowly avoiding a collision with the black plastic dustbin that Cheryl had already placed out, ready for collection by the bin men tomorrow morning. He grunted his annoyance, somehow blaming his wife for the near miss rather than his own state of inebriation. He engaged the handbrake, needing three attempts due to his lack of coordination and clambered from the vehicle. He almost stumbled on the way from the orange vehicle to the front door, a pair of girls roller-skates strewn haphazardly on the pathway and, though he couldn’t determine to which of his two daughters they belonged, he made a mental note to admonish both of them for their slovenliness the next day. No need to make an issue out of it now as they would no doubt both be long asleep, their usual bedtime eight in the evening, no later, over two hours ago.
‘Bloody hell,’ he slurred as his step became uncertain, kicking out at one of the pink wheel-clad articles of footwear. He reached the single concrete step leading to the front door and mounted it, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. A frown furrowed his brow as a search of his back right pocket yielded no keys and, searching around himself, he blinked stupidly. Confused, he was about to retrace his somewhat erratic steps back to the car to see if they had fallen out and down the back of the drivers seat when, lifting his left arm slightly to make a move, he realised that he was in fact holding the set right there, in the palm of his left hand.
He giggled.
With some difficulty, Thomas inserted the correct key into the Yale lock, still amused by his own drunken foolishness, and stumbled over the threshold.
‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ he called out in a deliberately tuneful tone. He swung the door shut behind him, leaning against it for a few seconds to steady himself as the effort involved in merely entering his dwelling had set his head spinning. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he regained his composure sufficiently to move once more, and stepped into the living room.
Cheryl stood in the centre of the room, just beyond the coffee table, almost as if she needed to place something between herself and her husband simply to prevent herself from attacking him instantly.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been? The funeral finished hours ago.’
Her hands were on her hips again, and Thomas couldn’t resist a dig.
‘You a hippo?’ he asked childishly, pointing at her arms as if that would clarify everything.
‘What?’
‘You’re a hippo,’ he explained, before mimicking her posture himself. The melodious voice sounded again, this time reciting the word over and over in a high-pitched chorus.
‘Hippo, hippo, hip-hip-hippo.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Aaaaahhhh. Don’t get upset, my little fluffalump,’ he chided in the type of voice usually reserved for either very young children or the mentally infirm, which only served to inflame her further.
‘What the fuck is the matter with you? Have you been taking drugs?’
The combination of his own juvenile behaviour and her pomposity only set him off all the more and he roared with laughter, continuing his little dance, hands jabbing at his hips as he recited the rhyme. Tears streamed down his face and, blinded temporarily, he didn’t see her hand lash out at him, striking him with an open palm right across the cheek.
He came to his senses.
Glowering at her, the ebullience of mere seconds prior replaced with a savage hatred and, for one moment, he considered snapping her neck right there and then. The image flashed across his cortex; his hands around her throat, strangling the life out of her, blood dribbling from the corners of her eyes, tongue lolling against her bottom lip like a cud-fattened heifer.
And it pleased him.
‘I’m going out,’ he muttered instead, turning on his heels and heading for the front door.
‘That’s right,‘ he heard her sneer at his retreating back, ‘run off to your mates down The Stars. You’re pathetic.’
He ignored the jibes, fumbling drunkenly once more for the keys, this time with the intention of gaining access to the Maestro. Even as he reached the orange vehicle and clambered in, Cheryl arrived at the front door of the house, still bellowing insults in his direction.
‘Run away, little man.’
He did as he was bid.
NOW

She had no idea how long it had been since the movement had ceased within the small compartment but her fear, a sensation so profound it had threatened to drown out any sense of rationality, was evaporating slowly, one tear at a time. Heather felt deeply foolish, vulnerable, yet she did not possess the will to stymie the flow of tears entirely as fresh salty droplets bubbled from the corners of her eyes at intervals. Shoulders spasming intermittently from the sobbing, she stooped down awkwardly, having to shuffle back a step or two to move away from the nearest metal wall, fumbling blindly in the darkness, seeking the mobile phone which she feared was damaged beyond repair. Useless as it was for sending or receiving calls, she still held slender hope that the flashlight function was operational. Her hands brushed against the floor, unconcerned by dust and grime, eager only to find a light source to cut through the pitch blackness that was her world, a prisoner of the unlight, banished to the misery of murk to pay her penance.
But penance for what?
Fingers groping, sweeping in ever increasing arcs around the compartment, she found what she sought and straightened her back, bringing the device with her and holding it at hip level. With the assurance of the well versed, she found the Clear button through touch alone and double tapped.
Nothing.
The inner confines of the lift remained resolutely free of illumination. Another double tap yielded the same result whilst a third brought from her a moan of desperation and, briefly, she contemplated smashing the blasted thing against the wall in front of her, but she reigned in her temper, fearful of losing control should she start to vent. Lifting the mobile phone up to face level, she tipped it swiftly from side to side, shaking it as one might shake a baby’s rattle and was alarmed at the sound that issued forth as if, within the plastic casing that housed the inner workings of the device, tiny pieces of shrapnel were jostling. It seemed the fall from fingers to floor had rendered the contraption entirely useless now though, out of curiosity, she attempted to navigate to the main menu. To her great surprise, the digital display illuminated revealing that, though the flashlight may have been damaged beyond repair in the fall, the device was still functional in some small way and, though the light emitted from the screen was slight indeed, any escape from the utter, jet blackness that presided without it was welcome respite. The display dimmed, the light level emanating diminishing gradually over several seconds until the blackness returned and she was forced to tap a button, any button, simply to activate the screen once more. Bringing the phone up to reading level, she contemplated her options. A quick glance at the signal strength told her instantly that to attempt a call was an act of folly and she resisted the urge to try regardless, aware that the pang of disappointment she would feel when the call failed to connect was a negative reaction she would do well to avoid in the present circumstance. Instead, she clicked through the familiar menu system to the message section, composing a simple, to the point message, comprising eight short words:
IF YOU GET THIS TEXT ME BACK. URGENT.
Navigating to options she had used many times before, she selected ‘Group’ and then chose ‘Friends,’ a personally defined collection of work associates and social acquaintances that she tended to send texts to all at once. She planned to repeat the process right now. Confirming that she wanted to send a group text, the send option appeared and she selected it. The wait was brief, four seconds in all before the message bounced as the phone’s software detected that there was no signal available to transmit the text, and the display presented her with a new choice.
‘No signal present. Select option.’
By pressing the top left button, she could choose to cancel the action or, by pressing the top right button, she could opt to ‘Keep Trying,’ all too aware that with the present level of signal there was zero chance of them receiving the text but hoping, though not expecting, that at some point signal strength would return and the cry for attention would be heeded.
She selected the latter.
Perhaps salvation would manifest itself when least expected.
‘Jesus.’
It was the first word that came to mind, and she spoke it willingly, content simply to experience the sensation of sound waves of a friendly nature passing over her eardrums as if, by using her own voice, she could somehow banish and perhaps, hope against hope, forget altogether the utterances of the phantom of not so very long ago, shrieking her own name into her ear at a nerve shattering volume, a disembodied voice of the damned intent on rendering her insane. The blasphemy echoed briefly, her own syllables echoing back at her twice, thrice, no more before petering out, muffled, her own body absorbing the reverberations until rendered silent.
Heather leant back against the wall directly behind her, allowing her weight to topple, confident, though she had not looked, of the distance between her position and the wall and, when resistance was met, she allowed her knees to buckle, a combination of momentum and gravity sliding her floorwards until her buttocks met resistance. Legs angled upwards, she pulled at her knees, hugging them to her chest much as she had done just a few hours earlier when in conversation with Greg, replacing the welcoming odour and texture of Guilliam in her mind with that of the comfort of her own proximity to herself, as if somehow, limbs pressed against torso, she were somehow less at risk, safer, more durable. It was a crazy notion, a mental peccadillo that, under the circumstances, she felt she was allowed: if I lie to myself now, what harm can I do?
The first thing she was aware of was a small vibration, felt initially in the fatty flesh of her arse cheeks, passing swiftly onwards, upwards, vibrating through her coccyx, an odd tickling sensation that she somehow felt in temple and toe simultaneously, traversing the spine until it finally became a judder, a barely perceptible vibration that felt vaguely electric, setting the teeth on edge and making hairs bristle against the flesh. She shivered, a strange feeling coursing through her, not dissimilar to the reaction most people have to fingernails on a blackboard, spiny brush bristles on concrete or cutlery on crockery. A tense, shivery squirming that made every nerve ending jangle, the sufferer incapable of eliciting more than a groan of disapproval. The vibrations intensified and, placing the palms of her hands against the floor of the lift she was amazed at how much movement she could ascertain, her palms literally lifting off the floor as if the carriage itself were being yanked up and down in the lift shaft.
Suddenly afraid, the intensity of the movement gathering pace, Heather attempted to clamber back to her feet but the motion of the craft made every movement a trial as, each time her centre of gravity seemed to attain equilibrium, a shift occurred as the lift seemed to plunge either downwards or, perversely, worse still upwards, her hip joints groaning against the physical assault as the top of her femur seemed to want to smash through her illiopubic eminence, a proposition nature had never foreseen, in all her wondrous majesty, resulting in a pain she had had never previously been subjected to.
She screamed.
A mighty, animalistic sound, unbound, restrained by neither pride nor prudence, as close a sound as a human can make to that of an animal as was possible to imagine, bouncing back at her constantly, seemingly magnified ten-fold by the material make-up of the lift itself as if, as the sound wave reverberated within the confines, it somehow gathered energy and momentum, became more than its original self. A nonsense, to be sure, yet she could not shake the conviction, as metal scraped against metal, the pained, high pitched screeching of warping steel all but piercing her eardrums, forcing her to clamp her hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the din, to little avail as the noise penetrated regardless. The lift itself began to shake perceptibly and she felt it in every joint, socket and ball jarring painfully as the container
coffin?
she was imprisoned in hoisted and plummeted, hoisted and plummeted, to what degree she knew not, only aware that it was sufficient motion to cause agony in sinews and muscles she had previously been oblivious to. The amount of movement seemed to be increasing exponentially, her feet now lifting clear off the floor with each peak though, as of yet, her head was not connecting with the ceiling as each trough was plumbed, though it could only be a matter of time.
Stillness.
The motion ceased instantly, causing her knees to buckle, more out of surprise than genuine lack of stability and where, moments prior the sond of rending metal and grinding cables had overpowered all, only silence held dominion.
Ironically, once the lift had ceased its careening, random movements, it was at that moment that her legs gave out and she crashed to the floor, body quivering, slave to the terror that had been held in check by the action packed events of the last few minutes.
Her head hurt.
Her stomach rumbled.

NOW
I glugged down the last dregs of the warm beverage, placing the empty mug of tea back on the desk in front of me. For ten minutes now I had been staring absent-mindedly at the twin monitor setup next to the master control for the CCTV, not really watching it, more staring through it, planning my activities over the next few hours. The building had become my domain entirely and, with Heather duly imprisoned, there was no immediate hurry to get my hands on her.
Plenty of time for that later.
I stood, feeling both knees crack one after the other as my legs straightened, pausing for a moment or two to stretch my body, joints stiffened slightly by lack of activity, needing convincing that motion was necessary. My back snapped too, once twice, crack, crack as I stretched, a small groan escaping me as I twisted and stretched, attempting to put some life back into my limbs. This was no time for tiredness.
‘Sleep when you’re dead, Wilkes,’ I muttered to myself.
I moved, walking casually, in no great rush, moving with the calm confidence of someone who is in total control of both actions and emotions. I left the security control room, pausing for a couple of minutes in front of the lifts, pressing my ear against the door of the central shaft, listening intently, half expecting to hear Heather crying out from her suspended prison cell, a little disappointed that only silence greeted me. One hand came up, pressed flat against the metal door, stroking the smooth surface as I imagined it was something else entirely that I was touching, my rough hands gliding over her soft skin. My breathing became deeper as I felt myself become excited almost instantly and a deep yearning filled me. If only it were possible to release her now, to bring the lift down right this minute, to grab her as she emerged from the dark confines, bleary eyed. Grab her and drag her somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t really matter, and take her any way I fucking wanted. She would protest to begin with, I was sure, but a couple of blows to the kidneys and a hand around the throat should soon convince her to co-operate. I wouldn’t touch her face, for a thing of beauty should not be sullied by bruising and swelling, instead I would concentrate any physical persuasion necessary on her lower torso and neck. Amazing how co-operative somebody becomes when their oxygen supply is restricted. The number one method to force compliance is to deprive a person of air. I knew, I had the documentation at home to prove it. Hundreds of magazines and leaflets detailing methods of torture, both for the purposes of extracting information and, well, let’s be honest, just for the sheer hell of it.
I wanted her compliant yet undamaged.
I moved away from the door now, breath still laboured but concerned that, if I lingered for too much longer I would be unable to resist my own desires, would succumb to my weakness and lower the lift, despite the dangers and, for now at least, she needed to remain precisely where she was.
The door leading to the stairwell was right next to the far left lift door, almost as if the designers originally planned to have a fourth elevator positioned there then at the last minute realised that stairs were required and shoe-horned them into the construction. I pushed through the door, footfalls all but silent on the plushly carpeted flooring. I started up the stairs, taking them two at a time though again without rushing, almost languid in my movements. I forced myself to calm my breathing, taking a deep lungful of air, holding it for five seconds before releasing and waiting five seconds before inhaling again. After ten or so repetitions, my oxygen intake was more or less back to normal, even the exertion of climbing the three floors by stairway not wearying me at all. I had never smoked, exercised regularly and considered myself to be in prime physical condition and the weekly activities in the Territorial Army only contributed to my overall athleticism. The T.A. is not good solely for strength and fitness; I get to shoot guns when I’m there.
And I like that.
I like that a lot.
The only disappointment is that we never get to shoot anything live, only targets. I have been forced to travel to Vietnam to find out what it feels like to shoot something still breathing, and what an exhilarating sensation that was. Nha Trang, Khánh Hòa province, Vietnam is a place noted for its exceptionally beautiful beach and crystal clear waters. It is also noted, among certain circles, for the fact that you can pay one hundred American dollars to slaughter a live cow with an M16, a relic of the war the Americans somehow contrived to lose.
It’s so easy, it’s almost insulting.
I paid my money to the agent and was then led into a field where I was given brief instructions on how to fire the weapon safely, then pointed in the direction of the animal. The fact that it was tethered made not one spot of difference to me as I unleashed the twenty rounds into the beasts flank, emptying the magazine in one salvo, the animals legs buckling beneath it as it died instantly as I strafed vital internal organs. For another five dollars I could have bought another magazine and pumped that into the carcass as well, but what would have been the point in that? Once the twitching ceased, so too did the satisfaction.
Jesus Christ, I’m not crazy.
I reached the third floor and pushed through the doorway and into the lift corridor, having cause to pause once more as I thought of Heather, the lift she was trapped inside dangling some two storeys beneath where I now stood. Before I could become distracted again I moved away from the area, out into the work space, an open plan office designed to give the impression of a team working together, rather than of individuals working alone. I didn’t hesitate now, walking straight to Heather’s desk, pulling the standard issue swivel chair out from beneath the desk foot well and spinning it towards me, leaning down now, examining the back rest, not finding what I sought, forced to kneel down, hands brushing against the carpet as I searched the floor, inch by inch, having to squint as the desk itself was blocking out some of the light. I found what I was looking for and, carefully, plucked the delicate item from the carpet between thumb and forefinger, rising up onto my knees but extending my legs and back fully so that I was kneeling up as vertically as I could, hand reaching into my trouser pocket and producing the empty matchbox I had remembered to bring along for this very purpose. With one hand I managed to push the small cardboard tray out from the box itself and carefully positioned my other hand so that the tip of the strand of hair I was holding fell into the tray and slowly, slowly, I lowered my hand, the hair curling in on itself, coiling around as it entered the box’s interior until I was able to push the tray closed. I wrapped my fist around the box, bringing my other hand up to ball around it too and brought the whole up to my face momentarily before placing the matchbox back into the pocket from which I had retrieved it. Still on my knees, I grabbed hold of the seat of the swivel chair and pulled it towards me, the casters gliding easily over the carpet, drawing it right to my torso so that I was facing it the wrong way, as if I were some form of imbecile who had no idea how a chair functions.
Nothing could be further from the truth, however, as my actions were deliberate indeed.
I lowered myself again, pivoting at the waist, having to slide the chair back a little to allow my face to press down, firmly, right into the soft cushioning of the chairs seat, drawing in as much of the scent as possible in one go, holding it, analysing it, trying to decipher every subtlety and nuance in the odour that flooded my nostrils. I thought back to earlier this evening, to Heather sitting here as we chatted and enjoyed our drinks, the only thing separating her backside and pussy from this surface the thin fabric of both trouser suit and knickers. As my oxygen ran out, I was forced to exhale, waiting momentarily before inhaling again, not wishing to taint the aroma I was enjoying with the scent of my own coffee-laced breath. Kneeling there, I gripped the arm of the chair with one hand and, with the other, I began massaging my own groin, pleased at the firm sensation I felt through the cloth, eager to spill my seed, though this was neither the time nor the place. Containing my excitement with a massive effort of will, I brought myself to my feet, rubbing my hands over my skin where my face had been in contact with the fabric of the chair and licking at them, as a dog might lick at its owners hands, seeking residual gratification.
Just one more thing.
I stooped, leaning into the desk foot well and retrieved the waste paper basket that I knew Heather always kept there. How she could tolerate it in that position I did not know, feet banging against wicker all day long, but there it was anyway, as expected. I placed the rubbish receptacle onto the desk and rummaged through the contents, but slowly, with great deliberation. Some banana peel, an empty crisp wrapper and a discarded envelope, all were of no interest to me but, right at the bottom, I found the spoils I sought and claimed them; two tissues, screwed into balls and tossed away.
I would examine them in more detail later.

RECENT
He walked up the driveway of Crozier Cat Sanctuary for the second time, resolving this time not to leave until he had achieved what he had set out to do. On his previous visit, the unyielding stare and forthright manner of the lady who had greeted him had unnerved him to the point that he had been forced to flee, though he realised that his actions had been foolish and, more troublingly, would only cause suspicions to be aroused. Though he had planned his patter to a precise routine, when the moment came he had lost his nerve and now, on second visit, the task seemed more daunting still.
How silly.
Every day people the length and breadth of the country obtain cats and kittens from places such as this, yet the worry gnawed at his stomach lining, an ulcer-inducing irritant that he could actually taste at the back of his throat.
Be strong.
The words echoed through his mind, a repetitive, two syllable mantra that he hoped would give him the resolve to make good on his intentions on this occasion.
He neared the front door of the cottage and, even in his current state of agitation he could do nothing but approve of the aesthetics of the place, aware of the quintessential Englishness of the property. In his lifetime, as lengthy as it had been, he had travelled infrequently, but on those occasional forays to alien territories had he shown the natives a photograph of this building and asked them to identify its country of origin, none would have hesitated in singling out Albion. A pleasing, thatched affair, ivy clawing its way up the walls of the structure, it was a lovely building indeed.
He entered, glad to be out of the glare of the sunlight and into more shadowy realms, the coolness within contrasting sharply with the searing heat of the outside world. The room he found himself in was small and functional, vaguely reminiscent of a doctors waiting area, though without the clinical unfriendliness of such a place. The walls were lined with posters, but instead of government sponsored warnings alerting the sickly to the dangers of smoking and the importance of infants receiving the MMR jab, these posters, newsletters and flyers all related to animal welfare of one kind or another. Foster a puppy here, alert the authorities to mistreated animals there, most adorned with an image of the cutest appropriate specimen to draw in the potentially interested.
‘Can I help you?’
The lady sitting behind the desk at the back of the room addressed him as he was taking in his surroundings and he took a couple of steps towards her, pleased to see that it was somebody other than the overly confident individual he had encountered a few days previously. This lady was small, fragile even and looked the very embodiment of ‘nice old Aunt,’ all blue rinse and paisley print dress.
‘Hello,’ he said gently, a shyness creeping over him as he struggled for words, ‘I’m interested in adopting some kittens.’
‘Ok,’ she said, ‘Have you ever owned a cat before?’
Her tone of voice implied that this was a conversation she had had many times before, as indeed she must, the tell-tale melodic quality apparent that manifests itself in the speech patterns of anyone who repeats the same phrases over and over in their day to day lives as if dispelling the monotony slightly by adding a tuneful slant to the words. So musical was it that, unconsciously, he found himself filling in the next line for her, almost as if it were a poem in song that only he knew. ‘Have you ever owned a cat before? If you haven’t, then get out the door….’ a childish litany that nonetheless reverberated around his mind unpleasantly even as he concentrated on his next words.
Out loud he replied ‘Oh yes, several at one time or another.’
She looked at him curiously then and he sensed that he had said the wrong thing immediately. Feeling self-conscious, he knew that his face was reddening and he found himself shuffling from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with himself.
‘They were all very happy,’ he blurted, discarding the script that he had rehearsed so painstakingly, speaking on-the-fly and realising even as he was doing so that it was a mistake.
‘I didn’t hurt any of them. I wouldn’t do that.’
She stood now, concern etched on her features, transforming her from kind old Aunt to angry school mistress as surely as if she had slipped on a mask unnoticed.
‘Why are you saying that, Sir?’
He kept shuffling, searching his mind, wondering if he could dip back into the well-drilled script at some point to salvage the situation, unsure as to why it had all gone so wrong, so quickly. How could the word ‘several’ have derailed this scenario so spectacularly. If he had said never, would that have been better. Maybe one was the magic number.
‘One,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve only owned one. I don’t know why I said that before. I was nervous. One, but she tragically died last month of leukaemia and I miss her so much….’
He let the words trail off, feeling her cold, accusatory stare on his skin as fiercely as if she were holding a soldering iron against the flesh of his face.
‘I don’t know what you are up to, Sir, but I think you should leave.’
‘But…’
‘If this is some kind of joke, I don’t think it’s very funny,’ she interrupted. Her tone of voice was stern, again reminding him of the strict school mistress and he knew that any further argument was pointless, but he seemed incapable of halting the flow of words, a mere spectator to someone else’s conversation.
‘I need them. I’m not leaving here until you’ve given me at least three kittens.’
He stood his ground, placing his feet on the ground firmly and planting his hands on his hips, hoping to display a show of defiance that would have her scurrying for the animals. Instead, she simply reached for the telephone.
‘I’m calling the police, Sir. If you don’t want to get into trouble, I suggest you leave right now. And don’t come back.’
She dialled, three quick jabs of her finger and the man turned tail and fled.

THEN: April

They lay together on the settee, he underneath a fraction, she nestling into the cranny formed by his body, bent slightly at the waist. They both stared at the TV screen, absorbed by the movie they had selected. The Sanyo VTC5000 purred noisily as it spooled the Betamax videotape across its reading heads, converting the magnetic signals found amongst the iron oxide particles on the tape itself to video signals that were fed by unsightly wires direct to the television, allowing the pair to recline in luxury and stare in marvel at the grisly exploits of Ash ad Co. in The Evil Dead.
‘This is terrifying,’ she whispered, an on screen monster pounding at the wooden trapdoor of the cellar in which it was imprisoned.
‘You picked it,’ he replied, though without severity.
‘I’m not complaining. I guessed it would be scary. That’s the reason I chose it.’
He prodded her hip a little, pinching at her warm skin so that she wriggled against him pleasingly, giggling as she moved.
‘Stop it, Tom. Wait until the movie’s finished,’ she said, still laughing.
He ceased his torment, dropping his hand onto her smooth, rounded hip, gently stroking along her contours, eyes not really focusing on the screen anymore, instead thinking about how other parts of her would feel, a thought made all the more pleasant knowing that, once the movie ended, he was sure to find out.
She jumped a little, provoked by the onscreen mayhem, and Thomas pulled her even closer than before.

‘Why are you making an issue out of this?’
His voice was raised, though not yet to threatening levels and she eyed him warily across the kitchen table, not quite sure which way his mood would swing.
‘The movie got me thinking, that’s all.’
‘What? A bloody zombie film got you thinking about our relationship?’
She shook her head, annoyed at his inability to grasp the glaringly obvious.
‘It wasn’t the movie. Not the story anyway.’
He stared at her from the opposite side of the table, cradling a can of beer in his palm, looking momentarily as if he were about to take a swig before deciding against it.
‘What then?’
‘Didn’t you notice what the character was called?’
‘Hmmm?’ was all the eloquence he could muster.
‘The sister of the main guy?’ She watched him for a couple of seconds, waiting for the realisation to strike but, when it became clear that her words were having no affect, she had to paint the picture.
‘The sister. Cheryl.’
His eyes change instantly, misting over almost, seeming to lose focus on the vicinity and instead be set to mid-distance, looking for all the world like a male model in a catalogue showing off his underpants. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had raised his hand and pointed at something that only he could see.
‘Do you get it now?’
His face was set firm and she noticed, with some anxiety attached, that the small knot of muscles at his jaw were pulsing rhythmically, almost as if he were chewing, though she knew that was not the case.
‘Tom.’
She said it quietly, not wishing to appear aggressive, but needing a response of some form. The brooding silence that had settled over him was unsettling – she had never known him like this before, in the six weeks that they had been seeing each other – and she was unsure as to how best to respond.
‘Tom.’
She repeated the call, louder this time, and was about to move towards him when he replied.
‘I heard you.’
His voice was low, but it dripped with menace, freezing her to the spot. Her thoughts raced. Since the affair had begun, they had spent plenty of time together, each time liaising at her house. He spent as long as was possible with her, always having carefully constructed a reason as to his late return from work for the wife, waiting at home. In that time he had been many things; a lover, a listener; a comedian; a thinker. One thing he had never previously been, until this moment however, was a threat, yet that is how she felt suddenly. His eyes seemed to burn somehow, an inner fury that he was desperately hanging onto, perhaps fearful that if it were unleashed he would cause great harm both to her and the surrounding area, like a force of nature, powerful, terrible, yet awe-inspiring simultaneously.
She stood dead still, paralysed, desperately trying to think of something to say to break the deadlock, something to ease his concerns, to mollify the anger which clearly pulsed through his veins, but her mind was a void.
He broke the standoff.
Tensing his right bicep, he swung his arm in a backwards arc, the can of lager held tight in his fist, before propelling it with all his strength at the opposite wall. The metallic projectile flew through the air, bullet-like, striking the wallpaper covered brickwork a mere twelve inches from her head, the gaseous fluid exploding from both the opened end and the rent that had been torn into the container, spraying all around.
‘Never say that name again.’
Spoken softly, but with such an intensity that it would have had no more effect had it been screamed directly into her face. She felt her knees weaken and, for one awful moment, thought that she was going to piss herself but, thankfully, she was able to keep control of her bladder. The clothes she was wearing were spotted with the spilt lager, though she made no effort to deal with it.
‘I didn’t mean….’ She began, but a turn of his head in her direction brought a swift silence.
‘I know what you meant.’
And, though she did not believe a word of it, feeling sure that he had misinterpreted what she was going to say next, she held her silence, certain that any attempt to justify herself or explain her true meaning would be a forlorn exercise.
Unsure of what to do, she simply stood where she was, looking in his direction, though barely meeting his gaze, fearful that this could be seen as confrontational.
He spoke.
‘Get me another beer.’
And she did, only just managing to hold back the tears that threatened to flow, feeling like a little girl again, terrified of the over-bearing teacher who seemed to pick on her constantly rather than her fellow classmates.
‘Here you go,’ she whispered, placing the unopened can onto the table. He did not respond, instead turning his head slightly to look at the can, before swivelling his neck to stare directly at her, a very strange look in his eyes. Again unsure of herself, she leaned forward once more, this time grasping the base of the can with one hand before popping the ring pull and pulling it free with the other.
He reached for the drink, swallowing half in one go before returning it to the tabletop.

RECENT
The old man groaned aloud as he eased himself from his sitting position on the battered, grime encrusted settee, disturbing the large ginger tomcat that had, until the intrusive movement, been sleeping against his right hip, leeching what little warmth his frail body produced.
‘Geronwiya,’ he snarled as the animal made a threatening hiss, baring its fangs at him as if he were the temeritous one for daring to disturb its slumber. In moments of anxiety, the old man’s Black Country accent became more pronounced, a richer, more nasal sibilation aimed at the beast as it continued its protest, waving one paw distractedly in his direction, no real malice in the act, a laziness implicit in the motion. He groaned again as the joints of his knees cracked and, in a moment of sudden fury his fist lashed out, connecting sharply with the feline’s skull, causing the beast to emit a fearful growl at the same instant as it leapt to its feet and escaped the confines of the sofa.
‘Little shit,’ the man called at the creatures rear-end as it disappeared from the room, tail waving agitatedly high in the air, exposing its puckered anus to the old man as if insistent upon having the final say.
‘I’ll teach him,’ he threatened to no-one in particular, the only ears near enough to hear incapable of understanding his meaning. Gingerly, he placed both hands on his knees, the bony appendages clasping tightly around his leg joints to provide leverage as he struggled to a standing position, weaving unsteadily for a moment before finding his footing. He shuffled forwards, heading for the door between living room and kitchen, oblivious to the filth and squalor that surrounded him and not merely because of his visual impairment. His eyes had long been accustomed to filtering out that which he did not wish to see so, even as he scanned the area ahead to ensure he did not trip, it was as if his brain simply refused to register the organic nature of the detritus. Cat hair littered the place, covering every surface, and besides the fur was more disturbing material, as feline faeces smeared the carpets, ground into the material underfoot as he made his way from room to room. As he entered the kitchen, the cataracts in his eyes troubled his vision, but not entirely, yet seemingly he was unaware of the rotting carcass curled in the corner of the room, cannibalised by its own kind initially before becoming food for an altogether smaller genus of life, now all but desiccated, a leathery husk of parchment dry skin and bone was all that remained.
The man cared not.
Reaching the filth stained Formica table, he slumped into the wooden chair that backed onto the kitchen wall and squinted, taking in every detail of what lay before him. Newspaper cuttings littered the table, arranged haphazardly on the surface and the old man studied each in turn. Beneath the table, his right hand scratched at his left forearm, steadily to begin with but increasing in its vigour until, before long, searing red welts began to form. The pressure was sufficient just to scorch the skin, though not break it to begin with. The old man’s eyes continued to scan and, for the smaller print, he was forced to use a jeweller’s eye-glass, a tool so old-fashioned and primitive in appearance that Sherlock Holmes would have been proud of it, yet it performed its task admirably, enlarging the print sufficiently for his milky orbs to decipher every syllable. Squinting, holding the apparatus in place by force of facial muscles alone, beneath the table his right hand continued its assault on his left arm and, as he read on, the fingers turned inwards, becoming claws, fingernails digging into skin viciously, drawing blood from his skin but not a whimper from his mouth, as if he felt nothing at all. He scratched and read, read and scratched until blood flowed freely from multiple wounds, dripping onto the slimy linoleum, but it didn’t remain there for long as one of the bolder felines spotted the free nutrients and lapped up the warm fluid even as it was spilt.
He didn’t stop scratching until every word had been read when, lacerated, he returned awkwardly to the sofa and wept once more.


NOW

The darkness was cloying, seeming to become a thing of substance that smeared itself across her skin, dripping from arms, legs and skull like the oil from a seabird caught in polluted waters. She shivered, chilled not so much by the temperature as by the circumstance and, for the first time, the very real thought that she would be spending the night began to crystallise. A new sensation was making its presence felt, one that she had never previously felt in her life and, though a stranger, she recognised it at once.
Claustrophobia.
Her stomach muscles were cramping, her chest tightening and, suddenly, the ability to breathe was becoming more difficult. It felt for all the world as if her lungs were shrinking, grapefruit sized, smaller, smaller, the capacity reduced accordingly so that the breath she was able to draw was far less than the amount of oxygen she required to sustain herself. She remembered a time, many summers ago, when she and her sister had been playing in a swimming pool. Heather had dived beneath the surface, her small body so buoyant that she had to fight to stay under the surface. Her sister had jumped across her, forcing her down just at the point that she had been about to break the surface and for ten, maybe fifteen seconds she was trapped beneath her sister’s weight, unable to claw her way to the world of breathable atmosphere and a panic seized her the like of which she had never previously known. It was starting now, somewhere deep in her abdomen, a crawling tendril of despair and nausea. She clutched at herself, squeezing at her belly hoping that, by applying a little pressure, she would somehow nullify the sickness that now seemed to be presenting.
‘Breathe, breathe,’ she urged herself, her own body rebelling, lungs seemingly becoming incapable of transmitting oxygen to her bloodstream so that she was all but overcome by dizziness. She toppled backwards now, hands grasping desperately at the wall behind her, trying to find some purchase but succeeding only in sliding further down, the slick, metallic surface lubricated further by the sweat on her own palms.
‘Umph,’ a noise, almost cartoon in nature escaped her, lungs expelling vital gas as her spine cracked against the wall, inflicting further pain and it took a tautening of the thigh muscles to prevent her from slipping straight down the wall and into an untidy heap on the floor. Leaning back against the wall, unsteady despite the support it offered, Heather was suddenly aware of the perspiration that poured from her, brow and pits in particular. Mopping at her forehead with one hand she was dismayed by the amount of fluid she was expelling, certain that the anxiety of her present situation was not explanation enough for the copious quantity. It was dripping from her at an alarming rate, trickling down her nose, a new droplet forming within a second or two of the previous one falling to the floor. Though she couldn’t see, by holding one hand in front of her face she could feel each time one fell.
Drip.
One second, two, three, four.
Drip.
As if she had just completed a five mile run, her body was pouring wet, the blouse she was wearing sodden, becoming uncomfortable and she was forced to remove the suit jacket that she was wearing and drop it to the floor, loathe as she was to expose it to the foot trodden surface. The weather of late had been surprisingly hot, heat wave conditions even and she wondered whether, with power out now, the ambient temperature of the building itself were rising sufficiently to explain what was happening. Funny thing was, though, she didn’t feel particularly hot just…odd.
A cramp made her belly spasm and, momentarily, she felt certain that she was going to be sick, clamping her mouth closed in a bid to quell the nausea. The very idea of vomiting in this enclosed space and having to stay with it, next to it, even standing in it was a repulsive one indeed and, now that the thought had surfaced, it was one she had difficulty shaking free of, only exacerbating the problem as the more she thought about the prospect, the more nausea she felt. Once the spasm had passed, she bent forward further, grasping blindly, searching for the shoulder bag that she had placed on the floor some time ago, locating it and bringing it back up with her. She opened the zip fastener that led to the main compartment and fumbled around for a while, using her fingers in much the same way as an insect uses its antennae, devices of detection and, once the item she sought was located the extremities reverted to the more usual function for those blessed with an opposable thumb, a means of holding and carrying. She pulled the packet of extra strong mints from within the confines, dropping the bag back to the floor, tearing away both the paper from the outside and the foil inner wrapping of the sweets before popping one into her mouth. Though the brand she had purchased were not meant to be used as an indigestion aid she had found that, in the past, tummy trouble had been at least partially ameliorated by the simple expediency of sucking on some minted sugar.
Within a couple of minutes, the discomfort seemed to have passed and Heather was able to stand straight once more, relieved that the sensations had abated, unsure whether it was the deployment of the strong mints or other, more natural processes that had soothed the pain. She was still slightly alarmed at the severity of the cramping she had felt and probed gently at the affected area, low down but on both sides, between belly button and pubic region. Her fingers dug into her flesh, but there was no sensation present and, she hoped, the temporary discomfort seemed to have gone entirely.
Heather reached into her trouser pocket, pulling the mobile phone out once more, anxious to see if there had been any change in the signal strength but knowing even before she looked that there had not. Still, she was eager to see if her message had been sent at all. Perhaps a signal had been acquired briefly, just long enough to transmit a message before being lost again. Someone out there somewhere may at this very moment be attempting to get in touch with her. It was a forlorn hope, and she knew it, but that did nothing to diminish its power. She brought the device up far enough to allow her to read the screen and navigated her way to the messages menu, skipping past ‘Inbox’ and ‘Write Message,’ going straight for ‘Sent items,’ and was disappointed, as she knew she would be to see that the last message that had been sent from her telephone had been over two days ago.
‘Christ, that’s depressing in itself,’ she thought, though hardly surprising. With Greg away and her resulting overcompensation through excessive hours at work, the opportunity for socialising was minimal. Not that she was a particularly social animal at the best of times. She had friends, true enough, close ones too, but there was no doubting that she was more of a homely sort than a party person. Given the choice between a good glass of red and an exciting novel at home with her feet up, or a few drinks in the pub before hitting the clubs, there was no doubting which option would triumph.
She’d read nearly all of James Herbert’s books.
She cancelled her way out of the messages section of the menu, back to the main screen just so she could take a check on the time. Before she got there, she tried to guess at the hour, certain that she had been imprisoned now for at least three hours, perhaps even the best part of four. As the time was revealed, she was startled to discover that it was only twenty past eight, meaning that she had been captive for precisely two hours.
‘Time flies when you’re having fun,’ she thought to herself, a sourness to her mental tone that she did not care for at all. Whilst she was aware that she had flaws, as do we all and as her obsessive compulsive streak was testament too, Heather prided herself on maintaining a positive outlook whenever possible. One of her pet peeves, especially in the workplace, were the complainers, the emotional vampires, the people who, when they walk into a room the life, soul and, crucially, the joy is just sucked from it. ‘Moaning Minnie’s’ Greg called them and it was an apt description. No matter the task, no matter the situation, these individuals find a way to complain, to bitch, to whine and it drove her to distraction. As a result of this and to counter any possibility of turning into one of the miserable swines, Heather’s outlook was firmly positioned in the positive camp and, no matter how arduous or complex or annoying a task or situation, she always attempted to see the bright side and, whilst it was true that it was difficult to see any benefit from being trapped in a lift for two hours, still the bitter edge to her thought processes rang alarm bells, and she resolved to fight the black thoughts should they attempt to assert themselves.
A searing pain lanced through her belly, worse than before and she felt something give inside her, a gloopy pop, like a bubble of gas bursting and suddenly her insides were on fire.
‘Rrraragghhh,’ was the noise she made, or an equivalent thereof and she flopped back against wall once more, clutching at her abdomen, pushing in at herself for no reason in particular, unsure what else to do, simply trying to relieve the awesome pressure that she felt building. The sensation of sickness she had felt before did not return and briefly, despite the pain, she was relieved, but it lasted mere seconds as an altogether more frightening feeling struck.
The urge to void herself was instant, over-powering and it took all of her effort, both mental and physical as her bowels loosened and sphincter relaxed, to prevent herself from defecating into her own underwear at that very moment. She doubled forward now, away from the wall, agony ripping through her, tears streaming from her eyes but, blinded as she was anyway, she barely noticed them.
She had other things to occupy her thoughts.
The sensation persisted and, unbelievably, seemed to intensify so that she was compelled to physically prevent an accident, both hands clamped, one on each buttock, physically pushing her arse cheeks together. If it weren’t so agonising, it may even have been comical but, within seconds, she knew it was a fight she was destined to lose. Mind racing, pondering the unponderable, she considered her alternatives, thoughts in overdrive, knowing she had only seconds to spare and it was clear, there was only one course of action available.
Tearing at her trousers, desperate now to be rid of them, she managed to catch hold of the button on the waistband, yanking at it, not caring whether she ripped it clean off or not. Once that was freed she tore at the zip before briefly thanking God that she had no laces on her shoes, kicking them free so that she could remove the trousers entirely. The knickers came with them, tucked into the gusset of the trousers and, the very second that the clothing was removed, Heather staggered backwards, finding the right angle that connected rear wall with side wall and slid down into a squat, tears still flowing though not simply because of the pain, shame now adding its weight to the flow.
She defecated.
A sickening, liquefied flow of faecal matter quite unlike anything that she had produced previously in her life, causing fresh paroxysms of pain to slice through her abdomen. As soon as the voiding process commenced the odour reached her and, frightened by her own smell, she gagged, convinced for a second that she was about to expel from the opposite end as well but managing to fight down the bile before it too began to flow.
Once the humiliation had ended, she had no alternative but to attempt to clean herself up with her own suit jacket, reaching for it on the floor, a further shaming as if the first were not enough, all dignity lost as the material of the jacket slid between the cheeks of her buttocks.
The stink stung her eyes, hurt her nostrils and even infected her mouth.
During the next forty five minutes, she would have need to repeat the process three times more.

THEN: April

He floored the accelerator, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the whites of his knuckles looked as if they may slice through his skin at any second, exposing the bone. The trees whipped by on either side, the narrowness of the lane merely serving to add to the sensation of great speed.
Racecourse Lane, an aptly named thoroughfare between two main roads, was approximately two miles long, cutting through an area that was sparsely populated being mainly arable land or farmland used for storage. The road, as narrow as it was, still was designated as a two way street meaning that, at the speed he was travelling, should a vehicle approach from the opposite direction a collision was the most likely outcome. He didn’t care and, instead of slowing, pushed his foot down further, nudging the needle of the speedometer up past sixty, a suicidal rate on a road of that nature. The lane ahead turned sharply to the left and, with the merest of tugs in that direction on the wheel, he flung the car around the corner, tyres squealing in protest and he felt the back end nearly lose control, on the verge of fishtailing, only just controlling the imminent spin by fighting his natural instinct to turn the wheel to the left as the right rear of the vehicle swung wide, instead nudging the wheel to the right, turning into the drift to avoid a total spin out. Veering wildly now, he fought for control, the steering wheel juddering violently in his hands, the car still threatening to leave the road at any second. With a last burst of adrenaline he punched the car forward some more, eking out a few extra miles per hour, seemingly hell-bent on crashing off the road into hedge, oak tree or ditch.
As the last of his fury abated, so too his speed dropped, as if the car itself was a thing of sentience, aware of his mood and reflecting it thusly. As the speed lowered, full control returned, and he guided the vehicle back over to the correct side of the road, mindful now lest another car or, worse still, a farm vehicle be travelling the other way. It wasn’t an extraordinary sight in these parts to see a combine harvester trundling along the lane as a farmer moved it from one field to the other, it’s huge bulk blocking both lanes, forcing anything travelling the opposing way to reverse into one of the lay-by’s cut into the channel of bushes and trees that lined the road.
His speed dropped further still and, before he knew what he was doing, he had pulled into one of the lay-by’s himself. He brought the vehicle to a standstill and climbed from the car. His breath was coming in short gasps, as if he had just completed a severe run, though he had done nothing more demanding than sit behind the wheel. Although he had been able to control his rage to the point of avoiding a serious road traffic incident, still it pulsed inside him, a throbbing, angry knot that seemed to reside in both gut and chest. His stomach felt tiny and tight and he imagined it to be the size of a walnut, whilst his ribcage seemed to be conspiring against him, pushing his chest into a space too small for the organic apparatus therein.
He scanned the vicinity quickly, spotting an opening in the bushes a little further along the road. Glancing both ways, not wishing to be mown down by an errant tractor, he made his way to the gap, scrambling through, having to duck slightly to avoid the sharp barbs of branches and twigs that hung down from the bushes, sharp, spiny fingers intent upon piercing his flesh just for the sport of it. Through the obstacle now, he found himself in a medium sized field. Due to the season, no vegetation was yet evident and, instead, the field consisted simply of stony earth, ploughed into furrows along which, in the months to come, fresh life would spring. He walked along the perimeter, breath still coming in ragged inhalations, not worsened at all by the brisk exercise as he was already too pumped up to be affected by his movements. He bent down, plucking a large grey stone from the earth, squeezing it in his palm, attempting to use it as some sort of mood leveller but, of course, his effort failed. Squeezing hard, harder each time, instead of the action calming him it only riled him further, as if his own inability to control his emotions were a symbol of weakness. He stumbled now, eyes blurring slightly, his vision becoming altered by his ever worsening mood and was forced, a few moments later, to come to a standstill, leaning against a conveniently situated wooden gate that led back to the road from which he had ventured. Still gripping the stone, he raised his hand sharply, striking himself against the temple with the object with enough force to bring a ringing to his ears but nothing more, so not hard enough. Again, he swung his arm towards his own head, the grey stone, presumably deposited in this field from Scotland some ten thousand or more years ago, as the glaciers of the last ice age thawed and retreated, now put to use as a weapon of self-flagellation as the figure pounded at his own skull. The third strike caused blood to flow, and he cast the rock to one side, opting instead to grasp at his scalp with both hands, tearing at his hair in fury, frustration and fear, an animal bellow issuing forth, unbidden, a howl of unspoken despair, deep-rooted in his soul. The blood from the wound dribbled through his fingers, moistening them to the extent that he had difficulty getting a firm grip on his hair, so he turned his attentions to the wooden gate, lashing out at it as if this inanimate object were the root cause of his anger. He kicked and punched at the wooden panels, oblivious to his own mania, wanting only to destroy what was before him. The lower of the panels began to give under his assault, his legs out-muscling his arms by a considerable measure, but still he attempted to ruin the upper portion of the gate, hands balled into fists which bled now from the knuckles, as flesh disintegrated more easily than carpentry. Thin slivers of the wood broke off as he struck at it, splintering so that thin spikes jutted from his hands, but he felt no pain, and continued his physical onslaught until sated.

Monica sat and stared dumbly at the magnets that festooned the refrigerator door opposite her. Sitting at the kitchen table, one hand tucked under the chin to rest her head she thought back over the argument, analysing the contributions of both parties.
As soon as Tom had left the house – stormed out, to be more accurate – she had quickly changed into fresh clothing, casting the beer soaked articles into the laundry basket and had proceeded to take a shower to remove the few sticky areas that had been left by the lager residue on the skin of her arms and chest, even through her clothing. Once clean, she had returned to the scene of the crime, tidied up by sponging down the worst affected areas, using wads of kitchen towel on the minor splashes, before seating herself at the table to mull things over. Without even realising it, she had opened a bottle of red wine and now, some hour and twenty minutes later, with the bottle three quarters empty, a pleasant buzz occupied the space where, not too long ago, a deep fury and resentment burned.
As the alcohol weaved its magic, her thoughts began to turn inwards.
She looked down at the table before her, scrutinising for the hundredth time the piece of paper upon which she had scrawled the actions of each of them, jotting besides each bullet-point both a reason for the behaviour, as well as whether it was understandable. Her intention was to better understand what had triggered his violent and disturbing behaviour so as best to avoid a repeat of the incident in future. Their relationship, however brief, had been highly enjoyable, the highlight of her year so far. Though not yet thirty, she had already suffered through a messy divorce, as well as the loss of a parent and she felt that it was time for some payback, time for her to enjoy herself and let her hair down. So, the man she was seeing was married. So what? It wasn’t as if she believed in God or anything. And she had no intention of sinking her claws into him, bagging him for herself. She just wanted a man, to do for her what a man is supposed to do. To comfort her, to warm her and, yes, to fuck her brains out when the time was right. And all had been going according to plan.
Until today.
Today something had changed.
Though this was not her first affair, it was certainly the first time she had felt a genuine bond with the male involved. Previously, whilst she herself had still been married, she had selected men solely for their physical attributes. When a single guy lays it about a little, it doesn’t take too long for a girl to find out if he is suitably skilled for her needs. Size was not the issue here, no, for her it was stamina. She liked a man who could endure her, who wouldn’t be spent after two thrusts and a squirt, so the physicality she sought came down to sheer staying power. Once the divorce came through and she found herself spending far too much time alone, she realised that she needed something more than ‘cock on demand’ and a chance meeting with Tom in The Seven Stars during her one and only visit to the establishment set the wheels in motion. His dissatisfaction with his own home life dove-tailed beautifully with her plans to initiate an extra-marital dalliance for the poor fellow. Little wifey wasn’t coming up to the mark at home, so she would gladly step up to fill her shoes, and provide Tom with the intimacy that was so clearly lacking domestically.
But she’d mentioned her by name.
Or been right on the verge.
Unintentionally, hiring a movie from the local video store which prominently featured a character who shared a name with the cuckquean had been bad enough. Accidental, yes, but bad enough all the same. But to be stupid enough to start a conversation about it afterwards? It made no sense.
She took another slug from the wine glass, more a swig than a sip, tutting to herself when a few drops of the fluid spilt from the glass, dripping onto the tabletop.
The worst of it, the real kicker, the thing that annoyed her so much now that she berated herself inwardly for her naivety was that she had no idea where the conversation was going after the initial statement. She had no sharp point to make, no witty comment, no sophisticated piece of pseudo relationship psychology. She’d just blurted it out without pause for reflection, not thinking things through.
‘A man committing adultery probably doesn’t want to be reminded of the fact, Monica, you silly cow.’
She wasn’t sure if she had said the words aloud or merely thought them, but they brought a smile to her lips either way. The self-admonishment seemed to bring to an end her internal analysis and, resolving not to mention Cheryl’s name again, she headed through to the living room to watch TV.

He moved swiftly, not eager to be seen, hoping to be as a phantom, to float in then vanish like some ethereal entity, carried off by the lightest of breezes, away from this place where bad things must happen.
Always the bad things.
Twilight settled over the world, the sun setting slowly this evening leaving in its wake a red smear against the horizon, or what little he could see of it above the rooftops and trees. Though not yet completely dark, he felt he could not wait any longer for fear of venting his rage on the wrong person. Only those who had done him wrong were ripe for the slaughter. The innocent would be left in peace.
Reaching Monica’s driveway, he turned up it, heading for the front door.

Monica cradled the glass of red wine in crooked fingers, the stem of the glass passing between her middle finger and ring finger, allowing the actual vessel to sit snugly in her palm. Her fifth drink of the day, she was well past her usual limit, and had to admit to a certain light-headedness. On screen, Stan Ogden and Eddie Yeats were complaining about the perishing noise that was bound to be caused by a planned ‘Street’ disco, and she found herself giggling drunkenly at their griping.
The ringing of the doorbell brought a start, swiftly followed by another giggle as she stumbled to answer its call.

He waited anxiously, peering over his shoulder nervously to ensure he was not being watched. Nobody had seen him arrive, he was certain of that and, as he heard movement from the other side of the door, a last glance confirmed that there were no passers-by on the pavement. When his task was completed here, now, one more return visit would be required and after that, gone forever.
The door swung open and Monica stood before him. Without a word he marched past her, knocking shoulder to shoulder against her as he moved, causing her to stumble again, though this time it had nothing to do with the drink she had consumed.
‘Tom, what the hell?’ she called, slurring slightly, noticeable even to herself.
She followed him, entering the living room to find him pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of the TV.
‘Draw the curtains,’ he barked, jabbing at the offending items with an index finger.
‘But…’ she began.
‘Draw the fucking curtains,’ he bellowed, and she felt her bladder loosen slightly, even detecting the vague sting of cystitis as a tiny amount of urine was voided. She dashed across to the living room window, pulling on the drawstring to the right of the curtains, yanking on it hurriedly, hand over hand, causing the two pieces of material to swing towards each other until touching.
She turned, frightened, not sure what was going to happen next and unable to think of a way to rectify the situation. Clearly, he was still furious about earlier and she desperately wanted to patch things up. Whether he would allow her to do so or not was another matter entirely. Having spent five years in an abusive relationship prior to meeting the man she eventually married, she recognised the signs as surely as if he had them tattoed across his forehead and she was all too aware that there was a very real possibility that she was about to receive a beating. Not fearful of the pain – she had endured blows before – but more afraid of the permanent and irrevocable damage it would do both to their fledgling relationship and to Tom himself, she sought a means of mollifying her potential abuser, to calm him to the point of reason, but her mind drew nothing but a blank.
‘Who have you been speaking to?’
The question blind-sided her and she hesitated; a perilous action when dealing with an irate, potentially violent male pumped full of testosterone. The delay could easily be misinterpreted as an attempt to buy time to allow the fabrication of a falsehood, but words and thought were failing her. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out, as if her own body were conspiring against her. Phrases formed in her mind and her mouth created the shapes and positions to utter them, but her throat was so constricted by fear that no air could pass over the vocal chords to create the sounds she sought. In desperation, she took a step towards him, raising her hand as she did so, intending to place it on his chest, a gesture of appeasement and apology that, she hoped, would allow the situation to cool to the point they could begin a reasonable discussion.
No such luck.
With an angry grunt, he swatted her hand away and she flinched back, the blow powerful enough to make her wrist ache.
‘Don’t touch me.’
Though he said the words quietly, there was genuine malevolence present and again she felt the prickle of fear. She clamped her mouth tight shut, and waited.
Thomas stood utterly still save for the motion of his eyes, which scanned up and down her form, several times, taking in every detail. Her clothes were unkempt, her hair a mess and, most strikingly, her eyes bloodshot from the alcohol she had consumed.
‘You disgust me.’
Still, she held her counsel, not wishing to provoke any further an already volatile situation. She turned her eyes floorwards.
‘Look at me,’ he commanded, and she did as she was bid.
He repeated his earlier question, enunciating each word deliberately as if he were speaking to a particularly dim-witted child.
‘Who have you been speaking to?’
As he uttered the last word, he stepped forward, catching her off guard and took her by the scruff of the neck, bunching the material of the t-shirt she was wearing into a small knot so that the neck-hole of the garment became too tight, threatening to rip the fabric. Her eyes bulged, bug-eyed, terror now coursing freely.
‘No-one. Tom, I haven’t spoken to anyone today.’
‘Liar.’
He spat the word at her, eyes glaring maniacally, unblinking. She tried to push away from him, placing both hands flat against his chest, tensing her biceps, attempting to manouevre so that there was at least a little distance between the two of them but his grip was too strong, his own arms too powerful, her struggles causing him no concern.
‘Let go of me, Tom. You’re scaring me.’
And she only spoke the truth, the high pitched, manic tone of voice that issued from her testament to the veracity of the statement.
‘Who knows about us?’ he demanded, tightening his grip even further, though she had thought that to be an impossibility.
‘Who knows?’
His voice raised in volume as he spoke the last two words, and a gobbet of saliva sprayed from his mouth, landing on her cheek, a tear placed there by another.
‘Nobody knows, Tom. For God’s sake.’
‘Liar,’ he repeated, shaking her this time as he said the word, yanking her back and forth once, sharply, forcibly, so that her spine jarred painfully, the kinetic energy of her body not matched by the muscles in her neck. Her head hurt, as if her brain were being rattled around inside her skull and, for the first time, she truly feared this man. The abusive partner she had shared her life with for so many years had beaten her savagely on more than one occasion, but he had never instilled in her the kind of fear she felt at this moment for she had always known that she would emerge from the encounter, however brutal and bruising, with her life.
Right now, she had no such reassurance.
‘Who have you told?’
A violent shake accompanied each of the words, and Monica felt sick, the combination of adrenaline, alcohol and violence a potent blend; intoxicating, nauseating.
‘I’m going to be sick, Tom. Let me go.’
She shouted the words into his face with more bravado than she truly felt and was astonished when he did exactly as she had asked. He released his grip and dropped his hands to his sides. Monica stepped away from him, eyeing him warily, as a mongoose eyes a cobra but with one crucial difference: the mammal, though outgunned by the venomous reptile, is usually more than a match for the serpent.
‘I think you should leave, Tom,’ she said quietly, just wanting this to end now. ‘Come back tomorrow when we are both a little calmer. We’ll talk about it.’ She spoke the words, though knew that they were untruths having, in the seconds since he released her, already determined to terminate the relationship and call the police as soon as he left her home. She simply refused to repeat the mistakes of a former life once again.
‘Oh, I intend to leave,’ and, almost before she saw it coming, his right fist connected with her right cheek, sending her spinning. She crashed against the sofa, legs giving way, body crumpling forwards as gravity took hold. Instinctively, she raised her hands to protect her face and found herself in a kneeling position, body bent over at the waist, arms crushed underneath her torso which was pressed against the sofa seat. He was on her in a heartbeat, one hand clamped over her mouth to prevent her from screaming, the other wrapped around her forehead, exerting pressure on both. He stood behind her, crouching slightly, one knee pressed into the small of her back so that, as he pulled at her head with two strong hands, her neck was stretched to its limits. The hand that covered her mouth was positioned deliberately, thumb and forefinger pinched together to shut off the oxygen supply via her nostrils, the palm clamped so tightly against her mouth that there was no chance of obtaining air from that direction either. Desperately now, her only hope was to unbalance him, so she wriggled as best she could. Instantly, his free leg lifted off the floor and came crashing down knee first on the back of her calves, and she screamed silently as one of her Achilles tendons gave out. The change in position afforded him more leverage and, with oxygen swiftly depleting, she felt her energy levels sap.
Nothing mattered anymore.
A strange, almost ethereal quality attached itself to her surroundings and, though she knew that she was being wronged, it was as if her body had gone into some form of preservation mode, blocking the terror, quelling the pain. She felt drugged and, perversely, almost serene.
He grunted behind her, straining, pushing his knee more firmly into the base of her spine, pulling with all his might now, forcing her body into an altogether unnatural position.
As the life left her body, Monica felt nothing but calmness.
He dropped her body to the floor, sweat slicking his brow.

His nerves were steady as he contemplated the actions to come. Emotions deadened, absent, he stared at Monica’s body, making no connection mentally between the lifeless flesh slumped in the bath before him and the woman he had shared intimacies with over the past few weeks. That Monica had died the moment she had broached the forbidden subject, she simply had not been aware of it at the time.
Thomas was completely naked, having removed his clothes prior to moving the body, folding them up in a neat pile on the sofa in the living room. This was no act of sexual deviancy, merely a practicality: blood was a tough stain to remove from fabric, but washed easily from the skin.
He took a deep swig from the can of lager in his hand before placing it on the floor between his feet, leaning forward on the toilet lid upon which he was seated. Next to him, leaning against the bath was the panel hacksaw he had retrieved from his car some minutes ago. Reluctant to leave the house, he had nevertheless decided that he had no option. A quick reconnoitre of Monica’s home had established that there were no cutting implements available sufficiently robust for the application he intended, the most lethal blade being a carving knife she used for the occasional joint of beef. Perfectly adequate to slice thin strips of well cooked bovine meat from the bone, but hardly appropriate for the dismemberment of a human being. Resigned to his course of action, he ensured no nosy neighbours with a quick peek out of the window before grabbing her keys from the telephone desk by the front door. Night was fully upon the world as he ventured into the street, walking as nonchalantly as he could towards his vehicle, parked again several streets away. The saw was in the boot of the Maestro, wrapped in an oil stained blanket, and he picked up the whole bundle, carrying it before him as he returned to the house, feeling especially vulnerable to prying eyes or, worse still, to the potential outcome should a random police car happen past on patrol. Making it back to the house without being seen, he closed the door behind him with some relief, scurrying to the fridge and plucking an ice cold can of lager from its confines, before making his way upstairs.
With a sigh, reluctant to begin the grisly task but knowing that he must Thomas stood, stooping down to chance a swift mouthful of frothy lager before reaching for the hacksaw, wiping his top lip with the back of one hand before crouching slightly and delving into the bathtub with the other. He grabbed hold of an arm, the right, the nearest one to him and pulled hard, tugging her still form towards him so that the corpse rotated slightly in the tub, sliding up the slick surface of the bath, positioning her arm so that he could gain access to the crook of the elbow. Once satisfied that the cadaver would maintain the same position with relatively little assistance, he positioned his own body appropriately, stepping back slightly, taking hold of her forearm with his right hand and the saw handle with his left. Though naturally right handed, he had enough of the ambidextrous about him to easily accommodate this slight deviation from the norm and slid the blade into position, his arm at full stretch, the teeth of the blade ready to bite into the flesh. With one last, deep breath, he drew the blade back, surprised at how easily it chewed through the skin to begin with before meeting resistance as the metal cut into the brachioradalis muscle that links the upper and lower arm together, forcing him to bring more weight to bear on the cutting instrument, each stroke of the blade slicing deeper and deeper into the meat until, with a high pitched whine, bone was met and, grunting, he hacked away, powering through trochlea and capitulum, attempting to sever the connection between upper and lower arm altogether.
Six minutes later, Monica’s detached forearm lay at the foot of the bath, blocking the plug hole so that as blood, yet to congeal, dripped from her post mortem wounds the bottom of the bath began to redden as the fluid failed to drain.
Thomas ignored it, struggling now with repositioning the body to allow him to remove the remainder of the arm, from elbow to shoulder joint. With the intention of severing all limbs as well as the head and, already soaked to the skin with sweat, it seemed he had a long night ahead of him.

RECENT
The morning had felt like a trial of will, one problem piling atop another, disturbing the smooth order of her well scheduled daily activities.
Seven o’clock exactly, the first piercing beep of the alarm clock forced her eyes apart.
Seven ten, the second blare of the damn thing saw her crawling out of bed, downstairs to start preparations for breakfast. Seven thirty, first call to Daniel to wake up, a necessary measure but one that, through experience, was bound to fail.
Seven thirty five, serve breakfast before clambering the stairs wearily to drag the little toe-rag from his stinking pit, despite his protestations.
Eight ten, hustle out of the door, into the car and onto the school run, a ten minute drive to Westwood Comprehensive, an average secondary school in an average area full of average people, at least as far as she could see and she included herself amongst their number. Disturbingly, she had received a letter through the post just a few days ago declaring that the school was to be taken into ‘Special Measures’ and, whilst she did not fully understand the implications of that nevertheless, it did not sound good.
Eight twenty, drop Daniel off two streets away from the main school gates so as not to embarrass him in front of his peers. Apparently being driven to school by Mommy is frowned upon by thirteen year old boys.
Eight thirty, back home, a quick tidy up of the breakfast dishes before rushing round to complete any essential chores that need doing – laundry, polishing, hovering, that sort of thing – before flopping onto the sofa in the living room at nine, just in time for Lorraine Kelly.
Well, that was the plan at least and, for the most part, she stuck to it with strict rigidity though, if the laundry had to be left, so be it.
Lorraine was more important.
But today, everything had fallen apart. First thing, Daniel had refused to get out of bed. He was always stubborn but, once awake, the promise of food was usually enough to see him scurrying down the stairs, eager to fill his belly. This morning, however, he had been in obstreperous mood, his truculence lasting for more than twenty minutes, until she had threatened to withhold his pocket money, meaning the school run timing was all out of kilter and she was hit with heavier traffic than usual. With luck, and a trailing wind, once His Highness had been dropped off there had still been the possibility of making it back for Lorraine, that was until an old lady in a white Fiat Uno rammed into the back of her at a zebra crossing. Diane had been in a rush and had recklessly overtaken the smaller, slower vehicle on a road that was really unsuited for such a manoeuvre. Having passed the Fiat, she noticed an elderly gentleman about to step out onto the pedestrian crossing and had slammed on the brakes, perhaps needlessly but her instinct had got the better of her. A second later, the sickening crunch of twisting metal was all she heard as she was rocked back and forward in the drivers seat of her silver Mondeo. Shellshocked, for a few moments she was unsure as to what had just taken place but, once realisation dawned, a glance in her rear-view mirror froze the blood in her veins. The old woman was slumped forward in the Fiat, unmoving. Diane scrambled to undo her seatbelt, petrified now, certain that she had caused the death of another human being.
‘I’m going to jail,’ she thought.
‘I’m going to jail, and it’s all Lorraine Kelly’s fault.’
Even as she thought it, she knew how ludicrous it was, but there was no time for laughter as she approached the vehicle, the front end of which was entangled with the rear of her own. Mercifully, as neared the drivers door of the Fiat she saw movement and, seconds later, the old woman’s head turned her way, confusion the over-riding emotion betrayed by her expression. Thank the Gods, the old bird had been fine, save for a case of the jitters, which was the least that could be hoped for.
That was nearly four hours ago and only now was Diane beginning to regain control of her emotions. The car looked like it might be a write-off and, whilst that was certainly an annoyance, it was a small crumb of comfort that the situation could have been entirely worse. Had the elderly lady perished in the collision there had been enough people witness to her foolish decision to overtake to land her in serious trouble but, as no real harm had been done, the insurance companies would cover the damages. She planned to buy the old lady a card by way of apology and maybe even a box of chocolates. By law, the liability lay with the Fiat driver having been the one to collide into the rear of another vehicle, but Diane’s conscience knew where the truth lay.
‘Shit.’
She muttered the expletive to herself, eyes pointing in the direction of the television, though not absorbing anything that was being shown. She was vaguely aware that the news presenter was talking about the imminent changeover from Blair to Brown in the Prime Ministerial hot seat, but the details were elusive as her mind kept wandering in and out of focus. Every time she thought that she had fully asserted control, off it went again, flashing up a snapshot of the old lady, head slumped forward across the steering wheel giving a frighteningly realistic impression of death by driving.
Diane stood, moving away from the sofa, out of range of the television and into the kitchen were she raided the food cupboard, but solid nourishment was not what she sought. She claimed a bottle of red wine and hastened to retrieve the corkscrew from the kitchen drawer, aware that her hands were shaking still from the ordeal. Not usually a daytime drinker, she felt it was acceptable to make an exception on this occasion and quickly removed the plastic coating around the top of the bottle. Jabbing the corkscrew into place with more vigour than she intended, it took some effort to get the thing turning in the first place but, once the motion was started the process was completed with ease. Pouring herself a full measure (and then some) she returned to the living room, intending to attempt to find something decent to watch before remembering that Loose Women was due to start in ten minutes. She was about to drop into place on the sofa to get comfortable in readiness for the hour of diversionary chat when the doorbell rang.
‘Police.’
The first thought that flashed into her mind was an alarming one and, she knew, something terrible had happened to the old lady after she had left the scene. The woman’s husband had arrived and, at that point, after arranging for her own car to be towed away, Diane had felt it acceptable to leave the scene. The police had also arrived some fifteen minutes after the initial impact but, given that nobody was seriously injured and that nobody was looking to blame the other party unduly – the old lady was convinced it was all her own doing – their attendance was a mere formality and they had been on their way within fifteen minutes of arrival. Now though, it was clear, the old woman had explained what had happened to her husband before collapsing. A brain embolism, a haemorrhage of some kind. Heart failure? Stroke? Something had struck her down and the husband wanted retribution.
‘I’m going to be arrested,’ she thought as she made her way to the front door, the trembling of her hand as she lifted it to the door handle no longer solely as a result of the accident. She swung the door open, inwards, and was surprised at the sight that greeted her. Instead of a strapping, six foot plus policeman with a solemn expression was a small old gentleman, his posture hunched and wearing an expression that was decidedly anxious.
‘Can I help you?’ she enquired, all nerves now dissipated.
‘The cat,’ he said and, for several seconds, the words held no meaning, as if he had uttered a random phrase at her in Hebrew.
‘I’m sorry?’ She frowned at him, though there was no unkindness in her reaction, simply bafflement.
‘The cat. I saw your advert.’
As if a button had been pressed somewhere in her brain, the words took relevance and sense was made of his presence.
‘Oh yes, come in, come in. Sorry to be odd, it’s been a difficult morning,’ she explained, chattering nervously, feeling a little foolish at her initial reaction.
Diane led the old man through the hallway and directly into the kitchen, pointing to a box underneath the breakfast bar within which could be seen signs of life. Something furry moved and the old man peered closer, his hunched back bending in an even more pronounced fashion as he seemed to curl towards the animals, wrapped up snug in their blanket.
‘How much?’ he asked, straightening himself up as best he could.
‘Oh no, I don’t want money,’ she said, noticing the musty odour that permeated the kitchen since the old mans arrival. She glanced down at him, only now taking in his dishevelled appearance, a frown furrowing her brow for a second time in as many minutes, though this time out of concern rather than bewilderment.
‘Are you sure you can look after them?’
He nodded eagerly, meeting her eye line, almost defiant.
‘I love cats.’
‘Well, I love cats too,’ she said curtly, clearing her throat, ‘Which is why I have to insist on seeing your house before I could possibly release them to you.’
The old man stepped back, his milky white orbs beginning to glisten as tears welled up spontaneously, clearly stung by her words and, instantly, she felt guilty.
‘It’s not personal,’ she said by way of explanation, ‘Just good practice when passing on an animal.’
He was crying in earnest now, fat, salty tears dripping down his cheek, moistening his filth encrusted shirt.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Diane tutted. ‘Here, let me get you a tissue,’ she said, heading through to the living room, pushing the door open and snatching up the box in its entirety. She turned on her heels and pulled the living room door open again, only to see the back of the old man hurrying out of the front door.
‘Heh, she called, but he paid her no attention at all. Diane dashed back into the kitchen, pulling the cardboard box out from beneath the breakfast bar which served as temporary home to the litter of three kittens from her queen cat, Lucy, who was soon to be spayed. Of Lucy there was no sign, presumably off for a toilet call as, nature’s necessities aside, she tended to be with her offspring at all times and Diane conducted a very brief head count, seeing only two kittens in the box.
‘Unbelievable,’ she muttered, racing back through the hallway and out of her front door. The elderly man was some fifty metres away now, moving surprisingly swiftly for somebody in his condition, his gait awkward, shuffling, but still covering ground reasonably efficiently and Diane briefly considered giving chase but, with all that had happened during the morning she possessed neither the willpower nor the energy.
‘Thieving arsehole,’ she cried at his retreating back, having to resist the urge to add ‘Quasimodo.’ She watched, mesmerised by the sight of him until he turned the corner at the end of the street and vanished from view. Diane turned tail and headed back into her house.
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

NOW
I made my way back to the foyer, stopping briefly at my workstation to unlock the bottom drawer and retrieve the white plastic carrier bag I had secreted there earlier in the day. During my lunch break, I had paid a visit to town, only a ten minute walk away so more than reachable in the half hour I was allotted. More often than not I did not even bother to take a lunch break, preferring to continue my duties uninterrupted. What use is stopping work if the time off is more tedious than the time on? Today, however, was no ordinary day, so I had ventured to the shops, straying into Boots to make my purchase. Now, with the building securely locked down and Heather my prisoner, it was time to make good on the delights I had thus far deprived myself of and, over two hours into the occasion, I felt I had earned my sport.
The visitors’ washroom was a plush, stylish affair, all gleaming brass faucets and faux marble surfaces. Even the flush handles on the toilets were made of brass and I was genuinely impressed with the quality of the décor, never having had reason to venture into the room previously. As I entered, I passed against the washbasins, allowing my hand to trail against the gleaming surface, examining the end of my fingers after a few strides, not a speck of dust or grime to be seen, noting the door in the far corner with a sign that proclaimed it a ‘wet room,’ a facility that afforded any weary travellers here on important business the opportunity to freshen up completely by showering, shaving, whatever else they needed to do.
I strode towards one of two cubicles, selecting the left hand compartment completely at random, no method or logic in my decision making and turned one eighty degrees as I entered, positioning myself in the customary fashion when one is about to use the lavatory, unbuckling my belt, undoing my top trouser button and pulling on the zipper. I pulled the trousers down eagerly, remembering to reach into my pocket as I did so to remove the matchbox with its precious cargo.
I sat down.
Reaching forward now, I unfurled the carrier bag which had been rolled around the contents, the reasons twofold; to prevent prying eyes from seeing what I had purchased, both as I walked back from the chemists and once I arrived back at work, as well as to allow ease of carriage, with no plastic folds flapping around, irritating me. I unrolled it in one fluid motion, allowing gravity to do most of the work, holding the bag aloft and catching the contents, still encased in plastic, when it reached my opposing hand. Gripping what was within, I used the hand that had been holding the top end of the bag to dip inside, taking hold of the object and pulling it out hurriedly, casting the useless carrier bag aside, down by the side of the toilet, forgotten in an instant. Quickly now, eager, I lifted my buttocks from the toilet seat, using my free hand to tug at my underpants, yanking at them until they were down as far as my knees. With the same hand, I flipped the cap off the bottle I had produced from the carrier bag, squeezing a globule of fluid onto extended fingers before lathering the baby lotion all over my ferociously engorged cock. The cool sensation as the moisture made contact with flesh sent shivers of anticipation coursing through my body and I reached down again, delving into the opposite pocket of my trousers to that from which I had produced the matchbox, freeing the balled up tissue paper. I held it in my palm, stroking the delicate material with the ball of my thumb whilst my other hand took hold of my shaft and started pumping, the slippery lotion making solid purchase difficult, the feel of palm sliding over prick almost too much to bear.
I thought of Heather, just a few yards away, helpless.
I saw her wiping her mouth with the tissue paper, her tongue perhaps flicking out to moisten her lips and remove any residual crumbs before wiping at them with the very object I now held in my hand.
I beat out my rhythm.
I brought the tissue up to my face, sniffing at it, hound-like.
My cock was throbbing, just about ready to burst, but not yet, I needed to delay the gratification just a few moments longer.
Placing the tissue carefully atop the toilet roll holder to my right, I pushed open the matchbox, ceasing the frantic motion at my groin momentarily, uncurling the lone strand of hair from its confines, sniffing at this too for a moment or two before coiling it delicately around the shaft of my penis. Hair in place, I could conclude.
I stood up, lifting the toilet seat, forced to bend at the knee slightly to ensure true containment of the fluid that was imminent, a perverse consideration as, truly, what did I care? It wasn’t as if I could continue working here after tonight. With a groan of pent up fury and frustration, I spilt my seed, the spray finding the porcelain sides of the toilet before me, great spasms racking my body as I watched the sticky substance eke it’s way to the water at the bottom.
I was sated.
For now.

The confines of the lift compartment were filled with the stench of her own feculence. Though Heather stood as far away from the scene of her shameful act as she could the truth was, in a carriage as small as the one in which she was now imprisoned, the foul matter was still very close to her indeed. She had reclaimed her shoes and now stood, trousers and underwear back in place, pressing her back into the opposite corner to the reeking pool of faeces. She was aware that the soles of her feet were tainted by the substance because, when further cramps had gripped her after the initial flood of loose stool had been off-loaded, she had been unable to avoid treading in the previous deposit of waste in order to add to its mass.
Heather gagged, not for the first time, her mind unable to focus on anything other than the diabolical act she had been compelled to commit and, crucially, the prospect of having to explain the situation when at last she was set free, be that imminently or, as she now feared was a certainty, the following morning.
Her hand reached forward, searching for the keypad, locating it easily and she depressed each of the buttons in turn hoping, though not expecting, that somehow power would be restored and she would be transported to a floor, any floor would do, to escape the horror she was at present living through.
Nothing happened.
As she reached the bottom of the console, her hand found a button that was raised slightly from the surface, a round plastic casing surrounding it and she could not believe her own foolishness. Her fingers groped along the metallic surface and she found another button, it too raised from the flush surface of the panel. She thought hard, trying to picture the area in her mind, having seen the blasted thing at least twice a day for the past three years her power of recall should have been instant but, as is the way of things, having taken the controls for granted for all this she had made no conscious effort to commit it to memory so the recollection was fuzzy. She imagined herself sitting at her desk, packing up ready to go home. In her minds eye she stood up and moved away from the desk, out, through the office proper and into the corridor for lift and stairs. She played the scene realtime, forcing herself not to skip forward in her recaall lest the image lose clarity. She reached the lifts and pressed the call button, waiting as one of the carriages either descended or ascended to her floor and the doors slid open. She watched as she climbed aboard, spinning on her heels once inside , her hand reaching forward, just as it was now, to press the ground floor button and, there, beneath the bottom row of regular buttons the two raised areas, a round red button within each matallic circle and beneath them both, lettering, the right legend declaring ‘Alarm’ and the left ‘Intercom’ and, beneath them both a warning, ‘Only for use in emergencies. Penalty for improper use £100.’ Desperately she jabbed at the alarm button.
Nothing happened.
She pressed it again, tears forming in her eyes now but she fought them back, not allowing herself to break down as she so desperately wanted to worried that, should she allow even a moments weakness then the floodgates would open and she would be rendered inconsolable, a useless trait in her present circumstance.
She fought, hard.
For a final time, she poked a finger at the alarm button and, when again nothing changed she accepted the fact that it was not functioning, though she still clung to a slender hope that the alarm was of the silent variety and that, somewhere, an engineer was at that very moment being alerted to the fact that there was a problem with the lifts in the Telecommunics building. She turned her attention to the button on the left, pressing it once and holding it, listening attentively, hoping to hear a static hiss or click as if a connection were being made but, when only silence prevailed, she released the button and spoke, feeling a little foolish but desperate enough not to give a damn.
‘Hello. Can anyone hear me?’
Her only response was the continuing silence, so she pressed the button once more, quickly this time, in-out, before repeating her entreaty.
‘Please. Can anybody hear me? I’m trapped.’
No response again and, reluctantly, she gave up on the buttons, desperately disappointed by the lack of success her endeavours had yielded, conducting an internal dialogue with herself to try to keep her spirits up.
‘You are going to get out of here.’
‘How?’
‘Someone will notice.’
‘Who?’
‘Clive must know that I haven’t left the building.’
‘Oh yeah. Then why hasn’t he called out?’
‘He will be arranging for help right now. Believe it, Heather. Believe.’
And belief was all that she had left. It seemed that her destiny was now in the hands of others. The fire-fighters that would be obliged to free her from her predicament; the power company engineers who were working on restoring the electricity; the lift engineer driving here right now to fix the problem. Her destiny lay with any of these people, for sure, but certainly not with herself anymore. Leaning back, she found the rear wall of the compartment, staying as close to her side as she could to avoid any further ‘foot in filth’ incidents, and allowed her legs to give way slightly, sliding down the wall, fatigue suddenly making its presence felt and, whilst she was not surprised at the tiredness she felt, she did not welcome it as she had no plans to sleep whilst still imprisoned and tiredness could only hinder her thought processes. Nevertheless, she did nothing to arrest her descent to ground level, buttocks making contact with the floor, legs pushing forward so that she came to rest sitting straight up, back flush against the wall. Though she would not have believed it possible, the foul odour from her own outpourings seemed even stronger here and she winced away from it, wondering how long it would take her to become accustomed to the smell. People who work in abattoirs, sausage factories and other environs where unpleasant aromas are commonplace and constant after a period of time claim not to even notice the odour, no matter how pungent and Heather wondered precisely how long that immunity took to develop. Was it hours, days, weeks?
She hoped for the former.
‘Jesus,’ she said, closing her eyes and turning her head away from the source, deeply disturbed that her own body was capable of producing something so pungent. Dizziness tried to claim her suddenly and she was forced to shake her head from side to side in an attempt to clear it, almost as if she were getting high on her own fumes.
‘That’s good shit,’ she thought to herself wryly, though she was unable to find too much humour in the notion.
Something brushed against her cheek.
Her stomach muscles tensed and she was instantly alert, sitting bolt upright, back pressed firmly against the wall behind her, spine so straight the vertebrae jutted painfully against the hard surface, feeling larger than they could possibly be as if, in the time she had spent incarcerated, she had grown spiny ridges along its length. She held her breath, an act which at least gave her brief respite from the sulphurous reek that dominated, awaiting further signs of movement and, just a second later she felt precisely that, this time in her lap and she reacted angrily, legs kicking out, thrashing, trying to make contact with whoever or whatever seemed to be in the lift with her, even though she knew that the presence of another was a physical impossibility. Whether impossible or not, the movement in her lap continued, joined by fresh signs of life at hip and thigh and, terrifyingly, it seemed as if she were being probed by an assailant that was not only invisible, but also transient, capable of moving swiftly enough to avoid her attempts at physical resistance whilst at the same time remaining near enough to touch.
More movement.
Her hair this time.
Something was moving in her hair.
Frantic now, vulnerability and sightlessness joining forces in their attempts to paralyse her with fear, she tugged at her own locks, shaking her head desperately, trying to either shake off or shake loose from the touch of whatever it was she could feel. She reached upwards, her fingers passing through thick tresses, brushing against something cold and unyielding, an alien presence that she simply could not fathom. She felt around it, her fingers her means of detection now, operating in much the same way as an arthropods antennae, feeling, investigating, sensing. Even as she studied her own scalp and the strange, out of place object, further movement was apparent; the entire length of her legs seemed to be alive with motion and, a new sensation, of something crawling across her belly. The hand buried deep in her own hair stopped its searching for a moment and she used her free hand to seek out the activity at abdominal level, fingers again finding a cold, clammy texture, but this time it was moving. Jerking her hand back in horror, she realised that the surface she was touching was the carapace of an insect, a large one at that and, with a shriek, she brushed the beast from her body, hearing it strike the wall next to her with something of a brittle snap putting her in mind, though perhaps optimistically, that she had bashed the thing to a pulp in her vigour.
She doubted it.
With a desperation borne of abject fear she performed what could only be described as a seated self-frisk, removing the hand from her hair and rubbing both appendages over her entire body, stroking away several of the insects that she detected along the way. Feet scrambling, she scurried to a standing position with some difficulty, a combination of her own urgency and awareness of the proximity of the pool of her own excrement causing her difficulty as she was loathe to place a hand on the floor, instead reliant on the muscular strength of her thighs to lever herself upright.
Gasping for breath, Heather moved to the centre of the lift, or as best she could guess, ears pricked, skin tingling, constantly imagining that something was crawling over her skin only to find upon investigation that there was nothing there. She stomped her feet around for a while, the occasional satisfying pop underfoot signifying that the insects had not scuttled back into whichever bolt hole they had emerged from. Her own ragged breathing made hearing the tiniest sounds difficult and, after what could have been thirty seconds or could have been ten minutes, time having lost all but the most inconsequential meaning by now, Heather detected a new sound within the confines, an almost soothing susurration, hypnotic in nature as if, somewhere far away, a mother was crooning a lullaby to a sleep-troubled infant and Heather were eavesdropping at great distance. The new sound intensified rapidly and, suddenly, hard objects were raining down upon her, though from where she had not the slightest clue.
Insects.
An avalanche of insects.
Petrified, Heather waved her arms uselessly above her head, trying to shield her eyes as well as protect her nose and mouth, fearful of one of the monstrosities gaining access to her moist orifices though, by the way they felt as they struck at her skin and clothing, they were too large to concern her in that regard. A strange rustling now joined the odd, low whispering, a distinctive sound that reminded her of autumn leaves crunching beneath her feet and, incredibly, instinctively, she recognised the sound of hundreds upon hundreds of insects manipulating their wings, vibrating them slightly, a communication of sorts, either to warn off a predator or to attract a mate.
A new sensation manifested itself, a warm, musty odour that made her think of weeks old milk. She had visited her Great Grandmother, shortly before the once strong, robust old lady had passed away and the house in which she had sickened contained a scent not dissimilar to this, conjuring images in her mind of parchment thin skin, saliva flecked lips and the lost, distance glazed gaze of terminal dementia.
Heather screamed, a piercing, maniacal shriek, the sound waves echoing straight back at her, actually causing her physical pain as her eardrums struggled to cope with the aural assault, but still she persisted, another wail issuing from all but breathless lungs, the back of her throat cracking with the effort.
The insects joined in.
The interior of the lift was suddenly alive with sound, hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands of abdominal valves opening, a rush of air passing through each to produce the distinctive hiss that was so unmistakeable.
Roaches.
The lift was filling with cockroaches.
And still they rained down.
As sorry as she had felt for herself just five short minutes ago Heather now realised what true despair was. The invading force, alive, odorous and utterly, utterly disgusting, was now as deep as her waist and the torrent showed no signs of abating. A strange euphoria seemed to overcome her as the animate depths deepened further and, almost without noticing, she slipped out of consciousness, though not in the fashion she may have expected. It wasn’t that she blacked out or, at least later, when she recalled the moment, that was not how it had felt. This had been more a drifting off than a sudden shut down as if, standing bolt upright, waist high in cockroaches, her mind had simply decided enough was enough and sent her to sleep to spare her from further trauma.
When she came to, all was quiet and still.

THEN: April

The separate pieces of Monica’s body lay at the bottom of the bath, haphazard in their arrangement, piece piled upon piece.
Thomas stared down at his handiwork, no emotion registering internally, instead merely a calculating mind at work, determining the next course of action. The dismembered corpse needed to be removed, of course, but how best to achieve this was something worth pondering. It was dark outside, having spent the best part of two hours separating thigh from buttock, skull from torso so it was a certainly plausible to transport the items from front door to boot of car without fear of discovery than it would have been in the middle of the day, but he would need to fetch the car from its current position, parked discreetly several streets away. Whilst loathe to pull the vehicle onto Monica’s driveway lest a curious neighbour remember the make and model when she was eventually reported missing, Thomas could see no alternative.
First, though, he had to remove the blood.
Clambering into the bath amidst the dismembered limbs, he pushed the discreet elements towards the rear of the tub with his bare feet. The head rolled easily, and he was careful to avoid the sticky end where the blade had lacerated the meat so effectively, instead planting his foot on the forehead and pushing, as if positioning a football in readiness to take a corner. The divided sections of arm and leg needed to be scooted along the slippery surface but, after a little struggle, he cleared enough room to enable him to stand beneath the shower head.
He turned the dial, wincing as cold water rained down upon him, checking the temperature setting before reaching for the soap. The water warmed up soon enough, and he lathered himself liberally, covering every part of his body with the soapy suds before rinsing himself off. He glanced down at his body, inspecting, making sure that all trace of blood had been removed before switching off the flow of water and clambering out. There was a large blue towel on a rack beside the sink, and he plucked at it, drying himself off swiftly before moving downstairs to reclaim his clothing.
Though alone, he felt vulnerable in his nudity.
Once clad, Thomas moved through to the kitchen, on the hunt for black dustbin liners. He looked atop the refrigerator and in the food cupboards before opening the double doors beneath the sink and finding what he sought. A roll of plastic bags, as yet unopened, twenty in all. As if destiny herself had played a hand, Monica had purchased the precise number of bin bags that would be required for the bloodthirsty work; each limb had been chopped in half, then there was the torso to consider as well as the head and, to prevent unwanted leakage of bodily fluids, he intended to double up the bags for better containment during transportation.
Twenty in all.
Perfect.
Clutching the roll, he moved calmly back through the living room, pausing briefly as he passed the TV, his interest caught by the scenes being played out on the news: The Libyan Embassy in London, under siege and, briefly, a picture of a woman in police uniform with the caption WPC Yvonne Fletcher.
‘Pig,’ he muttered as he moved away, mounting the stairs two at a time. He reached the bathroom and ripped at the cardboard label that sealed the roll of liners, dropping it to the floor and unfurling one of the large bags. He groped for the edge of the object when he had released enough of the plastic to expose the perforated section that held them together, tearing carefully, separating one from the other before letting the bag fall to the linoleum floor, then repeating this process a further nineteen times until all twenty units were freed. Stooping, he picked one up, rustling the open end between thumb and forefinger to form a gap before jabbing two fingers into the hole and peeling back, opening the bag entirely. He leaned forward, taking hold of a forearm, angling his body away from the bath, holding the grisly trophy aloft for several seconds, waving it slightly to allow any stray drops of blood to fall back into the bath. Moving forward slightly, he brought bag and forearm together, dropping the portioned limb into the plastic vessel. It fell sharply, making a dull thump as it struck the floor at his feet. Quickly now he grabbed at a second bag, fearful of spillage staining his shoes and socks and, after repeating the bag opening process he dumped the full bag into the empty one before tying them in a clumsy knot. Hoisting the human portion into the air, he stepped out of the bathroom momentarily, placing the package onto the landing then stepping back into the abattoir.
Ten minutes later, ten bags were lined up on the landing.
Thomas went for the car.

The blackness was near impenetrable as he made his way back down the dirt track and onto the canal towpath. The fourth time he had made the journey, his eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom and he walked with certainty towards the waters edge. As he had done three times previously, he reached the waterside and bent at the waist, allowing the bag to fall to the floor, double checking the knot at the top of the bag and feeling around the package briefly, ensuring that the house bricks he had placed inside the bags before removing them from the boot of his car had not caused the material to rip. Once satisfied, he stood up straight, lifted the bin bag which contained either thigh or skull or shin – he cared not which – and swung his arm in a gentle arc, just able to make out the bag looping through the air, striking the water with a deep, resonating ‘splunk’ before disappearing from view entirely, sinking to the floor of the canal instantly, weighed down sufficiently to hide the body parts from prying eyes.
Six more times and his work was done.

RECENT
The old man seemed not to notice the fetid odour that rose from the scratched and battered surface of the Formica kitchen table, myriad stains and coagulating substances forming a latticework of corruption and disease that, to most human beings at least, would be intolerable.
He gave it not a second glance.
The newspapers spread out before him had been bought earlier in the evening, one a county wide publication, the other devoted specifically to the Black Country town in which he lived. Having no interest in the news stories that either ‘paper carried, the purpose for the purchase was a single-minded one.
He wanted more cats.
And soon.
More specifically, he wanted more kittens.
His eyes scanned the pages of the classified adverts, the milkiness caused by the senile cataracts that misted the lens of both eyes only a partial hindrance to his search and, as was his habit, he made use of the jeweller’s eye glass when the print on the page became too small to decipher with the naked eye. Gnarled fingers grasped at the edges of the pages, the old man flipping through the more local of the publications, past the home buyers section and the cars for sale and any other paid for advertisements, further towards the rear, searching for the free adverts placed by readers in the locality. With an assuredness that only came from having repeated this activity many times before, he skipped quickly past the electrical, leisure and music entries, pausing only for a moment when another turn of the page revealed the dating section, a full page spread of Men Seeking Women and vice versa, giving him reason to reflect briefly on the loneliness of his fellow man. In his youth he had been quite the ladies man, always with a girl on his arm but, as events in his life took him to an altogether different destiny the opportunity for romance dwindled and died and seldom did a day go by when he did not regret the choices he had been forced to make. The playful, provocative and sometimes downright salacious entreaties for companionship seemed to crystallised the despair he had endured for so long in his mind, bringing everything flooding back in a moment and he was forced to hold back the tears that, these days, always seemed so close to the surface.
He turned the page again, eager to move on, not wishing to dwell on the years of solitude that had come to define his existence, only wishing to look ahead, planning for a future that would provide at least some small succour as his life neared its twilight.
Onwards, past the musical instruments and second hand furniture, further, beyond the book collections and DVD’s until he came to the section he sought.
‘Pets Seeking Homes.’
Quickly now, becoming more agitated as he squinted at the print on the page, eyes flicking down the relevant column, finding the heading ‘Cats & Kittens’ and seeing instantly that the category was devoid of entries. The hand that still clutched at the edge of the page curled into a fist, a tearing sound audible as the paper ripped in his grasp, the nails on his fingers, long, yellow and jagged through years of neglect digging viciously into the palm of his hand, drawing blood immediately, but the old man simply ignored the flow. The fingers on his opposite hand, still resting against the top of his thigh, also curled into a bony claw, the tissue thin skin stretched almost to tolerance, knuckles clearly defined through the off-white layer of flesh looking for all the world like they should slice through with ease, exposing the bone. His nails gouged at the meat of his thigh, the moth eaten fabric of his trousers little protection against the calcified keratin fibres at the ends of his fingertips, scratching at himself feverishly, a low moan of agonised anguish escaping him, though he barely heard it. The hand balled into a fist on the tabletop lifted now, swiftly, crashing back down onto the surface with some venom, accompanied by a’No,’ from the old mans throat. Again, hand raised, fist bunched and slammed back onto the Formica even as, beneath the table, blood began to seep through the stained beige material of his trousers.
A knock at the door interrupted his activity and, momentarily, fear lanced through him. Though he could not see it himself, an expression of outright guilt soured his features, though only for a second before the deeply etched furrows of his frown returned to crease his face into its customary position. He stood awkwardly, both knees cracking loudly as his legs straightened and he moaned again, this time through physical pain rather than emotional and, with a weariness that seemed to seep right down to the bone, he trudged towards the front door. The knocking came again and the old man was compelled to cry out that he was on his way for fear that the visitor may abandon his attempt to gain attention from within, his ears straining, hoping not to hear the diminishing sound of departing footfalls.
Hunched forward, with seemingly every joint and sinew in his body the cause of discomfort to a varying degree, the old man reached the hallway and shuffled the last few remaining feet to the front door itself, swinging the wooden object inwards from its frame, taking in the sight of a delivery man, smartly attired in garb that was not entirely dissimilar to a formula one racing driver, minus the helmet and corporate logo’s.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ the bearded fellow standing on the doorstep said, cheerfully enough, though something in his eyes told the old man that he was not at all happy to be there. ‘Just need your signature. I’ve a parcel in the van for you.’
The old man nodded thoughtfully, right hand reaching for the clipboard that the visitor was offering, clutching at the pen attached to the board by a chain as if the delivery company itself was distrustful of the individuals its customers were affiliated with. He scratched his initials onto the pad, next to the small ‘x’ the bearded driver had indicated before dropping the pen back onto the clipboard.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ Beardy said, all too eager to be away, though whether it was the appearance of the old man himself or the odour that permeated from both property and owner was not entirely clear. More than likely, a combination of the two. He dashed to his van which was parked at the end of the footpath that led back to the pavement, tugging on the handles of the sliding door, the company logo dissected neatly by the doors movement, reaching inside and plucking out a small package, twelve by twelve inches in dimensions, no larger. His reluctance almost palpable, he strode back down the pathway, handing over the parcel at full arms stretch, unable to meet the old man’s gaze.
‘Thank you, young man,’ he said, becoming annoyed by the drivers attitude and deciding to have a little sport of his own. ‘Won’t you come in for a cup of tea? I’m about to have one,’ pushing the door open a little and half turning inwards as if about to step back across the threshold.
‘Erm, no, can’t,’ the visitor stuttered, clearly terrified at the prospect, almost tripping over as he backed away the way he came, ‘Another time, perhaps.’
And with that, he turned on his heels and all but ran for his van, desperate to be away from the crazy old man who stank of cats and human waste matter.
‘Another time, my arse,’ the old man muttered to himself, a sickly smile etched onto his features, milk-white eyes staring at the retreating figure momentarily before slamming the door on the outside world once more.

NOW

Heather’s eyes opened and the memory of events rushed back at her in a moment and, without thinking, she found herself brushing at her clothes and at her hair, hands sweeping against skin and fabric, searching, ensuring none of the loathsome insects remained in contact with her. The thought that there may still be some present within the lift she could cope with, just, but physical contact with the repulsive creatures was out of the question.
By a quirk of chance, her descent into sleep had resulted in her sliding back down the rear wall of the lift, repeating the very action she had initiated voluntarily shortly before the cockroach invasion meaning that, though she had slept and had therefore lost control of her own actions temporarily, she had been saved the sickening prospect of waking up in the puddle of her own excrement that dominated the rear right corner of the room. A quick inspection of right elbow and sleeve confirmed that, by nothing more controlled than sheer blind chance, she had escaped further soiling, a small relief amidst myriad tribulations.
She listened intently.
All was silent and, by moving her legs in an arc, feet scanning across the ground she was able to determine that, in her vicinity at least, no cockroaches were present at all.
Where had they come from and, just as curiously, where had they gone?
Was she losing her mind?
If indeed they were some form of vivid hallucination, a creation of the darkest corners of her mind, why cockroaches? And why only sporadic events? The more she thought, the more puzzled she became. Three incidents had occurred since she had become a captive, each lasting a few minutes, no more, before the phenomenon ended. If it were not real – and, by Christ, it had certainly felt real at the time – why the limited timescale? If her mind was rebelling in some fashion, engaging in some form of mental flagellation, why not continue the performance until she was rendered a flailing, dribbling imbecile? Why the let up?
She shook her head, mind racing.
The presence in the lift had been damned real, she was sure of it. She’d felt its breath on her skin, felt powerful hands striking at her and, even now, touching tenderly at the places where blows had landed she could feel the first signs of bruising, even inflammations and, whilst she was aware of the concept of psychosomatic ailments and physical manifestations, of perceived injury and illness that had no basis in fact, she was not prepared to believe that she herself was capable of it as she had never exhibited such tendencies previously. True enough, she had never been caged up in an elevator between floors before and as such had no real frame of reference for her response in such a situation, but the likelihood of spontaneously developing the capability seemed unlikely.
The jolting of the lift had been real too, she was certain and no amount of rationalising could alter the fact. Something, somehow had caused the mechanism beneath which she was currently suspended to react violently, to swing the carriage around as if it were nothing more consequential than a yo-yo on a piece of string. Her mind hadn’t done it, she wasn’t responsible. Some external force had been applied and, the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the action had been taken deliberately. Too many coincidences were piling up here for her to believe anymore that there was no malevolence at work.
But who?
The only person she could think of was Clive, the security guard and, though reluctant to contemplate the awful thought that he was somehow responsible, it was hard to see beyond him. He himself had told her that they were the last two in the building. He himself had access to the security systems and, no doubt the power supply to the lifts themselves and, most damning of all, he himself had given her both a drink and something to eat whilst she worked and it was clear now that the act had not been a kind one as she had first presumed. The bastard had laced either beverage or chocolate with laxatives, perhaps even both and had probably watched her secretly as she finished up for the day and entered the lift. All he had to do then was kill the power and she was at his mercy. Time itself would do the trick as far as the medication she had unwittingly ingested was concerned, but what about the shaking around of the carriage? Could that been done remotely? Was it possible to control the activity of a lift to that extent? The truth was, she had no idea and was simply following her gut instinct now in her train of thought, attempting to piece together the logic of what was happening to her, if logic had any part to play at all.
The cockroaches?
What about the cockroaches?
She asked herself the question whilst still pondering the practicalities of jarring the lift mechanism, both thought strands demanding her attention and easy answers to either eluded her.
How had he managed to get the cockroaches in here and, beyond that, how the hell had he got them back out again? It wasn’t as if you could train the bloody things like a dog, issue commands or even blow a whistle that only their sensitive, what, (ears?) could hear.
Or could you?
Could they be lured away, perhaps by smell? Insects notoriously are able to detect odours unnoticed by mere humans and, she felt certain, the olfactory capability of your average cockroach was not to be underestimated. Perhaps he had found a means to introduce the bugs into the carriage. In the pitch darkness that she was trapped in she would not have spotted a hole or even a hatch opening though she knew that, usually, lifts do not have hatchways in their roofs, despite what witless movies teach us. Nevertheless, Clive himself could have fashioned such an opening, removed the hatch silently and poured the fucking critters on top of her.
But what then?
Stand above her waving rashers of bacon around to lure them away? She doubted it and, even in her desperation to solve the puzzle it seemed implausible. All the same, she could not discount the possibility that he had found a means of controlling their behaviour, perhaps even chemically, through pheromones. If all of the bugs were male, maybe by spraying female odours around elsewhere the poor things were led by their own hormones towards the source, away from her, out of the lift after she had blacked out. It seemed far-fetched and she knew it, but anything was possible as far as she was concerned, following the trials of the last few hours.
The theory cemented now, she was adamant despite the apparent flaws in her own thinking, clear in her own mind that Clive was responsible.
Now, only two things needed to be determined:
One - besides the obvious sexual motivation, why had he done these things to her and
Two - how much pain would she be able to inflict on him before she ended his life?

THEN: April

The empty beer cans were lined up on the kitchen table, six in all, each drained of their inebriating fluid during the last two hours, no more, and Thomas sat, alone, cradling a seventh in his palm. His eyes were bloodshot and he was barely able to focus on the cans labels when he tried as the world started to swim and spin and the effort brought on a bout of nausea. He closed his eyes instead, blocking out the real world, attempting to invert, to retreat from this Hell he found himself in as if, should he concentrate hard enough, he could dematerialise, vanish from this point in time and place and appear somewhere else and, perhaps if his luck was good, even as somebody else entirely. Maybe a cool surf-dude on Bondi, gorgeous, bronzed girlfriend draped off his arm. A movie-star perhaps, walking the red carpet with whichever pouting starlet was in vogue at the particular moment in time he reappeared. Or even something more mundane; A wealthy accountant or lawyer, leading a professional, respectable life by day but able to afford to indulge whichever vice he should choose by night.
He lifted the beer can to his mouth, draining the last of the ale in one hefty swig, swallowing it despite the lack of chill as it had warmed to near room temperature through conmstant contact with his skin, despite the swiftness with which he consumed the liquid.. Once empty, he placed the can next in line along with its fellows, a seven strong group now and made to get up. The wooden base of the chair legs scraped against the linoleum flooring as he pushed the chair away from the table with the backs of his legs and, as he stood, he swayed slightly, forced to prop himself upright with one hand planted on the tabletop. Once equilibrium had been established, he moved somewhat unsteadily to the refrigerator, pulling at the handle and swinging the door open to reveal the contents, grunting in annoyance when he spied that there was a distinct absence of beer therein.
‘Shit.’
He slammed the fridge door shut, hard, hearing something tumble within before, just a second later, the distinctive sound of glass breaking was heard as a jar or bottle that had presumably been placed in the storage compartment on the inside of door the itself smashed.
Thomas didn’t even bother checking.
Moving again now, still stumbling, he headed for the living room door, barging his way clumsily through as he reached it.
Cheryl eyed him apprehensively, pausing her knitting for the moment.
‘I’m out of beer,’ he slurred.
She didn’t respond, just watched him nervously instead.
He waited for as long as his patience would allow, some three or four seconds before speaking again.
‘Did you hear me?’
She nodded, either unwilling or unable to speak.
He felt a dull throbbing now, somewhere just behind his temples and he had to struggle to keep his temper in check, a battle made all the more difficult as a result of the alcohol that flooded his vascular system.
‘I need you to get me some. I can’t drive,’ he said, pointing at his own chest as if she needed clarification about who he was referring to.
She hesitated before speaking, nervous, not wishing to provoke an outburst but also not willing to suffer in silence. Over the past week, maybe a little more, Thomas’ behaviour had become increasingly erratic. For the entirety of their relationship up until this point she had always felt in control, always felt she was the guiding force.
She was the one who wore the trousers, damn it.
But recently, his manner and demeanour had altered almost beyond recognition. Silent, brooding, constantly on the verge of anger, he had changed so much and so rapidly that she genuinely feared for his mental health. Though she had struggled to find a satisfactory explanation none had been forthcoming and the only possibility she could think of was that he was suffering some form of delayed reaction to the loss of his friend, Neil. She felt sympathy for her husband as the two men had been close and, though he had been reluctant to discuss it since his passing, she knew that it must have hit him hard.
But this retreat into alcoholism was not the answer, and she could hold her tongue no longer.
‘I think you’ve had enough, Tom.’
His eyes widened in disbelief and, were it not for the imminent threat he presented, it would have been a comical sight.
‘Excuse me?’ he slurred, coming out more as ‘Scuzemi’ than two words proper.
Wearily, she dropped the knitting needles into her lap, abandoning her position in the pattern altogether for the time being before replying.
‘You heard me, Tom. You’ve had enough.’
Though inebriated, his position was strategically advantageous and, as he lumbered the three or four steps towards her, she had no time to extricate herself from her seated position. He towered above her and, momentarily, she considered picking up one of the knitting needles in an act of self-defence but, before she could make up her mind, he had her by the throat, pushing her back into the cushioning of the sofa, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes bulge slightly and for dizzying, multi-coloured patterns to dance in her field of vision.
‘Get me some fucking beer,’ he spat, squeezing harder with every word and, desperately, she nodded her head. His grip released somewhat, sufficient for her to breath adequately and, before she knew what was happening, he hit her, a swift backhand across the face, stinging her cheek slightly, but wounding her pride much more fiercely.
‘I’m sick of your lip,’ he barked, bloodshot eyes burning into her own. ‘Do you hear me?’ he asked and, when she failed to reply, he lifted his hand again, wielding it before her, showing her the back side of it in the manner of a dog baring its teeth to warn off rivals.
‘DO YOU HEAR ME?’
He screamed it this time and, petrified, she nodded her head vigorously.
He clambered off her and she scrambled to her feet, racing for the front door, only pausing momentarily to snatch her purse from the foot of the stairs.
Upstairs, the sound of a young girl crying could be heard.
‘Be quick,’ he warned, before returning to the kitchen.

RECENT
Dorothy sat in her living room, knitting, concentrating on the pattern that lay open on the sofa seat beside her, eyes focused on the letters and numbers that comprised the instructions that were utterly meaningless to anyone outside the mysterious world of the knitting community.
‘k1, inc 1, k4, inc 1….’
Practiced eyes scanned the code, hands and fingers working with a precision borne of experience as first her eyes absorbed the data, then her brain interpreted it before finally firing electro-chemical messages to her extremities to carry out their instructions appropriately. Without even needing to look at what she was doing, Dorothy was able to complete an entire row of the garment, a sweatshirt made of a combination of brown and grey wool, only needing to focus on the needles and material in her hands when she completed a row, her confidence in her own ability not without just cause. Though usually her knitting was a comfort to her, an activity she embraced with enthusiasm, the creativity it afforded a source of pleasure in her life, today she was employing it merely as a form of mental diversion, a distraction from the worry that was building in her belly.
She had taken the telephone call some forty five minutes ago. She knew how long ago to the very minute as her eyes kept flicking back and forth between the knitting pattern on the sofa and the antique clock on the mantelpiece. Though she tried to ignore the bloody thing and keep her eyes locked on the codified instructions for the sweatshirt, she was unable to resist, as if a piece of string had been attached to her brow and an invisible puppet master were pulling her head towards the time piece, against her will.
He would be here any minute.
The call had been a strange one, though not altogether unexpected
It wasn’t the content of the conversation that had been unusual and, indeed, by her own actions she had initiated the whole process. No, it was the voice itself, disembodied, on the other end of the line. There was a familiarity to it and, when she placed the receiver down as the conversation terminated she had realised who it was she had been speaking to, though she felt sure that he had not recognised her.
It was many years ago now, more than she cared to remember, but they had been sweethearts and, indeed, she had felt certain that they were bound to be married but, for reasons she had never understood and he had never attempted to explain, he had called the whole thing off just as she was beginning to feel comfortable with their relationship. Ridiculously, though she had not seen him for over forty years, she had recognised him by voice alone and the prospect of laying eyes on him again was both pleasing and nerve-racking.
The doorbell rang and, as she jumped a little she dropped a stitch, ignoring the error, thinking that she would rectify the mistake later so she placed the knitting needles down on top of the book from which she had been reading the pattern, moving the ball of yarn from her lap and placing it next to them. She stood, more nervous now than she would have believed, running both hands down the front of her dress, ironing out any creases that may have formed as she sat, not really believing that there was anything wrong with her appearance, simply finding a way to occupy precious seconds whilst she composed herself.
She moved towards the front door, forcing herself to take a few deep breaths along the way to try to soothe the nerves and it worked, or at least a little.
‘Coming,’ she called as she moved through the hallway, buying herself a little more time. She reached the door and hesitated for a second, two, reaching for the handle, pausing as her fingers brushed the cold metal, gathering both her thoughts and feelings one last time before turning the knob and swinging the door open.
The dishevelled man standing on her doorstep could not have been further from the mental image that she had conjured and she literally blinked in surprise, taking an involuntary step back before taking hold of herself once more. She peered at the visitor, believing initially that her mind had deceived her, that this was not a former beau for whom she still held a flame after all these years yet, under closer scrutiny, the same features were apparent, only worn and wearied through time to an extent greater than she could have believed. His clothes, too, disguised his true identity, filthy, stained, rags almost, bringing into her mind an image of Wilfrid Brambell as Alfred Steptoe, living in abject squalor in the junkyard on Oil Drum Lane.
‘Douglas?’
She spoke his name aloud, doubt evident in her tone almost as if she did not believe that it were really him.
He nodded back at her, a frown etched across his brow now, clearly searching his own mind to identify her, recognition not yet attained.
‘It’s Dorothy, Douglas. Dorothy Bates.’
The furrows on his brow deepened and, in his eyes, whitened by untreated cataracts, she thought she caught a glimmer of emotion, though the nature of it was hard to define.
‘I know you.’
He spoke the words, three simple syllables and, though shocked at his appearance and apparent decline in health, both mental and physical, she was pleased that he had not forgotten about her entirely. Though his choice of expression was almost childlike it at least offered confirmation that she had meant something to him at some point in his life, even ih he had chosen to abandon her so many years ago, with barely a word of explanation offered.
‘Won’t you come in, Douglas? It’s been so long.’
She moved aside, allowing him access and he strode past her. As he did so, her nostrils were stung by the appalling odour that travelled with him, a constant, silent companion.
‘Where is it?’
Her initial pleasure at seeing him was dissipating rapidly, a combination of disgust at his neglectful condition and disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm upon seeing her again after so long souring her mood dramatically.
‘Aren’t you even going to ask me how I am?’ she demanded, more sharply than she had intended, already regretting having invited him over her threshold. She should have slammed the door in his face when she had first seen what he had become, rejected him without explanation, just as he had done to her. Though it was already too late for that, she still had the option of expelling him from her house if she should so choose though, suddenly, she was all too aware of the situation. She, alone in her house with a man she barely knew who, though withered and hunched with age, could still present a problem for her should the encounter turn physical. No, best play along with the situation, give him what he wanted and get him out as quickly, yet peaceably, as possible.
`I know who you are. You’re alive.’
She smiled at him as if amused by his comment though, in reality, she had no idea what reaction he expected after such a bizarre, emotionless statement.
‘Indeed I am. And so are you,’ she added, joining in the insanity briefly before pointing towards the door that led through to her kitchen.
‘He’s through here.’
She moved, leading him, her own action forcing him to follow her and, entering the kitchen she indicated the small basket situated underneath the window through which could be seen the back garden of the property.
‘How old is he? The advert didn’t say.’
‘Three months. He’s fully weaned and, for the most part, house trained,’ she said, pointing again, this time at a litter tray in the far corner of the room.’
‘I’ll take him.’
It was as simple, as swift as that. Dorothy reached for the kitten, plucking him away from his mother who still supplied him regularly with milk even though he was fully capable of digesting solid food and both animals gave a little whine of protest, no more. She handed the small cat over to Douglas and he turned and walked out of the room and away, not even a backward glance or a thank you for her troubles.
By the time she moved back to the hallway and closed the front door after him, her eyes glistened with unwept tears.

He moved through the streets as quickly as his enfeebled body would allow, every joint and fibre protesting at his haste. To begin with, as he had left the old woman’s property, the kitten had been docile but, as its apparent fatigue was shaken off by the motion of his own walking, the creature became more active, losing its docility and actually starting to struggle in his arms. His mode of carriage had been the standard ‘baby in a cradle’ method, creating a support for the tiny animal with arms crossed against his chest, turned over so that the pale underside of his forearms were facing upwards, the animal resting comfortably, initially at ease. Now it had awoken and the alien nature of both person holding it and its environment seemed to be causing distress and the old man heard it squeak its alarm, three barely audible cries. Perhaps it was calling for its mother, eager to once more be suckling on her warm milk or perhaps it was a cry of warning. Either way, it signalled to Douglas that the animal may try to escape, so he was forced to adapt his position, turning the cat over and taking hold of it underneath the pits of its front legs so that the body dangled, stretched to full length, head facing inwards and pressing against his chest.
It did not seem to like the new position.
Mewling, head swivelling from side to side then turning upwards to stare at him, almost defiant in its attitude, the kitten’s body began to writhe, squirming in his grasp, eager to be free of his hold. The old man was compelled to hold his arms at full stretch, gripping at the creature’s torso more firmly than he would have liked, worried that harm might come if he held on any more tightly. Still the animal fought and, for one awful moment, the old man thought that he had lost his grip altogether, almost dropping it, just managing to renew his grip before the cat fell to the floor and, if that were to happen, the old man knew the animal would be lost to him. There would be no hope of catching it. A decision reached, Douglas released his hold with one hand, forced to dig deeply into the animals flesh with the hand that still held firm, the animals frenzied struggles causing the old mans hand to slip from under its armpit, forced to latch onto the cat’s left front leg, holding it by the single limb alone.
And still the cat struggled for freedom.
‘Stop fighting, you little fuck,’ he hissed at it foolishly, as if it could understand English, genuinely concerned that the extent of the animal’s efforts to release itself would result in the limb being broken inadvertently.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he explained to the top of its head, free hand now reaching around the creature’s back, taking hold of the loose flap of skin at the nape of the neck, scruffing the kitten in much the same way a mother cat will to either transport or discipline her offspring. Instantly, the animal became still, its body becoming limp, hanging from his holding position as if it had been transformed from a thing of life into a stuffed animal, a child’s toy.
It did not last.
For one minute, perhaps two, the animal remained immobile but, seeming to realise that the position would not change for some time it became restless again, fighting its instinct to be submissive when held in such a way, the struggles starting afresh.
‘God damn you,’ Douglas muttered, rapidly running out of ideas and all too aware that, should any passers-by notice him struggling with the beast, he would inevitably draw some much unwelcome interest.
‘Stop it,’ he said, bending his neck forward and lifting the creature higher into the air as if he believed that speaking directly into the animal’s ear would somehow aid its understanding of the spoken word.
‘Just stop it,’ he repeated as the writhing continued, undiminished.
Speaking slowly, enunciating each word in the manner of a teacher losing patience with an errant child, Douglas repeated his instruction.
‘I want you to stop it,’ and, when the kitten chose to ignore his request, he flicked the hand that held the animal out, towards the concrete wall he was passing, cracking the cats skull sharply against the structure, numbing it for a second or two, fooling him momentarily before the animal, frightened now more than ever, began its fight again in earnest, redoubling the ferocity of its battle for liberation.
‘No,’ the old man shouted, much louder than he intended, all too aware that the action he was performing would only draw the authorities should anyone see him, swinging the cat once more towards the wall, smashing its skull against it again with a sickening force, twisting his hand over so that its head was the body part he was gripping, swinging it as if it were a tennis racket he were holding, the head of the animal acting as the handle of the racket. He lashed the kitten’s body hard against the wall, a slight grimace playing on his features as he heard a hefty thump as flesh made contact, bringing his arm back and swinging once more, if anything harder this time than the first strike.
The cat moved no more.
Douglas dropped the lifeless body to the ground, regret at his callous and violent actions pouring through him and continued for home.

NOW
I finished up in the visitor’s rest room, flushing the toilet, again ensuring that any trace of my own outpourings had been washed away by the flow of water, forced through the U-bend, pushed through the buildings plumbing and out into the main sewerage system that served the town. Pulling my underpants and trousers back up, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the ludicrous position I found myself in. A good servant to the corporation for which I worked, I had maintained an entirely unblemished disciplinary record for the duration of my employment. The managers, hell, even the workers that infested the place considered me to be a model employee. Always on time, always reliable, never off sick. OK, so none of the smug ballsuckers ever deigned talk to me, for clearly I exist on a social stratum beneath even their contempt.
Save one.
And yes, whenever the workers were compelled to initiate conversation, it was with great reluctance, and only ever work related. But still, all that aside I knew, with utter certainty, that I was considered a valuable member of the workforce. I was a team-player, even though the team never saw fit to include me in any of their activities. As each day progressed, they could sit upstairs in their offices without a worry knowing with absolute certainty that I was manning the fort, I was ensuring their safety.
I was protecting them.
No more though.
What was happening tonight had put a stop to all of that. From this day forward, my time at Telecommunics was over and, more than that, I would be forced to disappear. A plan was in place, so I was not concerned about the practicalities. I would disappear like vapour, no trace of me once I stepped out of those doors for the final time in just a few short hours. Just a shame I couldn’t take Heather with me. I knew she was going to be angry with me, to begin with at least. I had harboured the notion, briefly, that I could talk her round somehow, make her see that what I did was for good reason, that I had no choice, but even in my own mind the idea had seemed doubtful. No matter how logical my arguments, she was going to be furious. And who could blame her?
I know I never could.
I turned now, moving out of the cubicle, away from the site of my own indulgence and to the washbasins, turning one of the brass tap handles, allowing the water to flow for a little while, studying it, amused by the idea that, irrespective of the quality of material the faucet is made from, the water that results is identical. Is it that way with people? I didn’t think so. My folks’ parenting skills had been sloppy in the extreme, yet I had turned out ok whilst others who came from good homes were capable of the most extraordinary crimes. I was a stand-up, regular guy, just trying to make my way through life, causing harm to no-one, save the abberant activities I was corruntly engaged in. Others, the well-heeled, were paraded for all to see on a daily basis in the newspapers, their ill-gotten gains a source for journalists to probe, to question their methods of enrichment in the cut-throat world that the privileged seemed to inhabit.
I knew tonight was an exception, however.
A one off.
I’m not crazy.
I rinsed my hands underneath the flow of water, the slippery baby lotion clinging to my skin defiantly, requiring studious rubbing to remove all trace and, when satisfied, I shut off the tap, holding my hands out beneath the hand drier to activate the current of warm air. As I stood there, massaging my palms and the tops of my hands, wringing them together in order to speed the process of drying, my thoughts inevitably turned back to Heather. Now that my desires had been dealt with, at least for the time being, I was able to think more clearly about the woman whom I had taken captive.
She really was quite extraordinary.
Besides the obvious traits that made her such a pleasing prospect as a fuck vessel, the woman had depths to her that I wished to explore, but knew that I would never be allowed. Her exquisite physical beauty was one thing but, in this big wide world, there are plenty of exceptionally beautiful women. True, not many of them work in Telecommunics and even fewer would ever bother to make conversation with the likes of me, but they do exist.
I know.
I’ve seen them.
There’s more to her than that though, I simply possess neither the vocabulary nor the emotional depth to explain them fully. Like a really good trifle, she is multi-layered, each layer, when revealed, as good if not better than the one before. If it were not for the fact that the events of this evening were inevitable, I may have felt guilt or even remorse at having taken her prisoner in the manner that I had and, especially, the use of the laxatives. That was something that I truly regretted, but my options were reduced to zero.
I had no choice.
It had to be done.
Right now, I knew, the impact of the medication would be being felt and it was a scene I did not care to imagine. True enough, I fantasised about Heather frequently, but in my mind she is always clean, always pristine, smelling of lavender or coconut, not of human waste.
I made my way through the lavatory door, back out into the foyer, walking without thinking, heading for the lifts on the opposite side of the building. My hands were back in my pockets now, and I reached for the tissues once more, pulling them out, unscrunching them, pressing them against my own nostrils, breathing in deeply, taking all of her odours and microbes and bacteria on board, absorbing them into myself, eager for some part of her, however tiny and insignificant, to become a part of me. I reached the lifts and pressed myself against the central set of doors, hands fondling the metallic surface, stroking it, eyes closed, picturing Heather herself, my hands not on cold metal but instead on the warm skin of her thighs. I lifted my other hand now so that both hands were stroking, touching, exploring and mentally I was easing her legs apart a little, both hands rising up, stroking her thighs tenderly whilst moving ever nearer to her womanhood. Without even realising it, I was thrusting at the surface now, my erection bulging through the material of the work trousers, rubbing myself furiously against the elevator doors, panting, sweating. Had I seen myself at that moment, I would have been truly appalled at the animalistic nature of my behaviour but, for the time being, I cared not at all.
Grinding against the doors, I screamed out her name.
‘Heather.’

RECENT
The Formica table acted as a place to rest his weary head, his back, naturally hunched due to the scoliosis that had blighted his existence for as long as he could remember, now curved forward at what appeared to be an unnatural angle, almost as if some cruel individual had stuffed a honeydew melon up inside his clothing.
The old man was crying.
His head was filled with the image of the tiny, lifeless body of the kitten that he had cruelly dashed to death against the rocky wall just a couple of hours earlier. His anger had overwhelmed him, his inability to control the struggles of even a creature as small and fragile as that seeming to have a significance greater than he could yet perceive. As he had struck the creature’s head against the stonework not once, but twice, the release of energy and emotion had been a relief. Worse, he had enjoyed the crime he was committing, the power he felt over the helpless creature. Even as he had turned the animal around to inflict the mortal wounds by striking it against the wall, sideways on, shattering the ribcage and piercing vital organs within the creatures diaphragm, still he had felt no regret, only satisfaction and that was what troubled him now more than anything. The first signs of remorse had not manifested for half an hour after the assault, perhaps a little while more, the walk home and beyond spent still under the influence of the adrenaline released, keeping him up, not allowing regret to tinge his mood but, as the chemical stimulant diminished in his bloodstream, intellect prevailed and he was left with a feeling of worthlessness, a spent force that held no power.
The tears dripped from the end of his nose, mingling with a stain on the table’s surface that could once have been egg yolk.
Douglas moved now, forcing himself to lift his head from the table, his skin peeling off the surface with a soft, wet tearing sound, standing up with great difficulty. It seemed that his sense of self-pity and despair had physical consequences as well as mental and the pain that acted as constant companion to any form of movement seemed to have intensified. Now, when he put one foot in front of the other, instead of the dull ache in the lower spine and throbbing behind the knees, sharp stabbing sensations had taken residence, as if someone were jabbing red hot needles into his skin, even into the bones themselves.
‘Jesus,’ he groaned as he forced himself onwards, the effort of moving from one room to the other almost Herculean in nature, but he managed it all the same, reaching for the package that had been delivered only yesterday. Though he had opened it and had briefly examined its contents, he had not studied it in any great detail, merely confirmed that the correct item had been delivered. Now, removing the box from atop the dusty old, wood-encased television set, Douglas moved over to the settee, shooing away the large ginger Tom that was usually to be found on the filthy sofa. Turning round and easing into position on the seat, the old man reached to the table that rested against the left side of the settee, taking a pen in his bony fingers before popping it thoughtfully into the corner of his mouth to allow him to still work with both hands. Eagerly now, he removed the contents of the box, a single book, nothing more, flicking the pages open, going directly to the contents page. Scanning the printed words, forced to hold the book close to his face in order to read what was written having forgotten to bring his eye glass with him from the kitchen, Douglas found what he sought. A wicked grin slipped across his features, a new mask preferable to the one made of regret that he had been wearing this last hour or so and, comforted, he stood once more, moving still with difficulty though, curiously, the pain levels seemed to have dropped somewhat. He reached the cupboard on the wall opposite the TV and pulled it open, looking back down at the book. He flicked through pages again, this time seeking the chapter heading listed in the contents page, cross referencing to the page number indicated. He reached it, page sixty three and studied the contents for a moment. At the top of the page, a list of ingredients and below, a method of preparation.
With book held in one hand, he took the pen from the corner of his mouth and checked the list of ingredients, placing a tick next to each as he found them in the filth encrusted cupboard.
Before he closed the book, a tick was printed alongside every component required.
The smile became wider still.
Of the cat, he thought no more.

NOW

That son of a bitch.
In her mind, Clive Wilkes’ face loomed large and she focused on the image of her captor, using it in much the same way a boxer may focus on the visage of an opponent that has disrespected them in the typical verbal jostling that precedes a high profile bout. She held the image there, studying it now in a manner she had never done in the flesh, looking into the eyes, studying each crease and fold, searching for signs of deception and betrayal but, of course, there was nothing to be seen. Besides, any hint of his true character that she did spot could not be trusted, her own mind distorting reality to fit what she now believed to be the facts.
The son of a bitch.
She imagined him standing in front of her, she stepping towards him, lifting a knee sharply to connect with the soft meat of his genitals and that brought a smile to her face, though a sardonic one at best.
She was in no mood for humour.
Exhausted, shamed and revolted, her efforts to remain upbeat were beginning to strain and it was all she could do to hold herself together. What she really wanted to do now was to curl up into a ball and cease to be, either permanently or temporarily. If it were possible to sleep here within the lift, surrounded by her own cankerous waste product she may well have done so but, able neither to lie down nor to relax, slumber was all but an impossibility.
She sat in the compartment, muscles becoming cramped through lack of activity, desperately wanting to move around, to stretch out, anything to shake off the encroaching fatigue that was impinging on her ability to plot her revenge, should the opportunity present itself. She knew that the opponent she was up against was strong, maybe twice her body mass and muscular with it but, with the element of surprise, maybe it was possible she could force a slender advantage. She shook her head, thinking briefly that she was losing her mind. What good plotting for retribution whilst she was still trapped? The initial focus needed to be on getting out of the damned lift, then she could worry about getting her hands on Clive.
That son of a bitch.
She stood, groaning out loud as her cramp-stricken muscles protested at the motion, fumbling once more for the keypad that, in normal circumstances at least, controlled the lifts upward and downward movement. Once again, she pressed each button in turn hoping, though not at all expecting, that the lift would burst into life and transport her to a floor proper. A thought occurred and she chastised herself for not considering the possibility previously. Though the lift was clearly suspended between floors it was possible that, should she force the doors open, there would be sufficient gap either at the top of the ground floor or at the bottom of floor one for her to squeeze through. The lift did not have to be in its correct position for her to make good her escape, so long as sufficient room was available for her to slide through. She rummaged on the floor, seeking her shoulder bag, swinging it up by the strap once located. She hoisted the strap over her head, allowing it to fall into its designated position, bag swinging at her side at hip level to allow easy access to the contents. She moved forward, a determination in her actions that had been sorely lacking previously and planted both hands on the cool, metallic doors in front of her. Using her fingers, she probed the surface, seeking the tell tale crack that delineated one side of the door from the other as, on this lift at least, the doors opened and closed by sliding in from either side, meeting exactly in the centre of the doorway. Once the divide had been located, she placed a hand equidistantly on either side and, using a combination of pushing and pulling, pushing down on her wrists to hold the hands in place whilst attempting to pull the doors apart, she strained against the metal construct. She had no great hope of actually succeeding in her efforts, she was merely trying to ascertain the amount of force that would be required to achieve her aims. As she struggled, the doors seemed to have a little give in them and, for a fleeting second, she thought she caught a sliver of light, there one second, gone the next, but it gave her renewed hope.
Escape was a possibility.
Difficult, but possible.
Taking a step back, breath coming in short gasps from her exertions, she opened the flap at the top of the shoulder bag, fumbling around inside, wondering if there was anything that might be useful within. She found her car keys, removed them from the bag and used her fingers to examine them in turn, feeling along the length of each key, studying every one, pondering over both dimensions and robustness. Too thick and the key would not slide between the crack in the door, too thin and it was liable to break the second any real pressure was applied. None of the keys on the key ring seemed appropriate and, annoyed, she dropped them onto the floor of the lift, a strident clang surprising her by its volume, making her jump.
What else?
There must be something she possessed that she could make use of.
Hands groping blindly in the dark, she searched the contents of the bag, plucking items out randomly, feeling them before discarding them one after the other. Make-up, accessories, hairbrush, extra strong mints; all useful in her day to life but of absolutely no value in her current predicament.
‘Shit,’ she bellowed, louder than she intended before pounding her fists against the doors in frustration. Nothing. Not one thing in her possession that was even close to an appropriate implement for jimmying open the doors.
‘Fucking shit,’ she shouted again, not even bothering to pinch herself for her use of such a strong expletive, not even thinking about it, her mind occupied by the cloud of pessimism that had descended over her.
‘Shit, shit, shit it,’ she hollered, each repetition of the curse word accompanied by knuckles cracking against stainless steel, the pain that went with it a welcome distraction from her current plight.
What else then?
If not the doors, what other means of escape was there?
Her mind went back to the cockroaches or, rather, to her theorising after the roach related incident and she recalled that, as she had thought through the potential methods of his introducing the insects, she had contemplated that Clive himself had fashioned some form of hatchway in the roof of the lift. Reaching up now in the darkness she was surprised to discover that, even at full stretch, her fingertips did not reach the roof. Because she was effectively blinded, she had no way to determine how far short she was falling, so jumped a couple of inches off the floor, keeping her arms and fingers fully stretched, expecting contact. None came so, undeterred, she tried again, jumping with a little more force this time yet yielding the same results.
‘Damn.’
Her annoyance was reaching new heights, borne in part by her own fallible memory. On any given day, had anybody asked her if she could reach the ceiling of a lift by jumping her instant and automatic response would have been yes. Whilst not the tallest, she was no midget either and she found it hard to believe that she was incapable of reaching the damned thing. Once more she tried, bending her knees a little to provide more upward momentum but again her fingertips found nothing but air.
‘Damn it,’ she cried out, readying herself for one more try, knees bending so far her buttocks almost touched her Achilles, actually crying out as she leapt upwards, arms outstretched, fingers extended and, even with this mighty effort, the best she could manage was the slightest of brushes against the surface above and not nearly enough contact to be of any use in making good her escape, even if a hatchway existed.
Slumping back against the far wall once more, she realised she was beaten. The moment had come to give up and simply wait for whatever fate had in store for her. She slid down again, forlorn, back gliding down the stainless steel wall until her bottom struck the floor, feet moving outwards, knees remaining slightly bent so that her legs formed a small arch. With the acceptance of defeat all energy reserves seemed to have been instantly depleted and she felt a tiredness the like of which she had never known. Weary right down to the marrow, she allowed her head to topple forward, not bothering to tense her neck muscles as gravity took hold so that her head swung loose, limp and, quite unexpectedly, she started to cry. Gently at first, though increasing in intensity quite rapidly, tears she had not known were building suddenly flowed and her head jerked rhythmically between her shoulder blades. Great, fat, salty droplets dribbled from the corners of her eyes, squeezed from her lachrymal sacs and with them flowed the despair and fear that she had managed to keep restrained for so long.
But what use fighting it any more?
Here she sat, trapped in a lift by a psychotic security guard who had planned for her Christ knows what, no means of escape, surrounded by her own shit and intermittently being subjected to severe psychological and physical trauma’s.
What the hell was she supposed to do?
Laugh?
Sing a jolly tune?
Fuck it all, she thought, remembering to pinch herself this time, though it was only a half-hearted attempt at punishment, no real pressure applied between finger, thumb and fleshy thigh as if she knew that her situation merited the odd expletive. Still crying and making no effort to stem the flow, she raised her head, wiping some of the excess fluid from her cheeks with one hand before wiping at the moist end of her nose, surprised at how damp her hand felt when she took it away.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, sniffing loudly, unconcerned by her lack of couthness, comfortable enough with her own mannerisms to allow for occasional crudeness. She reached behind her head and removed the hair band holding her ponytail in place, shaking her head as her hair fell to shoulder length, hands roughing the locks up a little to force out any knots that may have formed before rubbing at her face and eyes in an attempt to eradicate the fatigue that crept upon her.
Something wet moved against her exposed ankle, causing her to flinch back in surprise and, initially, she wondered if she had somehow managed to spray either a stray tear or, perhaps, more disgustingly, a globule of mucus such a distance as she had hawked the contents of her nostrils back down her throat. She moved the affected leg towards her, bending the knee more sharply to allow her foot to slide across the floor so that she could explore the area that had sensed the moistness with her fingertips, making sure to use the opposite hand to the one she had used to wipe at her cheeks and nose just a few moments ago lest lingering snot and tears hinder her efforts. She leaned forward, left breast squashed flat against her left thigh, exploring the exposed section of skin, fingers coming away dry, revealing nothing.
Something wet, moving against her opposite leg.
She yanked her leg back instinctively, her lower spine straining at the awkwardness of her positioning, both legs bent as far as they would go, back arched forward, hands gripping onto knees to maintain the position.
A smell.
No, a stench, more powerful even than the odour of her own vile outpourings - and suddenly she realised that she had been unaware of the smell of her own excrement for some considerable time, answering the question she had posed to herself earlier in the evening. How long does it take to become accustomed to even the most pungent and repulsive of odours? Well, just a few hours – this was a fresh taint, acrid, almost chemical in nature, burning at her eyes. She was unable to identify the sickly, organic odour for the moment, its strength intensifying by the second, but it initiated in her the gag reflex, her throat constricting, the characteristic upward peristaltic motion of her oesophagus trying to purge her guts of their contents, the brief acidity of bile souring the back of her mouth before suddenly it was awash with saliva in readiness for the violent act of vomiting,. She fought her instinct, truly horrified at the prospect of adding to her own filth within the confines of the lift, biting down hard on her tongue and cheeks, tensing both chest and stomach, effectively trying to paralyse her diaphragm to prevent the motion that was necessary for her body to commit the act she was so desperate to avoid. The battle apparently won, she forced herself to breath despite the tangible reek in the air, a thing of corruption and contamination that scared her more than anything she had ever known in her life. Instinctively, she was fearful of this odour, whatever the hell it was, not because she believed it to be the carrier of disease or toxin or other such airborne menace, more through something hardwired into her makeup, perhaps into the makeup of us all, some race memory, passed on through genetics.
And then she knew what it was.
Though never having been exposed to it prior to that moment, the image in her mind was clear. The despicable scent that so polluted her environ was that of rotting flesh and, as soon as the image was formed, something grabbed at her ankles again, taking hold this time, latching on and, though she struggled to free herself, the grip held true. She writhed where she sat, buttocks lifting from the floor, twisting and turning, desperately fighting against the hold on her lower leg, whatever had her seeming slippery somehow, pliant, so that her ankles were able to rotate through the grip, though not break free entirely. Lifting her backside to the left, she suddenly changed direction, swinging right, hoping to shake the vile thing off, but to no avail, before deploying a fresh tactic, hoping for the advantage of surprise and hoping also that, whatever it was that gripped her was as blind as she. With both arse cheeks raised from the floor and hands pressed firmly to the floor behind her, she used a combination of back, shoulder muscles and forearms to propel herself forward. Her right foot connected with…something….and she felt her toes disappear into a substance she dare not think about for fear of reigniting the desire to retch. As quickly as she had thrust her entire body weight forward, she pulled herself back in the opposite direction, feeling as the slippery (fingers?) tried to grab at her again, to reassert their grip, but suddenly, she was free. She scrambled to her feet, experiencing a strange mixture of emotions, panic-stricken yet euphoric, terror-blind yet calm. Perversely, she recalled an article she had read long ago about tunnel vision and how, in the most extreme of circumstances, a plane crash, say, or a hostage situation, suddenly time slows down and all extraneous stimuli are removed, the mind focusing only on what matters. She felt a little of that now, all of her attention focused on whatever abomination, for surely it was such, lurked in the darkness before her. Raising a leg behind her, she swung her foot, connecting with something wet and spongy, repulsed by the moisture that clung to her foot and ankle even after she had retracted the appendage as if now covered in some form of slime. She swung again, harder, making the same contact, astonished that no sound issued from the presence, bringing a thought into her head that she desperately wished had not manifested, that the thing she was kicking out at, the thing that only moments ago had taken hold of her legs was not in fact alive and, try as she might, she could not dispel the notion as the theory seemed valid.
No life, no breath to expel when kicked.
So how do you stop a dead thing?
She had no wish to dwell for too long on the secondary thought, instead lashing out with her foot once more, striking blindly at whatever the hell it was, a sense of confidence flowing through her, however inappropriate that should have seemed in the circumstances.
Fists flew at her, head height, catching her off guard, numbing her momentarily.
Again the clenched fists found their target, more firmly this time as if the first couple of strikes had merely been sighters to establish her precise whereabouts within the lift.
Now the blows rained.
Crunching impact followed crunching impact and she felt her lip split, paralysed by the sudden and violent assault, defenceless against this fresh attack. Her knees began to buckle and, as hard as she fought it, there was no way to prevent the inevitable.
She went down, hard, crashing to her knees first before being forced down further by the merciless assailant, invisible, irrepressible, seemingly indefatigable, the blows actually becoming more punishing rather than less as the attack continued relentlessly. She was compelled to drop her head down, holding her hands up to her forehead and eyes in an attempt to shield her face from the main brunt of the assault meaning that her hair was dangling in front of her. The thing on the floor took its chance, grabbing hold of the stray locks, pulling on them. Attacked now from both above and below, Heather knew there was no hope, felt certain that this was how it would all end. She screamed out, just once, a defiant cry of frustration, a plaintive wail demanding to know just what she had done to be deserving of this absolute terror.
‘Why?’
The sound echoed back and forth off the walls of the lift, so voluble as to render her temporarily deaf. Still the blows fell on her, the back of her skull, her spine, her protective hands and still the beast beneath pulled her downwards.
She closed her eyes, praying now for it all to end.
It would not.
As she began to think that she had endured all that these monstrosities could dish out, these cowardly phantoms that seemed able to flit into her proximity at will without fear of retaliation, a new twist, a fresh horror as the thing on the floor took hold of her head in its cold, dead hands. Try as she might, she could do nothing to raise her head away for, each time she attempted to retreat, the attacker above beat her back down. The cadaverous hands took her face in their slippery palms, almost tender in their ministrations, but only for a moment. The thing gripped both cheeks, pressing firmly, more firmly, for a moment lending her to believe that its intent was to crush her fucking face off and, perhaps, if that had been its desire, it would have been preferable. Instead, it pulled her downward, downward, until, at the last moment, she realised precisely what it was attempting.
But too late.
She felt the things lips press against her own, clammy, lifeless, the texture of raw liver and, as much as she strained, trying to pull away, she was held motionless, completely at its mercy. The lips moved against her own, the slime of corruption and decomposition lubricating their motion when, perhaps tiring of this, the monster began to squeeze at the jaw line, pushing fingers against bone, inflicting unbelievable pain so that she was compelled to open her mouth slightly to release the pressure it was exerting.
The tongue slid between her lips before she could do anything to prevent it and, though she attempted to clamp down on it, for all the world wanting to bite it clean off, still the fingers pressed at her jaw bone, preventing such a motion. The dead-flesh tongue passed over her teeth and she felt it squirm against her own.
She vomited.
The rush of warm, acidic fluid was enough to repel the ghastliness that had forced its way into her mouth and, though unpleasant, the taste of her own puke was preferable to what had gone before. Retching, the contents of her stomach rained down on the foulness beneath her, spattering everything within range, the acrid odour simply adding to the melange that already occupied the space.
Without warning, above her, the lights flickered.
Heather blinked, sudden light after such a prolonged period of darkness causing a little pain as her eyes adjusted themselves.
Beneath her, nothing at all and, more curiously, she could not feel the vileness of its skin against her own anymore.
The lights went out again.
The contact was re-established, corrupt flesh slipping against her as it sought to grab hold of her once more.
Light.
Solid this time, no flicker.
Besides herself, the lift was empty, devoid of life, though pools of her own fluids remained.
The lift began to move.

THEN: July

Thomas made for home, walking at a steady pace away from The Seven Stars, in no great rush to return to the house that increasingly felt as if it belonged to a strangers family, not his own. His steady retreat into alcohol soaked oblivion continued apace and, though the ale still warmed some part of him, its effects were becoming dimished by the day to the point that sometimes, ten, eleven pints into a drinking session he came to realise that he felt utterly sober. At such moments he was compelled to turn to harder liquor, though he was always loathe to do so as inevitably a vomiting incident would occur the following day.
Drink after drink, glass after glass, the toxicity mounting up, every drop of fluid consumed a desperate attempt to ward off the fear that churned within. For that was what it was. The cold, brutal, burning fear of being caught.
He had killed before, of course, and felt not the slightest remorse. His life since late teens had been a tapestry of violence, woven from cloth of knuckle and bone. The blows had been aimed chiefly towards women, though a few altercations with his fellow man had transpired, but he preferred to pit his strength against the ladies, never favouring a fair battle when a one sided physical encounter could sate the same desires. Dominating the fairer sex was simply a means to an end, a way of venting his frustrations at his own failings and it had always struck him as curious that the one woman he was unable to overpower had been the one he had chosen to marry.
Or had she chosen him?
He couldn’t remember now, and it hardly seemed to matter anymore as the tables had been well and truly turned. Now when he walked into a room Cheryl fell into a nervous silence, fearful of uttering a single word just in case it was the one that sparked an eruption, she Hera tossing her son from Mount Olympus, he Hephaestus, the castaway, creating the fury of the Aegeans.
The metamorphosis – a rather dramatic word, for certainly, but that was how it felt, a Kafkaesque transformation in reverse, from bug to Alpha male – had first manifested after killing Hazel. Somehow, the fact that he had committed the act in the middle of the street had seemed right at the time, and he had certainly enjoyed the sensations of squeezing the life from her even as, at any moment, a random passer-by could round the corner, but it had caused an itch of concern somewhere in his subconscious, and suggested that he was becoming a little too sure of himself. He knew enough about the killing mentality to understand that those that get caught are the ones that make mistakes and, surely, strangling Hazel to death right there out in the open was precisely that. Even the place he had chosen to dispose of her corpse now seemed an act of bravado, almost a challenge to the police to ‘catch me if you can.’ So far, no connection had been made between himself and Hazel.
Monica’s slaying troubled him further still.
That had been a messy affair, and not just in terms of the butchery involved. Though he had gone over her house with careful deliberation in an attempt to remove every trace of his presence there, he knew that it was not feasible that he had been totally successful. A stray hair, a misplaced fingerprint, even a footprint on the front step could betray his identity, at least sufficiently to get the police asking some very awkward questions. What if some unnecessarily inquisitive neighbour had seen his car parked on the drive for the fifteen or so minutes it had taken to move the ten dismembered elements of her corpse from building to boot? And it wasn’t as if his car didn’t stand out. A bright orange Maestro is bloody hard to miss. Damn car. He had never wanted the thing in the first place. It had been Cheryl’s idea, back before he had learnt to stand up to her.
Bitch.
Unexpectedly, his musings had taken him near to home and, as he approached the property, he was surprised to see the living room lights were extinguished. Normally at this hour Cheryl would be firmly ensconced on the living room sofa watching Phil Silvers or Cagney & Lacey, or any of the other forms of mindless pap she used to pass the time.
But not tonight.
Tonight it seemed she had decided on an early finish, which was most unusual.
Thomas approached the front door, casting a disapproving glance towards the bright orange Maestro parked in the driveway, eyes fixed momentarily on the vehicle’s boot, remembering vividly opening the black bags up one at a time and loading them up with house bricks before tieing them up again and lugging them down to the canal towpath. The bricks had been acquired from a friend, two hundred of them in all, the excuse used a planned reworking of the back garden that, at least as far as Cheryl understood it, he simply hadn’t gotten round to. The truth of it was, he had never planned to build the damned thing in the first place, it was simply a ruse to get his hands on a ready supply of house bricks without anyone raising an eyebrows.
He reached into his back pocket and produced his set of housekeys, flicking through them without needing to look, selecting the correct one by touch alone. He slid it into the metal casing of the lock and turned, key pins and driver pins rotating fluidly in the tumbler, meeting precisely at the shear point so that the key turned silently in the mechanism.
He swung the door open, a little mystified by the hush that greeted him. His earlier thought that Cheryl has simply opted for an early night seemed less and less plausible. Cheryl was a night owl, always had been and the thought of her turning in much before midnight was highly improbable unless she was ill and, five hours ago, when he had left for The Stars she had seemed perfectly healthy. He closed the door behind him and moved into the living room, catching sight of the shaft of light that cut into the room from the kitchen beyond.
Was she cooking?
At half eleven?
He doubted it.
Moving through the room, sufficiently familiar with the terrain to be able to move confidently despite the low level of light, the only slight worry being a stray toy or shoe cast aside by one of his daughters but, tonight, there was no such obstruction. He reached the kitchen door and passed into the room itself to find Cheryl sitting at the kitchen table.
Tears streaked her face.
She looked like Death itself.
‘Cheryl?’ he enquired, his voice coming out in a tone slightly higher than its natural timbre.
She glanced his way at the call of her name, as if only just becoming aware of his presence, before quickly looking away again, down at the table-top, unable to meet his gaze.
‘What’s going on?’
He felt himself reverting, regressing, going back to the ways he thought behind him, a nervousness and uncertainty bubbling under the surface, his throat constricting slightly making it difficult to swallow the saliva that pooled at the bottom of his mouth. He waggled his tongue a little, swilling the fluid around, almost having to chew on the damn stuff to force it down his oesophagus.
‘You’re back then?’
She startled him when she spoke, though the words came out in a soft tone, muffled by sobs and the hand placed over her mouth, seemingly with the intention of holding some desperate sorrow and loneliness inside, but the pain she felt was a formidable opponent at present and it would not be stifled, overpowering her so that her shoulders spasmed once, twice, three times, before she was able to regain control of herself. She wiped at her dripping nose with the small bundle of toilet paper she clasped, dropping it to the table before wiping away the still flowing tears with the back of her hand, though now the tears were accompanied by nothing other than her own silence as she refused to give in to the battle that raged internally.
Slowly, slowly, her eyes dried and, with one last sweep of the rear of the hand she turned to look at her husband once more.
‘I want a divorce.’
She said the words with no trace of emotion.
Thomas, quite literally, rocked back on his heels, a smirk appearing on his face instantly as if he thought that this were some elaborate game she was playing.
I know kids, let’s wait until Daddy comes home all drunk, then I’ll tell him I want to divorce him. Won’t that be fun?
‘You want what?’ He was slurring the words slightly, partly through too much drink, but in part also due to amusement, the smile playing on his lips no show of bravado.
‘You heard me, Tom. This marriage is over.’
He moved forward, dropping awkwardly into a seat opposite his wife, eager that they should be eye to eye for the coming exchange.
‘I don’t think so.’ His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, attempting to intimidate her and failing completely.
‘You don’t scare me, so stop trying to.’
Again the cold, calculated nature of the words surprised him and, for the first time, made him begin to believe what she was saying. Through his beer addled mind the true sense of her emotional state began to resonate; the tears as she waited for him, knowing the dreadful deed that needed to be done, swiftly followed by the sense of calm once the words that had so agitated had actually been released.
She meant every word that she uttered.
‘I don’t want this to be messy, Tom. It’s not fair on the kids.’
He laughed, a short, sharp sardonic sound, more a bark than a genuine human exclamation.
‘Not fair on the kids?’ His voice had gone up in pitch again, becoming whiney even to his own ears. ‘Not fair on the kids? You’re one to talk about fair to the kids.’
‘Don’t start,’ she pleaded, though there was a weary resignation in her voice, sensing the imminence of his rage.
‘Don’t start?’ he repeated back at her, unable to think of words of his own to use, instead simply echoing her own statements in that irritating, high pitched manner, raising the inflection slightly at the end to indicate a question, as if he thought that her initial statement were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard in his life.
She pitied him at that moment and, with a clarity that had eluded her for far too long, she recognised that this desperate, drink soaked excuse was a different person utterly from the man she had married. Gone was the handsome, virile, occasionally witty, occasionally violent male specimen and in his place a pot bellied, moribund shambles; a thing to be contemptuous of at best, to be disgusted with, but certainly not to be cowed by.
‘The girls are asleep Tom. We can talk in the morning. I’ll sleep on the sofa if you like.’
She made to stand, but a firm hand grabbing her wrist held her in place.
‘I won’t let you leave.’
She snatched her hand free, tugging with such vigour that, in his drunkenness, he toppled forward and landed flat on his face on the tabletop in such a comedic manner that she was compelled to stifle a laugh, not wishing to provoke the situation any further than was absolutely necessary.
‘You don’t have a choice,’ she said to the top of his head.
She left the room.

He stared at hands of the alarm clock, concentrating intently on the second hand sweeping swiftly around the dial, fingers digging deeply into the skin at his temples, trying to alleviate the terrible pressure that seemed to be building. He needed to sleep, had tried to sleep and knew that, until slumber was claimed, the feeing that churned within would not leave him. The bedroom light beamed down at him, the shade-less bulb cold and unsettling, causing him physical pain when he tried to stare at it. He wanted to shut it off, but was afraid to do so for fear of the images that would become visible once illumination was absent, so instead focused totally on the second hand.
Ticking.
Ticking.
Seeming to match his heart beat, but at half pace, the powerful muscle in his chest beating at exactly twice the rate of the time piece’s ticking.
Sixty seconds a minute.
Two heartbeats a second.
One hundred and twenty heartbeats a minute.
He was sweating too, fluid pouring from him as if he had been running vigorously for several minutes, though the truth was he had lain perfectly still for over twenty and the only thing that was active was his mind.
And such thoughts.
He pushed at his temples with renewed urgency.

In the first moment of consciousness she caught a whiff of a pungent odour, familiar, somehow appealing and repulsive at the same time before, moments later, something started squeezing at her throat so powerfully the supply of breath to her lungs was cut off entirely. Her heart rate accelerated, kick-starting her system in an act of self-preservation, dragging her unwillingly from the world of slumber to the world of the all too real and her eyes opened onto nothing but blackness.
Struggling now, Cheryl brought a knee up sharply and connected with something solid, a blow packed with sufficient energy to bring a grunt of annoyance from her husband and a slight drop in pressure to her pain-lanced throat.
‘Bitch.’
She heard the word, though from his contorted mouth it emerged as more of a snarl than a fully formed expletive and she seized the moment to raise her arm and snatch at his hair, taking a handful and pulling with all the strength she possessed. He roared above her, a nightmare in silhouette but she refused to relinquish her hold, yanking, yanking, feeling some of the fibres uproot from their follicles. His head slammed down hard, straight into her face and she was stunned into paralysis, the head butt carrying such force that her nose exploded, bone grinding and blood spraying. The pain from her shattered organ was such that she barely felt anything as he rained four, five, six further blows to her face, this time with his fists, knuckles cracking against cheek and temple, a pitiless assault she was powerless to resist.
That’s when the lights came on.

The small girl listened at the doorway, fear coursing through her as surely as the tears flowed from her eyes. The sounds from the living room were the source of her terror; brutal, animalistic sounds that she could not easily identify. Once before she had heard such noises, though from her parents’ bedroom on that occasion, as she listened at the door she felt certain that her Mommy was being harmed yet, the following morning at breakfast, she had seemed perfectly fine.
This time was different though.
This time the only noises she heard were coming from her Daddy.
She stepped into the room and turned on the light.
Though she was young, the sight before her needed no explanation.
Her mother lay unconscious on the sofa, blood smearing her features whilst her father towered over her, one fist still raised above his head, frozen, as the shock of illumination pinned him in place. Only his head moved, snapping in her direction, eyes finding her and the fury that raged within them blazed at her.
Heather turned and ran for the stairs.

NOW
I felt myself nearing the point of climax and was on the verge of surrendering to my urges when the years of military training reasserted themselves. The principles that I had taught myself, read about in survivalist pamphlets, weaponry and ammunition magazines and other such literature and indeed practiced in my daily life took hold, the deprival of basic desires imperative to the hardening of the killing machine, the control of impulses and instinct, mind triumphant over matter.
I stepped away from the doors, erection thrusting painfully against the material of my trousers, eager to spill my seed yet with the strength of will to deny it.
I looked at my wristwatch, a little surprised to discover that it was after eleven o’clock at night. By rough estimation, I guessed that I had been writhing and thrusting against the doors for over half an hour.
No wonder I was ready to blow.
My mind wandered back to the thought of Heather Jenkins suspended some, what, ten feet above where I now stood, terrified, in pitch darkness, all alone.
‘Heather,’ I called out, a mocking croon, aping the sound of a practical joker pretending to be a ghost, elongating the vowel sounds, adding a tremulous quality to the word as a whole, dragging the two syllables out over five seconds or more. I repeated it, louder this time, longer, amusing myself, hoping that she could hear me inside the lift, not caring one way or the other whether she recognised my voice or not as she would not be in any condition to tell anyone about it by the time the night was through.
‘Heather,’ I called again, striking my fists against the metallic doors that served as entrance and exit for the lift.
Once, twice, I pounded my huge fist against the surface, pressing my head against the door so that I could better hear the sound reverberating inside the lift shaft, wondering if she could make out the din from within her place of incarceration and whether she could identify its source.
Again I struck, two blows, three, my intent merely to terrify her all the more, if that were indeed possible.
‘Heather,’ I called again, more menace in my tone this time, a harsh edge to the word, delivered in a shorter, sharper rasp than before. ‘Heather, I’m going to fuck your brains out you bitch,’ I screamed, sudden anger flaring, more frustration than fury and one hand wondered down to my groin, stroking at my still engorged organ through my work trousers.
‘I’m gonna fuck you ‘til your eyes pop out of your pretty little head, do you hear?’ I demanded, manic now, my free hand pounding against the door in sympathy with the rhythmic massaging of my member.
‘Do you hear me?’ I screamed, the sound emanating from my lips so harsh, so abrasive that the back of my throat felt as if sandpaper were being rubbed against it, the pain simply fuel to the fire and, suddenly, my mind was made up.
I turned on my heels, moving swiftly though not running, clear of head despite both the emotion and testosterone that coursed through me. I swear I could feel that most masculine of androgens as it surged through me, literally dripping from my Leydig cells, entering my bloodstream, empowering me with a boldness I had not previously possessed.
Why had I been so complicit? So submissive?
I was possessed of free will after all and determined to exercise that very fact right here, right now.
As I moved, the sensitive glans at the tip of my penis rubbed intermittently against the fabric of my underwear, causing a shiver of both pleasure and anticipation to course through my body, only adding to my desire.
I would free Heather right now and take her every which way I saw fit. Use her body as if she were nothing more than a mannequin then, when I was done with her, I would have no option but to kill her. A mercy killing, though, no prolonged agony.
She deserved better than that.
My initial thought was that I would simply snap her neck, place one hand behind her head, one in front and twist, hard, terminating her life instantly. The thought occurred that I should do that the moment she stepped from the lift, but no, I wanted her alive, moving, whilst I made use of her fragile, exquisitely tender body. Once done, the end would be swift and compassionate, a quality I have never possessed in abundance but, for her, an exception could be made.
I passed through the foyer, traversing the rear wall, past my workstation, further, past the cleaning cupboard to the basement door. It was still open from the last time I had been there, to kill the power to the lifts, and I skipped down the stairs three at a time, my haste an indication of the eagerness I felt for proceedings to get underway. At the foot of the stairs, I made my way across the room, pausing at the circuit breaker control panel, ignoring the emergency power console, knowing that all I had to do was trip the main power back to the ‘on’ position and the lift would automatically resume its motion, heading for the ground floor. As this had not been part of the plan – I was flying blind now – I could only guess at the amount of time I had from the moment I flipped the circuit breaker back on to the moment the lift doors would open on the floor above me, but surmised I would have the better part of ten seconds. It should be enough but, just to be sure I actually played it out, hand mimicking flicking the switch, eyes locked on the second hand of my watch before running for the stairs once more, up them two then three at a time, out of the door at the top and back through the foyer, reaching the lift doors some eight seconds after the switch would have been activated.
Ample time.
Retracing my steps, I moved back down to the basement, pausing now as I stood, hand hovering over the circuit breaker, playing out every possibility in my mind. My expectation was that Heather would be in no condition to put up much of a fight, disorientated, confused and badly frightened but there was always the element of chance at work here, the possibility that she could come out fighting and I had to be prepared. Should she make a bid for freedom, I had to be ready to put her down in one clean motion, not a death blow, just enough to incapacitate her, to render her utterly non-threatening to my health.
Three.
I took deep breaths, pumping my already considerable bulk up, attempting to psyche myself into fight or flight mode, to redouble my already impressive levels of strength.
Two.
I clenched my biceps and geed myself up further by allowing a couple of roars to escape me, the deep, primal, masculine sound instilling further confidence in my own superiority.
One.
I stamped my feet a couple of times and beat at my chest with my free hand, doing a fairly decent impression of the New Zealand rugby team performing the haka, bellowing with each strike of the pectorals.
I threw the switch, fully charged now, heading for the stairs at a run, all my planning nearly coming to nought as I almost lost my footing on the first step but managed to compensate, correcting my balance so that my centre of gravity allowed me to tip my body forwards instead of backwards, preventing a calamity. I burst through the basement door, at full sprint now as I hit the foyer and rounded my place of work, eyes locked on the centre elevator indicator light which now illuminated a capital ‘G’ to suggest it had already reached its destination and was just about ready to disgorge its single passenger.
I was ten paces away when the doors began to open.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Heather clambered to her feet warily expecting that, at any moment, the lights would go out and that she would be plunged into the infernal darkness once more. The very second that she allowed her guard to slip, allowed herself to start to believe that escape was imminent, the gift of light would be snatched away from her again, just another in the series of psychological torments that she had so far endured.
‘Perhaps the lift isn’t moving at all,’ she thought, ‘Perhaps it’s just another delusion, like the cockroaches and the corpses,’ before looking down briefly at her own organic mess on the floor and concluding that not everything that had occurred had been mere imagination.
The display that signalled the lift position in relation to the floors of the building still read ‘1’ but, as she watched, that number ceased its illumination and instead the letter ‘G’ glowed brightly.
The ground floor.
Standing dead centre in the lift, Heather tensed, thigh muscles straining, fist clenched, biceps taut, not sure what to expect outside the doors once they slid open, but opting to prepare for the worst. If the coast was clear, all well and good, if not she decided at that very moment to fight for her life.
She would not go down without a struggle.
She would inflict pain before she was forced to yield.
The doors began to slide open.

I quickened my pace, eager to reach the lift before she was able to free herself from its confines, all too aware that I was at a distinct advantage in terms of size, weight and strength in the comparatively small space afforded by the elevator compartment but, should she manage to liberate herself from the erstwhile suspended prison, her slender frame and swiftness of movement could prove problematic.
The doors continued to slide apart and I hit full speed, fully expecting her to dart out of the lift at the last second, but nothing of the sort happened. As I reached the doorway, I was compelled to slow my pace a fraction, but was still unable to arrest my movement sufficiently, finding myself bundled into the compartment, slamming into Heather whose startled face I caught only the merest glimpses of, squashing her flat against the rear wall of the lift compartment, knocking her senseless, or so I hoped, using my hands, flattened against the metallic surface, allowing my elbows to bend in sympathy with my forward motion, dampening my trajectory somewhat so that I came to rest with face a mere inch from the rear wall, Heather’s face pressed somewhere beneath me, into my chest. I held myself motionless, enjoying the thought that the current position must surely be depriving her of oxygen.
One, two, three.
Still I refused to move and the sensation of her hands beating feebly against my stomach merely served as confirmation that she was indeed unable to breath.
This was going to be easier than I thought.
Just pin her here for a few seconds more, enough to render her unconscious and she would be at my mercy. It made no difference to me whether she was awake or asleep when I set about fucking her, as long as she was still alive. Nature’s own processes would ensure the production of the necessary lubricating fluids, at least once I got started, as long as she had breath in her lungs. I didn’t want to dry hump her corpse, for Christ’s sake.
I’m not that crazy.
It has occurred to me over the last few hours that I may be at least slightly mad. My constant, almost desperate iterations to the contrary now seem merely to have been attempts to convince myself otherwise but, as events have unfolded I’ve come to see myself in an alarming light. I’m quite unusual, I guess, not normal at all.
Perhaps even abnormal.
The thought tumbled through my head even as I stood, effectively suffocating the object of my affection beneath my own body weight, an act that seemed merely to confirm my own musings. A good twenty seconds or so had elapsed since last I had felt movement so I eased myself away from the wall slightly, cautious, aware of the possibility that she could be playing possum and may well strike out the first opportunity she got but, as I removed my own weight from her she merely slid down the wall, apparently dead to the world. I took a couple of steps back, intending to admire her but instead found myself more than a little dismayed by her present condition. Her clothes were creased and stained, hair matted and encrusted with substances I chose not to think about, indeed, every part of her was smeared or stained with either vomit or faeces, or both.
It simply would not do.
Anger pulsed within me, my moment of power tainted somewhat by the condition of my little doll, a situation that needed to be remedied. As sick as I was – yes, I had come to the conclusion just within the last few moments that I was that far gone – it would be impossible to gain sexual gratification in her present condition. Despite my militaristic leanings, I have never acquired the proclivity for shit fun that many of my peers seem to delight in, preferring the female form to be free of faecal matter whilst being enjoyed.
Call me Mr Sensitive if you must, but I like my cunt clean.
I grabbed her by the ankles, forced to pull one leg out from beneath her body due to the position into which she had crumpled whilst ensuring that her torso remained upright for fear that she would slip over and tumble into the pool of her shit that congealed in the corner. The stench was powerful, eye-wateringly so and I found it difficult to believe that something so vile could possibly have poured from her slender, perfect body, yet the facts were laid out before me in startling clarity. I did not wish to think about it, fearful that to dwell on her humanity, presented here in such a powerful, olfactory manner, would somehow diminish her perfection in both mind and eye, casting it from my thought processes with the assertion that the resulting outpourings were only so ghastly due to the powerful laxatives that I had administered.
I was to blame, not she.
It was my doing, not hers.
I pulled on her ankles gently, not wishing to damage her but compelled to move her from this corrupted area, eager to be away from there myself so that any further thoughts that may have impinged on my pleasure could be banished, remembering the visitors toilet as I did so and the wet room that had so surprised me.
It was perfect.
My mind was already three steps ahead of me, envisioning the tableau to be played out in just a few minutes time, a supplicant Heather, all resistance quashed, clothes removed, body sopping wet, cleansed, laid out on the tiled flooring in any pose I cared to select. Perhaps begin with the obvious, straight missionary, hug her to my chest, one arm behind her back, pressing my face into her hair as I thrust into her before advancing to more complicated manoeuvres. Maybe leave the shower running throughout, keeping her skin smooth and pliant, the hair on her head hanging in clumped locks, cute as an apple pie, water cascading down her form, rivulets dripping from her ears, her chin, merging, flowing through the natural channel formed between her breasts, across her belly and down beyond, reaching the place I had fantasised about so often and now, right fucking now, I was so close to gaining access to.
My mind was whirling as I pondered the possibilities, contemplating how she would look once her knickers were removed.
Would she be clean shaven or not?
Trimmed or natural?
What colour would she be?
I felt my manhood straining against the material of my trousers, not for the first time tonight, almost painful in its intensity and took hold of her ankles more firmly, one in each hand, guiding her body out of the lift, away from the pools of human effluent that she had been forced to expel
(my fault, not hers)
my back bent forward slightly, feeling awkward as I tried to move backwards whilst at the same time see where I was going. It was cumbersome work and, swiftly, after no more than three or four paces, I realised that the only sensible option was to turn around, take hold of the ankles behind my back and drag her that way. I was frustrated by this, every second I was turned away another second not admiring her face and form but I consoled myself by the thought that, in her current state, her appearance would only sully the memories yet to be formed. No, better to focus on the task for now, not on her image, not worry about her appearance until I got her into the wet room and started to wash her. I knew she would struggle when we got there, knew that, if the movement before did not awaken her the first splash of water from the shower would, but felt confident that I could deal with any attempts at escape she might make.
The plan was simple: mollify her, physically if necessary, then rape her.
A simple plan.
A perfect nights work.
I was pleased.

Heather’s eyes fluttered upwards, rolling back into their sockets briefly before flickering back into their usual position, consciousness now a transient state, she caught somewhere between it and oblivion. Though she knew she was alive, little else was available for recall. Momentary fragments were all that she was aware of, slice of life images captured, strobe-like, as if she were reviewing a movie of her own existence over the past few hours, but only every fifth or sixth frame was actually visible.
Staccato freeze-frames:
The lift doors opening, her genuine surprise when she saw the corridor which led to the foyer of the Telecommunics building and, thusly, to the outside world.
A figure, clearly in flight, heading in her direction, huge, travelling at some speed.
Clive just in front of her, still moving swiftly, about to strike her.
Pinned against his chest, scarcely able to catch a breath, he seeming to deliberately hold himself in such a way as to cut off her supply of oxygen.
Now, awareness coming in fits and starts, moments of temporary clarity before the shroud of confusion reasserted its stranglehold on her mind and, she knew, she must battle against it, must find a way to dampen down its damaging influence, must enable her own mind to allow cognisance and recognition of her surroundings, for without those traits her ability to control her own destiny was stymied entirely.
And she needed control.
She needed it badly.
She needed it right now.
Shaking her head from side to side, effectively giving herself a mental dressing down, she forced her eyes apart, taking in her environ from the unusual position of floor upwards, suddenly aware that she was being dragged along the floor. She flashed her eyes side to side, not wishing to move too much for fear of alerting the person dragging her
(Clive, that piece of shit)
to her sudden state of wakefulness, feeling that subterfuge was the wise strategy, perhaps allowing for an element of surprise on her part: If he thought she was unconscious, he would expect no trouble. From the few details she was able to absorb, it seemed clear that she was out of the lift, but only just and they had just entered the foyer area of the building. Her mind raced, pondering the possible destinations he may have in mind and, given that this was an area she seldom frequented save for passing through on her way to the third floor, she had to admit that her knowledge was limited. She knew the cleaners kept their materials in a cupboard in the corridor opposite the lift corridor, but felt certain he wasn’t headed there. Beyond that, she realised her ignorance and felt it necessary to move her head a little, just tilt it slightly to the right to allow her to see forwards, at least a little. Through the foyer he dragged her and, as she had suspected it was indeed the opposite corridor to which they were headed. She did not struggle, instead allowing herself to be dragged unhindered, keen that he have no need to turn to look at her, he apparently still entrusted to the notion that she was unconscious, a mistake she planned to capitalise on soon.
But how?
How to acquire a position of dominance from her current predicament where, in every sense imaginable, he had all the advantage?
Think, Heather, think, she encouraged herself before, more by luck than any skilful strategic planning on her part, the opportunity presented.
Her hands were dragging along behind her back, fully outstretched, the momentum of her forward motion along the floor holding them in position. She lifted her back slightly, half closing her eyes, eager to see if her altered positioning on the floor caused any concern for her captor. He changed neither posture nor stride. Now she was able to move both arms to her right hand side, back still lifted slightly from the ground, the strain on the base of her spine enormous as a combination of vertebrae and stomach muscles held her in position, her right hand planting firmly on the base of the fire extinguisher as she moved alongside it, left hand holding the side of the object, pushing it upwards with the hand on the base to release it from its wall clamp housing whilst using her left hand to cushion it as it fell, allowing the cylindrical object to come to rest against her chest and midriff, using both hands now to steady the item for fear that it should roll off and clatter along the floor, alerting Clive to the weapon in her possession.
Above her, he grunted.

I felt a little movement from behind me and presumed that my little doll was awakening from her slumber, no doubt carrying one hell of a headache and a sore throat to boot. I did not bother to turn around, my position of power unassailable, instead focusing all of my energies on reaching the wet room as quickly as possible so the nights entertainment could commence. Her slender body slid easily across the shiny, terrazzo covered foyer floor and I approached my destination quite quickly, aware that I would have to alter my grip in order to actually open the door and gain access to the room.
I repositioned my hands on her ankles, one enormous hand now gripping both ankles at the same time, the palm not quite large enough to accommodate both bony protuberances easily forcing me to grip more tightly than I would have liked. I had no wish to harm her, at least no more than was necessary to subdue her and facilitate total co-operation on her part and felt a pang of regret as I heard her gasp behind me, clearly fully awake now.
‘Don’t worry, my doll, not long now,’ I said, hoping that my kind words would reassure her, at least to a small degree. I was very aware of the fact that she was an unwilling participant in current events and that she would need more than a few caring sentiments to assuage her fears entirely, but a start was a start nonetheless.
‘We are going to be very happy together, you and I,’ I said, for no apparent reason, realising even as the words tumbled from my mouth that the phrase may appear more creepy than caring and regretting my outburst immediately.
‘Keep schtum, Wilkes,’ I admonished myself mentally, deciding that the best policy for the moment was silence, at least until we entered the wet room and got down to business proper. I turned my full attention to the task at hand, mindful to keep a firm hold on her legs whilst at the same time manoeuvring my own body to allow me easy access to the door handle. I grasped the handle with my free hand, turning it quickly and swinging it back on its hinges so that the doorway gaped, as wide as it would go. Briefly, for half a second, no more, I released my hold on Heather’s ankles to allow me to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to face her, all the better to grab both ankles once more in two hands and drag her the rest of the way in, willingly or otherwise.
She struck.
The second I turned, her foot lashed out and, whether a lucky strike or an exercise in precision aiming she caught me right at the point where she could inflict the most pain, in the meat of my genitals, her toes connecting wickedly with my testicles, the bone of her foot far more sturdy than the gristle of my balls, pushing them up into the genital cavity, squashing them hard against the undercarriage. I flinched backwards, stumbling away from the danger just as her other foot lashed out too, this one catching me across the knee, the patella bearing the brunt, the floating segment of bone more than capable of absorbing the impact, the fluid beneath acting as a shock absorber so that the only sensation I was aware of was a numbness, almost a lack of sensation really in the area she had impacted against.
‘Fucking bitch,’ I hissed, shocked by her actions, caught completely off guard by both the savageness of her strikes and the suddenness with which they had come. Not thirty seconds ago, all was under control and my plans for the evening were clear; now the situation had altered dramatically and I feared that I would have no option but to kill her. I eyed the fire extinguisher she hugged to her belly with some trepidation, realising that, should she make it to her feet it would make for a fearsome weapon if employed accurately.
‘Don’t make me hurt you….’

Heather realised he would struggle with the combined tasks of opening the door that led to the visitors toilet, according to the sign, as well as keeping a hold on her legs so she bided her time, waiting for precisely the right moment to attack, very aware that to strike too early, her opportunity would be lost yet, too late, he would be able to parry her attempt to disable him.
The hand he held behind his back tightened its grip on her ankles and she let out an involuntary gasp, annoyed with herself and her own lack of control, afraid that the noise she had issued would alert him to her wakeful state. If it did, he paid her no heed, doubtless confident that he could subdue her if the situation required it.
‘Don’t worry, my doll, not long now,’ she heard him say and she lay as still as she could, incredulous, unable to conceive of the inner workings of such a mind. Could he possibly believe that she was going to be happy to hear such assurances; could he genuinely think that, despite the fact that she had been kidnapped, drugged and now assaulted, a few words of comfort would somehow undo all of the damage that he had done? Was he really so deranged as to think that by uttering soothing platitudes she would somehow become more cooperative?
‘He’s fucking insane,’ she thought to herself and, as the notion occurred, it sent a chill running through her very core. Up until that moment, she had believed that, somehow, through either physical force or, perhaps, manipulative negotiations, she would be able to extricate herself from her current dire situation. Maybe the promise of sexual submission to his male fantasies would be a strategy worth considering then, when his guard dropped, bash his brains in with the extinguisher or any other blunt implement that was close at hand. But now, with the very real possibility that not only was he a kidnapper, poisoner and potential rapist, but that he was also stark raving mad, her chances of escaping with her skin still intact had diminished considerably.
‘We are going to be very happy together, you and I,’ he assured her from above, merely confirming her worst fears about his mental condition. No sane man, however deluded by raging male sex hormones, could possibly believe that there was a future for them both.
‘Stay strong, Heather,’ she goaded herself mentally, eyes alert, watching his movements intently, knowing that she only had one shot at this.
He had reached the door by now and was apparently taking a moment or two to figure out the best approach to opening it whilst still keeping her under control and she knew her very survival depended upon the next few moments. One wrong move now and she could kiss goodbye to any hope of escape and, in all likelihood, any chance of living through the night.
‘Focus, Heather, focus,’ she urged, eyes locked on the hand he held her with, knowing that he must turn around at some point and aware that, to do so, he would have no option but to release her, however fleetingly. Sure enough, the hand dropped away and she had to fight every instinct in her body simply to scramble to her feet and make a break for it knowing for certain that, should she employ that particular strategy, he would catch her in a heartbeat and, doubtless, would be less than tender when meting out the punishment for her misdemeanour. No, best to wait, watch and strike at a crucial moment. Her breath held tightly in her chest, her pulse pounding at her temples, genuine terror coursing through every cell in her body, still she waited, the passage of time seeming to have altered so that now tenths of a second passed in minutes, everything moving in slow motion, her own fight or flight survival instinct aiding her in her cause, allowing this preternatural awareness of every moment. As a fly sees the newspaper hurtle towards it in super slow motion, allowing it to casually glide away from the impending danger now she too felt as if she had dropped into some bizarre insect timescale, Clive’s hands dropping away and his spinning on the spot occurring over five minutes, maybe more, the clarity with which she saw every move he made simply startling. Foolishly, as he turned, he paid her little heed, far too cavalier in his approach to the perilous operation he was undertaking and she capitalised on his error of judgement, the fly-eye she was experiencing allowing her to pick her moment with uncanny accuracy, foot blundering out at a snails pace, at least to her perception, but swiftly enough to catch him completely unawares, connecting with the soft tissues of his scrotum and testes with enough force to inflict severe pain, her other foot joining in the fun, going for a blow powerful enough to shatter his knee but just missing its target as he moved away, catching nothing more than a glancing blow against the vulnerable joint.
‘Ff..uu..cc..kk..ii..nn..gg….bb..ii..tt..cc..hh,’ he bellowed, low pitched, the pained utterance drawn out over many seconds, sounding to her ears as if he were attempting to cry out underwater, possessing the same cadences as whale song, only without the melody.
‘Dd..oo..nn..tt..,,..aa..kk..ee….mm..ee….hh..uu..rr..tt….yy..oo..uu.’
She watched his eyes now, flicking between foot, face and fire extinguisher and, gradually, real-time returned, the world speeding up to the point that she had to react instantly, swinging herself towards him, using the kinetic energy of her forward swinging foot to swivel through the hips so that suddenly she was sitting upright, but not stopping there, allowing her own momentum to carry her, thrusting the fire extinguisher out in front of her even as she propelled herself forward, her own athleticism staggering her, clearly borne of fear and desperation.
The extinguisher caught Clive squarely in the stomach, his discomfort from the previous assault slowing his reactions, making him vulnerable to her high-paced attack, the metal base impacting with extreme force, doubling him over and, even as she found herself on her feet, not even aware of how she had managed it, she pulled the extinguisher backwards, the satisfying sound of Clive retching, at the point of vomiting ringing in her ears. Tunnel-visioned now, she raised the fire extinguisher above her head, eyes locking onto his exposed scalp as he leaned forward in the throes of vomit laced agony, unable to straighten himself even though, surely, he knew the danger he was in.
She brought the fire extinguisher down, hard.
‘No mercy, Heather,’ she told herself.
‘No mercy.’
He crashed to his knees, paradoxically causing Heather to wince as she heard both kneecaps crack against the terrazzo and, without hesitation she moved her arms back in an arc, preparing to swing the wickedly blunt instrument one more time.
‘Please,’ he groaned, arms held up, seemingly to protect his face even though she stood behind him, nowhere near his face, his confusion apparent in that gesture alone.
`She swung again, the crunching blow sending him sprawling to the floor completely now and, instinctively, he attempted to curl into a ball, adopting the foetus position, arms above his head, legs curled to protect abdomen and groin.
‘Please, Heather, stop.’
His cries for clemency on her part sickened her, angered her more than anything else that he had done since dragging her from the lift and she hesitated for not a single moment before bringing the extinguisher crashing down on his arms, once, twice, in truth aiming for his skull but being fended off by his desperate actions.
She had him at her mercy and she knew it.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he wailed, akin to a schoolboy now, all masculinity stripped away, a pathetic little boy mewling for compassion, but she was in no mood to be mollified and, in her wrath, she knew that this was the moment she would take his life.
Bringing the vicious weapon up once more, she focused her eyes on the only portion of his skull that was visible from her position, intent upon smashing into it with a corner of the fire extinguisher with enough force that, even if not a death blow, it should be more than enough to incapacitate him to allow her to deliver the mortal strike.
‘It was the old man,’ he screamed at her, causing her to pause for a moment. She frowned, curious despite herself, eager to know what could have caused Clive to act in some barbarous a way, if not merely carnal desire.
‘What old man? What the hell are you talking about?’ she yelled.
He blinked up at her, clearly terrified, the tables having been well and truly turned, apparently weighing up whether she was simply lulling him into dropping his guard so that she could crack his skull open like a walnut, or if the request for information was valid.
‘I-I don’t know his name.’
‘Bullshit,’ she yelled back, oblivious to all but that exposed portion of skull bone. ‘You’d better start making sense, you son of a bitch.’
The meaning behind her words was clear and he needed no second invitation, spewing out a garbled series of non sequiturs, terror infecting his tone, lifting it a notch or two and causing him to stutter.
‘I met him.’
‘He made me.’
‘He hates you.’
‘The old man.’ ‘
’14 Lowndes Road, that’s where he lives’
‘Enough,’ she screamed, gleaning little from the information he was providing besides the address, feeling certain that she needed no more, on the verge of reneging on her vengeful intentions when he did a foolish thing: his legs kicked out at her but, too slow, she saw the blow coming and side-stepped before, without pausing for an instant, she brought the fire extinguisher down onto his skull, able to deliver a more crushing blow due to the change in position, feeling something give under the impact, hearing a crunch, somewhat akin to the sound of a roast chicken leg being torn apart by hungry diners, before his body slumped to the floor, utterly still.
Breathless, she simply stared at her handiwork, all emotions blunted, feeling neither relief nor disgust. She watched him for a few seconds longer, wondering briefly whether she had killed him before she saw the steady rise and fall of his chest. She lifted the extinguisher once more. She had seen too many horror movies to simply leave it at that. She brought it down again, a savage strike against his upturned temple and, when she looked down again she saw a stream of blood flowing from his left ear.
Satisfied, she dropped the extinguisher to the floor.
‘You son of a bitch,’ was all she could manage, breath ragged, energy levels dropping now that the crisis situation had come to an end.
She moved away from the body and walked towards the mirrors above the sinks which seemed to dominate the room, large, ornate, utterly ghastly in their vulgarity, but she was not concerned with the ambience of the room, more interested in her own physical appearance and the image she saw reflected back at herself appalled her.
‘Jesus,’ she managed between racking gasps, her lungs intent on claiming as much precious oxygen as their capacity would allow, an attempt by her own body to replenish itself, at least in the short term. She turned from the mirror, glancing once at Clive’s body before moving to the wet room where she stepped into the shower cubicle without even bothering to take a single item of clothing off. As quickly as she could she doused herself with water, allowing the spray to cascade down her clothing, using a combination of hands and the powerful spray to remove as many of the stains from both clothing and her own skin as possible, a cleansing ritual that reinvigorated and soothed to a degree she would not have believed possible. Emerging from the shower, clothes sopping, she shook herself on the spot much as a dog will shake itself when it clambers from a river, simply trying to rid herself of the excess, knowing that only a change into fresh clothing would present total comfort.
Relieved to be at least partially clean again, Heather left the wet room, glancing once more at Clive, his position unchanged on the rest room floor, weighing her alternatives. It seemed she had two options. The first of which seemed the most obvious, the most sensible and the most practical yet she dismissed it after only a moments pause for thought.
Now was not the time for police involvement.
Option two was her plan of attack.
Visit the old man that Clive had mentioned, whoever the hell he might be, for she felt certain that he had been speaking only the truth when he had divulged the scant details about this enigmatic individual, terror being a powerful truth drug indeed.
Visit the old man and not leave until the truth is revealed.
‘’14 Lowndes Road,’ she repeated to herself, wondering if more blood would be spilt that night, pausing only momentarily to claim the keys to the building from Clive’s front pocket. She dashed to the lift and reclaimed her shoulder bag, appalled at both the stench and the sight of the place she had been confined for so many hours, ashamed of herself despite the extremity of the situation.
‘I’m coming for you, you bastard,’ she thought as she unlocked the front doors and left the building.



THEN: August

Though the hour was yet to break seven the perfect blue sky above, cloudless, yielded a sun that already hinted at a searing day to come as the first blush of warmth kissed the land below. He drove swiftly, perhaps too swiftly for roads such as the ones he was traversing and was forced to brake sharply as a Dairy Crest milk float emerged from a side street just metres ahead, the driver clearly considering himself king of this early morning domain, not bothering to glance either way before pulling out and dawdling along the road, pedal to the metal at a flat out fifteen miles an hour.
‘Damn,’ the car driver cursed, flattened palm slamming against the steering wheel in frustration, already late for a rendezvous. Jerking the wheel to the right a little, he hoped to overtake the delivery vehicle at the first opportunity and was relieved when the driver of the dairy van indicated that he was going to pull in. He veered into the opposite lane, chancing a glance at the ginger haired milkman, replete with wiry moustache and NHS spectacles.
‘A real ladies man,’ he thought wryly, self-consciously catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, wondering instantly about how others viewed him. If the situation were reversed, would the milkman consider himself to be the looker? ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge,’ he vowed, aware that it was a resolution he was doomed to break within hours, if not minutes.
A left turn followed by a right turn in quick succession brought him to his destination, the corner of Enville Street and Forge Road and he pulled onto the empty parking area in front of The Royal British Legion, a squat, rectangular monstrosity erected in the sixties when uniformity and ninety degree angles seemed to be a pre-requisite of every construction but which, to the modern observer, presented a truly ghastly spectacle.
‘Where are they?’
He looked at his watch, irritated that he had rushed to get here, had indeed worked himself into a bit of a state in his haste, only to find that the subjects of the rendezvous did not even have the good grace to arrive on time.
He expected better from officers of the law.
A few minutes later, eyes focused unceasingly on the rear-view mirror, he watched as the Panda car approached, crawling along Enville Street, apparently in no rush despite their tardiness and the police car pulled to a halt in the parking bay next to his own purple Montego. The officer in the passenger seat wound down his window, motioning for him to do the same but, instead, he opened the door and clambered from his own vehicle.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
The venom in his tone surprised him and he was forced to remind himself just who he was talking to, a question similar to that going through the mind of the Constable he had addressed so rudely, to judge by the expression on his face.
‘Calm down, Nigel.’
The tone was less aggressive than he might have expected given the severity of his own outburst and, truthfully, he realised that he was not really angry at the policemen for their late arrival, more anxious about the task that lay before them.
‘Sorry, Colin. Just a bit wound up. You know how much I hate these situations.’
From the other side of the vehicle Nigel Heath heard the drivers’ door open and the light scrunch of gravel ground underfoot against concrete before PC Paul Dickinson loomed into view, a six foot four mammoth of a man, almost as wide as he was tall and, instantly, Nigel felt a little better.
‘Paul. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,’ he gushed, prompting a sarcastic ‘Thanks a lot,’ from the occupant of the passenger seat. Feeling foolish, he attempted to make amends.
‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean…’ he began, before catching the eye of Colin Patterson and realising that he was being teased, just a little.
‘You had me going there. I tell you, I’m wound up like a fucking coiled spring.’
Colin blinked in surprise at the expletive.
‘He is wound up. He’s even using the F word.’
Dickinson laughed, a booming baritone and placed an enormous hand on Nigel’s shoulder, making him feel somewhat miniscule, a Lilliputian to Dickinson’s Gulliver.
‘Don’t worry, Nige, we’ll protect you.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
And he meant every word.
‘How’d you want to handle it, Nige?’
‘I was hoping you might tell me that,’ he said earnestly.
Dickinson squeezed his shoulder, a gentle gesture, but one that made him fearful that the man mountain might misjudge his own strength and rupture a ligament unintentionally.
‘I thought that you could go in first and, if you need backup, you call 999 and we’ll be there before you know it.’
Again the booming laughter, this time accompanied by him rocking back a little on his heels as his head lifted skywards and Nigel couldn’t help but be influenced by the infectious nature of the sound, finding himself laughing out loud, eyes glistening slightly in the morning sunshine despite the apprehension that clawed at the lining of his stomach.
‘I don’t think so, Paul. Thanks all the same.’
From within the confines of the squad car Colin Knowles, with an expression bordering on the bored to painful tears said, ‘We’ll do it the same as always Nige. Stop worrying. We knock. We talk. You stand ten feet behind and run for cover if anything kicks off.’
‘Sounds good to me.’

Thomas put up no struggle as the social services removed his children from the family home, happy to see the back of them. Cheryl squealed a little, inevitably, but soon relented when the larger of the two policemen had threatened to arrest her, the promise that she would have frequent access to the children mollifying her slightly.
She blamed him, of course, and Thomas threatened to black her other eye, which put a stop to her complaints.
By eight in the morning, he had polished off a quarter of a bottle of whisky.

RECENT
The old man moved once more up the steep flight of stairs, every bone in his body seeming alive with pain and discomfort, certain that he was not long for this world, simply hoping that he would be able to complete his project before his life force was extinguished else, despite his years, his life would have been lived without purpose. As his right foot found the top step, he pulled himself up manually with his arms, gripping the banister with both hands to aid his upward movement, groaning aloud at the effort, having cause to pause at the top of the flight to regain his breath, taking in shallow lungful after shallow lungful as if the organs were shrinking in his chest cavity, diminishing in size and capacity as surely as his skin shrivelled on his bones. He moved forward after a moment or two, heading for the rear room, shuffling awekwardly toward the door which was locked as usual. He fumbled in the back pocket of his filthy trousers, fresh stains apparent on their surface, the front of his legs sopping wet where the large ginger Tom had urinated on him just a few short minutes ago. The odour was foul, yet Douglas barely noticed, his mind in a place altogether different than his current location rendering his own physicality all but meaningless.
Until he stepped into the room.
He closed the door behind himself quickly to prevent any fortuitous escapees, attempting to straighten his spine slightly, a battle he was destined to lose, but he stretched and strained regardless, eager to rid his limbs and body of the vestiges of fatigue which had invaded his frame during the past few hours, eager to be fully focused and aware for the task at hand.
He shambled forward and made his way to the writing bureau which had never been used to write and dropped into the chair, mentally ticking off the things he would need. He had taken the trouble, earlier in the day, to fetch a few things from downstairs, from within the musty cupboard in the living room and the items were lined up on the desk before him, as well as the book that had been delivered just a few days ago. In addition to these items, he also had need of some waste newspaper, a cigarette lighter and a crucible, as well as the final ingredient.
A cat.
Or more precisely, a kitten.
He leaned forward slightly in the chair, the better to peer into the box which was still housed beneath the bureau, amusement registering briefly on his face as he watched the five small animals scurrying over one another, rolling around together, one even struggling to clamber from the box, the high sides proving just too much effort. Though they were perfectly capable of clambering from their safe haven it appeared that, for the moment at least, he was just too damn lazy to bother.
Douglas bent further forward, plucking the idle one up by the scruff of the neck, straightening his back as best he could and holding the prone creature before him, swivelling his hand slightly so that the kitten turned in his direction, its front paws raised slightly, bent at the elbow, looking a little like it was attempting to do an impression of a dinosaur, pretending that its front limbs were no more than vestigial appendages. The kitten’s back legs swung freely beneath its body and its tail swished agitatedly, a display of annoyance that the old man was glad to see.
It would make the coming task so much easier.
Douglas stuck an index finger forward, jabbing it into the belly of the small animal, watching, curious as it tensed slightly at the intrusive action, unable to move away from the offending digit or defend itself, helpless to endure whatever the old man decided to dish out. He flicked at its nose, shiny and wet, aware of just how sensitive that region is on a feline, delighting by the fact that the kitten screwed up its eyes and, shortly afterwards sneezed once, twice, three times, small explosions of air caused by the irritation to its nasal nerve endings, several times more sensitive in a cat than in a human and, briefly, he considered repeating the action, harder this time but felt that to do so would merely be cruel.
The old man dropped the cat into his lap, holding it in position with one hand whilst pulling himself towards the drawers of the desk with his other, pulling the top drawer open to reveal the contents. He peered inside for a second before retrieving an old, yellowing copy of The Sun, slipping it beneath the body of the kitten by lifting the animal for just a moment by the scruff, dropping it back down onto the paper itself. He slid the first drawer shut and opened the second one of three, gnarled hand reaching inside and producing his own version of a crucible, more an oil burner than a piece of scientific equipment, but it would do the job just as well.
Douglas turned the chair awkwardly, pain lancing at his spine as he struggled and, once facing directly away from the writing desk he allowed himself to slide forward, newspaper and cat coming with him by default, slipping off the chair and onto his knees, holding onto the kitten but allowing the newspaper and burner to fall to the floor completely. With his free hand he opened the newspaper out, his movements clumsy and slow but, eventually, he managed to lay out four separate sheets, two by two on the floor before swivelling at the hip, again letting out an involuntary moan as his sinews and ligaments protested at the awkwardness of the position, reaching behind him for the vials laid out on the bureau that he had retrieved from downstairs earlier in the day. He picked up the burner, peering through the window in its base, pleased to see a candle was still in place, welded to the bottom of the device by previously melted wax. He placed the burner into the centre of the spread out paper and dipped into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette lighter, using it to light the candle. He allowed the flame to burn for a minute or two, not moving, pinning the cat in place against his chest, ignoring its feeble attempts at resistance as well as its high pitched squeals of protest.
Patiently, he waited.
The candle flickered beneath the bowl of the burner and Douglas reached forward now, dabbing a finger at the surface of the ceramic bowl, yanking his hand back the second contact was made, the heat too high to endure for more than that. Satisfied, he turned once more, plucking the book from the desk, dropping it down beside the burner, his spare had fumbling awkwardly with the pages until he reached page sixty three, pressing down on the spine of the book to flatten it somewhat to allow him to move away without the book closing automatically.
Though he had memorised both ingredients and methodology, he still felt better having the book in his presence despite the fact that, without his eye glass, the words were all but indecipherable.
He began.
He dropped the kitten to the floor, showing no compassion, simply letting go of it so that it tumbled through the air and, despite tradition stating otherwise, landed flat on its back, stunned for a moment. It scrambled onto its front and made to escape the situation, but the old man simply grabbed it once more by the scruff of the neck and dropped it back down right in front of him, a process he repeated four times until the infant animal seemed to figure out that, if it didn’t want to be man-handled, best to stay still for now. Removing the lids of the vials one by one, he took a pinch of this, a drop of that, each element added in accordance with the instructions laid out on the page that he had no need to actually read before he reached down once more for the kitten.
He took it by the scruff.
Holding the helpless creature above the burner Douglas took its midriff in his other hand, encircling the animal’s waist before releasing his grip on its neck, bringing that hand around too so that the cat was trapped between both palms. With a sigh of regret, no more, the old man began to squeeze, not wishing to see the look on the animals face as he did so but powerless to resist the urge, a macabre curiosity overcoming him. The kitten’s eyes bulged large as Douglas applied all the pressure he could, snot dribbling from its snout, its mouth open in a silent scream that never found voice.
He squeezed some more.
Blood began to trickle now, mingling with the mucus and, with a pop that made Douglas think of stamping on an orange, something inside the creature gave way and, suddenly, the eyes were blank, lifeless and, beneath its body, fluids splashed down into the burner cum crucible, bubbling instantly on the hot surface.
The old man cast the limp body of the kitten aside and used the bottom of the cigarette lighter to mix his ingredients, giving not a second thought to the animal he had just slaughtered.
Why worry about such trivialities?
He had plenty more where that came from.
An ample supply for his requirements.
The fluids bubbled.
He stirred.
In the box, the four remaining kittens continued to play.

THEN: October

The police patrol car raced through the streets, sirens dormant, the occupants of the vehicle keen not to alert their quarry to their approach. The two policemen within the vehicle were as silent as the sirens, each man preoccupied with his own thoughts, a mixture of emotions, some to be encouraged, some to be either ignored or channelled, transformed into something positive. Anxiety was present in both men, as always in such a situation and, whilst an uncomfortable feeling to a degree it was nevertheless vital for a policemen to feel nervous and apprehensive as such emotions kept you on your toes, kept you alert and, on occasion, such responses ultimately kept you alive.
Paul Dickinson glanced over at his colleague who was chewing his bottom lip absent-mindedly, staring straight ahead, eyes unblinking. Dickinson glanced at the radio, wondering whether he should call in their position, knowing that it was unnecessary, just trying to find something to do to pass the time. He wanted the action to start immediately but knew that procedures had to be followed, the risk assessment having been processed and rubber-stamped by officers far superior to himself. The actions of the next twenty minutes or so were out of his hands and, in many ways, he resented being simply a cog in a machine, yearned for more of a say, more power, the belief that what he did made a difference. He and Colin Patterson were no more than back up, unlikely to get in on any of the action, should there be any action at all. It was Dickinson’s third dawn raid and, on the previous occasions the suspects had been apprehended with little effort. The two prior raids had been for drug related crimes, serious for sure, yet a step or two down the order of severity from the current situation. The house they approached, a mere two or three minutes away, was home to a suspected killer of women, brutal and savage and, as such, every precaution had been taken. At the same time as they travelled the streets towards Beauty Bank, so too did three more specialist units, as well as three other patrol cars. The first unit, the principle method of detention was an armed response team, tooled to the lips with firepower, assault rifles as well as pistols lest the suspect attempt to use force. From reports he had read, in most cases when the armed unit was deployed, it took no more than a couple of shots into the air to subjugate the suspect sufficiently for the arrest to be made. Seldom was a bullet fired at a person intentionally to put them down and, in all his years on the force, he was yet to hear of a police officer being required to shoot someone dead.
This wasn’t the movies.
This wasn’t America.
‘How you doing, Col?’ he asked his companion, more to break the silence than out of genuine concern as he knew precisely how Colin was doing; the same as himself.
‘Ok, Paul. Bit nervous, you know. Just want to get it over with.’
Dickinson nodded, hands clamped tightly on the steering wheel, signalling right to make the final turn into the suspect’s street, unsure as to precisely what they would find when they got there. He swung the car around the corner, no traffic to wait for due to the early hour and was confronted by a mêlée the like of which he had never seen, despite his experience. The armed response unit van was furthest from their vehicle as they approached, black, menacing, seemingly designed to visually represent the threat that it posed. Next was the dog van, a surprising addition to the operation and, lastly, the Operation Support Unit vehicle from the back of which clambered the last two heavily armoured personnel, flak jackets, helmets and shields in place. Dickinson pulled their vehicle over to the kerb a few metres from the back of the OSU van.
‘Holy shit, it’s World War Three,’ remarked Patterson, and he couldn’t help but agree.
‘Who is this guy? Chuck Norris?’ was the question he himself posed and both men simply watched as the operation got under way.

Thomas glared at the clock mounted on the kitchen wall, eyes bleary through lack of sleep, nursing the bottle of whisky in his palm, not bothering with a glass these days, simply swigging it straight from the bottle.
Six o’clock in the morning, he had not slept at all during the night, indeed, hadn’t slept a decent night’s sleep for as long as he could remember. Each time he closed his eyes, all he could see was her face peering up at him from the murky water of the canal, her disembodied skull floating on the surface, eyes locked onto his own, as if she had somehow broken free of the bags in which she had been dumped. He knew it to be an impossibility. She was gone, no longer a part of his life, but still the image troubled him. Her disappearance had not gone unnoticed, obviously and every few nights a news report ran on either on the television or the radio about the police investigation and, most disturbingly, they seemed to be making headway. The bags had been discovered at the canal, though Christ knew how, police divers recovering the grisly find from the muddy depths, television reporters gleefully poring over the macabre discovery, camera’s peering at the scene briefly before the police on site escorted them away. A snatched image of black dustbin bags on the towpath by the bridge at the exact point he had submerged the body parts all the confirmation he needed that they had indeed found the corpse.
The question was, would they find him?
He took another swig, blinking back tears borne of both frustration and fumes.
There was more, too. Tyre marks located near the towpath, imprints taken and, whilst no match had been found, the police felt sure they had an idea of the make of the car based on a combination of tyre type and the approximate weight distribution of the vehicle. A partial fingerprint found in her home and a sighting of a man on the night of her disappearance which, near enough, matched his own description.
It was only a matter of time.
Thomas sat, thinking the same thoughts as he had every night for weeks on end, blissfully unaware that the net was closing around him.
Fast.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The first thing he was aware of was the sound of splintering wood, as the police battering ram smashed through the wooden panelling of the front door. He cried out in alarm, his reflexes slowed by the enormous quantity of alcohol he had consumed, attempting to get to his feet but failing dismally, almost falling backwards off the chair in his clumsy efforts, his whisky sodden mind imagining that it was Monica, back from the dead, smashing her way into his home to mete out her revenge. Maybe she would slice him up into ten pieces, as he had done to her, but she would do it whilst he was alive, using nothing but her bare hands.
He heard barking and, fleetingly, thought that it must be his neighbour, not the Paki family but the other side, annoyed at him for some reason, coming round to set his dog onto him.
‘I won’t do it again,’ he slurred, giggling to himself at his own joke.
The door to the kitchen burst open and two policemen raced in, a third standing behind them in the living room, a large German Shepherd straining at its leash, teeth bared in its jaw, reigned in only by its handlers powerful forearms.
‘Thomas Jenkins, you are under arrest on suspicion of First Degree murder.’

He offered no resistance, allowing the police officers to man-handle him without complaint, the handcuffs nipping at the skin of his wrist but the alcohol content of his bloodstream more than sufficient to act as an anaesthetic, numbing the pain considerably. The policemen escorted him from the house, Cheryl cowering in the corner of the living room, eyes puffy and bloodshot, though the bruises had long since faded.

The trial was brief, justice swift and, in the end, he pleaded guilty to the murder of Monica Stewart, Hazel Childs and three more besides, the evidence against him, once the confession had been given, utterly decisive. Upon handing out the sentence, the judge described his actions as ‘wicked and inhuman,’ and, upon reflection, Thomas couldn’t help but agree.
A life sentence with no chance of parole was the judge’s decree.
In the courtroom, as both verdict and sentence were delivered, Thomas did not so much as blink.

The girls were returned home soon after the trial, their home no longer a place of danger, the threat having been locked up for good. After much deliberation and hours of counselling, Cheryl Jenkins decided never to tell her children the truth about their father and, instead, to fabricate a story to explain his sudden disappearance. Though she felt guilt at being forced to lie, she also felt she was serving her children’s best interests by her course of action as, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

NOW

She reached her car, long strides carrying her over the concrete parking area at pace, the wetness of her clothing initially blocking the freshness of the breeze before gradually absorbing the coolness and passing it through her clothing and into her skin. She shivered as she searched the interior of her shoulder bag, trying to locate the car keys by touch alone, fearful for a moment or two that she had left them inside the building, alarmed at the prospect of re-entering the place even though she felt certain that Clive was now simply a corpse and no longer a threat. She lifted the bag in front of her, opening the flaps as wide as they would go to allow her a view of the inside, spotting the recalcitrant item right at the bottom, plucking the keys up by inserting her index finger through the key ring loop itself. She grabbed the appropriate key from the set as she reached her car, eyes travelling to the smashed wing mirror momentarily before returning to the lock, slotting the key into place and slamming the door behind her.
Her breath escaped her lungs with difficulty, almost having to be shaken free and her shoulders jerked spasmodically a few times and, before she knew it, she was crying ferociously, great gasping sobs issuing forth and she allowed herself to continue for thirty seconds, no more, before striking out with the heels of her palms, bashing her hands aginst the steering wheel a few times, allowing all of her frustrations and aggression to be channelled through them, as if the plastic coated directional device was somehow able to absorb her raging emotions. She struck out again, again, just enough to take the edge of her mania, not wishing the anger and revulsion and horror to dissipate entirely, wanting to keep some in reserve for the confrontation which she now expected and, indeed, was keen to initiate.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, clearing her vision sufficiently to allow her to drive without endangering herself, turned the key and moved off.

Heather turned into Lowndes Road, a quick look at the digital clock on the dashboard informing her that it was two o’clock in the morning.
As expected, all was quiet on the road. She killed the headlights on her car, cruising along at a little under five miles an hour, inching along really, looking towards the houses on her left, checking the numbers on the council issue wooden doors.
Six, eight.
As is the norm on such estates, the house numbers went up in two’s, each side of the road designate either odd or even which meant that from her position, directly outside house number 10, she was only two doors away from her destination. She engaged the handbrake, shutting off the engine and climbing out of the vehicle without pause. She shut the door quietly, guiding it onto its latch then applying pressure, pressing her whole body weight against it so that it shut with nothing more audible than a small click before walking quickly to the pavement. Swiftly now, not allowing herself time to think for fear that any analysis of the situation, however superfluous, would allow sufficient room for fear, nerves and, above all, self-doubt to creep into her way of thinking, she walked towards number fourteen, reaching the pathway cut between two unkempt privet hedges that led to the front door, moving down it without hesitation, reaching the front door and noticing that the path branched off, leading to the side of the property, a more discreet location for breaking and entering, she felt. She moved with more confidence than she truly felt, pausing just for a moment to allow her eyes the opportunity to adjust to the deeper gloom that resided down the side of the house, the hedges and adjacent property acting as a shield to the streetlamps that lit up the front of the building. Eyes more able to penetrate the penumbra, she moved again, locating a second door not at the rear of the property as she had expected but on the side, atop a small flight of three stone steps. She scurried up them, grasping at the door handle hoping that, against the odds, the back door had been left unlocked but it seemed that, whoever it was that lived here was no slouch when it came to night time security.
The door did not budge.
She took a slight step back, careful not to slip off the top step and took hold of the door handle in both hands, pushing it down before barging into the door with as much force as she could muster.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, yielding the same result and her hope that the jamb of the door was rotted through neglect seemed flawed as, despite her best efforts, no sound of wood splintering was evident.
‘Shit,’ she hissed, thwarted momentarily before deciding on a new strategy. She hurried back down the steps and used her palms to hunt beneath the privet hedge that lined the pathway here, too, finding what she sought in only a few seconds, hefting the stone in her palm, climbing back up onto only the second step this time, taking aim carefully before propelling the hefty stone through the air, straight at the glass window that comprised the top half of the door. The window shattered spectacularly, razor sharp shards cascading down to the ground most of which, thankfully, fell inwards but Heather felt a few fragments sprinkle her cheeks, causing her to squint away from the door momentarily lest a stray piece of glass find its way into her eyes. As soon as the din of shattering glass ceased, she sprang up the last two steps, jabbing an arm through the opening she had formed, careful not to cut herself on the few jagged shards which remained embedded in the wooden doorframe. Fingers fumbling blindly on the inside of the door, she let out a relieved breath when she found the key inserted in the lock, turning it quickly, annoyed when instead of releasing the locking mechanism it simply jammed after barely moving a quarter of an inch.
‘Come on,’ she urged, thinking fast, wondering why it was proving so stubborn then realising that, as she was standing on the opposite side of the door, effectively facing the wrong way, the locks operation was counter intuitive, so she turned it the other way to that which felt natural, relieved to hear the tumblers within the mechanism spring open, turning the door handle, flinging the door back on its hinges and bursting into the house.

The old man sat on the sofa, the only sound he could hear besides his own breathing the soft purring of one of the many cats that shared the room with him. He knew that something had gone wrong. Knew that the plan that had taken so many months, no, so many years of planning and preparation had been ruined. What he did not know was how or why. Anger pulsed inside him, a corrosive emotion that ate at his innards, clouding his thought processes, making it difficult to think straight. It had all been so perfect and, to begin with at least, it had all gone so smoothly. Then, something had changed, though he knew not what and events had spiralled beyond his control.
Only one option seemed to remain.
The scrapbook was laid out before him, newspaper cuttings gleaned from myriad sources, though the dates written beside each article were reasonably close together. From memory alone Douglas knew that the final article, near the back of the scrapbook before the blank pages began was dated October nineteen eighty six and, to his knowledge, that was the last time the subject had been written about. It was as if, from that moment onwards, the world simply ceased to care, as if the terrible events of that period had been erased from history.
But he cared.
He remembered.
And he yearned for closure, to complete the circle that began to form some twenty six years ago but, it seemed, the opportunity that he had strived so hard for had been denied him at the last so that now, on this darkest day, his only way out was the oblivion of death.
Besides the scrapbook, on the floor in front of him lay a pair of scissors and, with trembling hands, he picked them up, bringing the object up close to his eyes to better examine the blades. Large, with one serrated edge, they should perform the task admirably though he knew that the pain would be tremendous, the death a long, lingering one, but he felt little fear, the tremble in his fingers the result of age as much as of dismay. On the arm of the grimy sofa was a pint glass, three quarters full of water and besides that a bottle of pain killers, thirty or more still left which he set about consuming, popping pill after pill into his mouth, only able to handle one at a time with his badly shaking fingers, waiting until three or four of the tablets were in his mouth before allowing himself a drink of water to wash them down with. As the bottle emptied, so too did his sadness dwindle as if the drugs he was lacing his body with were having a near soporific effect, numbing him, soothing his aching heart though he knew that no such side-effect was listed for the product. As he was about to pop one of the final pills into his mouth, a sound reached his ears, unexpected, from the rear of the building. As if someone were attempting to gain access through the locked back door and, wistfully, he smiled to himself, knowing immediately who the late night caller would be.
He popped the last few pills into his mouth, not hurrying, seeing no reason to, before draining the glass of water, allowing the medicine to settle in his stomach. Picking up the scissors, he stood with difficulty and faced the kitchen door, content merely to wait.
The sound of shattering glass signalled her arrival and he was keen to greet his guest

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Heather stood on the threshold, a little unsure of herself now that she had actually gained access, a moments indecision all she allowed herself before striding to the door immediately in front of her, pushing it open, finding herself in the kitchen, wincing at the pungent odour that suddenly assailed her nostrils, recognising elements of the stench; part cat, part rotting food, but there were other elements to the acrid aroma that defied identification.
The room was empty.
To her right another door, one that clearly led through to the living room and, from beneath the door she could see light.
The moment had arrived.
She pushed the living room door open, bracing herself for whatever awaited, prepared for an attack but none was forthcoming and the sight that greeted her was just about as far removed from her expectations as could be conceived.
The old man stood in the centre of the living room, surrounded by filth and decay, his posture awkward, almost comic, hunched forward at a pain inducing angle, skin hanging from fragile looking bones wearing nothing but a pair of filthy grey underpants that may once have been white. In his hand he held a pair of scissors, but he didn’t seem to be brandishing them as if hoping to use them as a weapon, it seemed more likely he just happened to be holding them the moment she entered the room.
‘Hello, Heather,’ he said, taking her utterly by surprise and, for a moment, she felt a dizziness washing over her, the sheer oddness of the situation coupled with the fumes of the house combining to send her head spinning.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.
‘I’ll tell you,’ was his simple response.

RECENT
The corpse of the kitten lay were it had been thrown, two of the other infant creatures nuzzling against it as if, by simple encouragement, they could somehow bring it back to life. The old man ignored their antics, not concerned with the behaviour of mere animals, interested instead only in re-enacting the past, drawing on the memories of events that, whilst painful, were now his only means of empowerment.
He sat on the chair in the rear upstairs room, the scrapbook in his hand, a possession he prized above all else for it contained the only historical record of the sequence of events that had brought him to this point in time. From the moment she had been so brutally slain, his destiny had been changed irrevocably and he had been powerless to resist, swept along by impulse and raw emotion. Where lesser men might have conceded defeat, he refused, channelling all of his hatred and anger and desire for retribution into a simple constant and it was this very focus, this potent passion that had been his driving force and, he believed, the only thing that had kept his heart beating for so very long.
As happened every time, reading through the articles in the scrapbook brought the tears, but he accepted their presence gratefully, as an elderly lady is grateful when visitors call by, their appearance soothing, comforting, somehow acting as justification in his mind for the acts he planned to commit. He was not a bad man, just very, very sad.
The tears proved it.
The articles laid out the story in plain English, in simple black and white and there was no denying the power of the tale they told; the beautiful young woman, hacked into pieces by a saw wielding maniac, a man for whom the police, initially at least, had no means of identifying. But he had made mistakes and, after several months the guilty party was arrested and charged, the death of Monica Stewart now a closed file, case solved, move on people, there’s nothing to see here.
But something still remained, something lingered and grew, the old man’s desire for retribution almost a thing of life, possessing him, controlling his every action.
He looked down now at the oil burner acting as his crucible that still sat on the floor where he had left it, surrounded by scrap newspaper, congealing blood, hair and shit smeared over the burning bowl at the bottom of which he had placed a photograph of Heather Jenkins, an object of contact, a focal point through which he could channel his talents. Like a ventriloquist throwing his voice, the old man had the ability to throw his mind, to envelop the will of others and to control what they saw, what they did, even what they thought. The effort required was extraordinary, ageing him even beyond his own considerable years, drawing every ounce of fat from his body, seeming to squeeze the moisture from him, like a hand wringing out a sponge to the point that he was fearful of being rendered nothing but a husk through his own actions. It was a gift and a considerable one, but it was not without a price and he suffered for it now, his health passed well beyond repair by any conventional medicine. As he sought to enhance his own innate gift by recourse to the blackest of magic’s, so too did he take succour from myriad potions and elixirs to lessen the pain he felt, some fashioned by his own hands from ingredients both exotic and mundane, others purchased through the black market, a task made all the easier in the modern, ever shrinking world.
His eyes moved around the room, falling finally on the photograph that adorned the main wall of the room, enlarged and framed in gilded metal.
Monica Stewart stared back at him, young, vibrant, the photograph taken only a few months before her life was cut short so brutally. Next to her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, a grin spread from ear to ear, wearing a party hat was Douglas Stewart as a young man. Father and daughter together, captured in a moment of happiness, a constant reminder of the life that had been lost.

NOW

‘It is a gift bestowed by God,’ Douglas explained to her carefully, enunciating each syllable slowly and precisely as if he were talking to a simpleton. ‘I merely made use of it to punish you.’
Matter of fact, as if the words he were uttering were of the most mundane nature when in fact the very opposite was true.
‘A gift bestowed by God that I may wreak vengeance upon thee,’ he continued, actually smiling as he spoke, his expression making it seem as if he were inviting her in for a pleasant chat and a cup of tea rather than spewing the dark and disturbing words that issued from him.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded, becoming increasingly mystified by his witterings, understanding the words themselves but not the meaning, finding herself becoming increasingly angry, her reserves of strength and mental fortitude all but spent by the events of the evening.
‘Tell me what that means or, so help me God, I’ll….’ she threatened, unable to finish the sentence for the simple reason she had no idea what she could do. Her plan to burst in and strike out at the person responsible was but a distant memory, the very sight of this man, so feeble and pathetic in nothing but his filthy underwear rendering any such thoughts a nonsense, yet still she felt the need for closure, the need to understand what had been happening.
‘You’ll what child?’
He spoke calmly, his eyes seeming to slip away from the present, almost as if he were drugged, his conscious presence transient, here one minute, gone the next, but his voice continued regardless.
‘The seed which gave you life was tainted. You reek of foulness and corruption.’
No edge to his voice, no anger, simply stating facts, no more emotional than if he were reading aloud a shopping list.
She shook her head, utterly confused.
‘Your father, dear,’ he explained as if sensing her bewilderment. ‘He killed my daughter, now I am going to kill his.’
‘What?’ she stammered, some sense coming of all of this, though the things he was saying were impossible.
‘My father was killed in a car accident.’
He tutted then, shaking his head, apparently amused by her statement.
‘Not true, my pretty, not true at all. Your father is a murderer and now, it seems, your mother is a liar.’
‘You’re fucking crazy,’ she informed him, and he simply smiled at her, lifting the scissors up.
‘What did Clive have to do with all of this?’ she asked, eager to know but simultaneously attempting to distract him from his apparent intention. She felt no threat from the old man, certain that she could hold him at bay but was nevertheless reluctant to engage in a physical altercation.
‘Clive?’ he appeared confused for a moment, as if he had never even heard the word before, let alone knew of anyone adorned with such a name, then clarity came. ‘Oh, he was easy, ‘ he remarked, his voice talking on an almost tuneful quality. ‘Lust is the most powerful of all emotions, so easy to control.’ His eyes suddenly cleared, focused on her.
‘He loved you.’
She shook her head, disgusted by the notion.
‘Oh yes, he loved you. He just didn’t know how to express himself properly, the poor thing.’
She felt as if she were losing her mind.
‘The Seven Stars,’ he continued, ‘More luck than judgement. The poor, desperate creature. Like reading an opened book. I simply planted the seed, his own dirty, dirty mind did the rest.’
She grappled with the words, trying to piece it all together, his habit of speaking in clipped sentences making it difficult to form a cohesive whole from his explanations, but she felt she had grasped the general thrust of it.
‘So, you did this? Tonight? You did all of this?’
‘All of this, child, all of this.’
The same melodous pattern to his speech, irritating her beyond reason.
‘Clive, the things I saw in the lift. All this because you think my father killed your daughter.’
‘She understands,’ he stated, as if addressing someone who was not even in the room, or perhaps talking to the cats that acted as spectators to the drama unfolding.
‘But you’re wrong. My father died, years ago. A crash on the M6.’
‘No my dear, you are wrong. Simply read the words,’ he said, pointing the scissors he still held at the scrapbook that lay at his feet. She made no move towards it, very aware of the potential damage the lethal looking blades could inflict.
‘A child of evil deserves no pity.’
And with that he came at her, scissors raised, both hands wrapped around the handle. She side stepped the vicious implement with ease, his movements sluggish due to his advancing years, grabbing the back of his right arm as he swept past her, pushing at him, eager that he not be allowed to spin towards her for, despite his frailty, a chance strike with the scissors could well prove a mortal wound.
‘Stop it,’ she yelled, angry more at the stupidity of his actions than anything else, certain that this simply was a case of mistaken identity, refusing to believe the vile words he had spoken. Still he tried to turn, pushing against her and still she refused to yield, her grip strong enough to keep him in place.
He changed tactic.
Spinning away from her he swivelled on the spot, alarming her by the sudden speed of his actions, causing her to jump backwards into the kitchen, just missing the scissors as they were flung out in her direction, reaching over his hands quickly, grabbing him by the wrists, attempting to turn them, inflict some pain, force him to drop the scissors as, once weaponless, he would be no threat at all.
‘Stop it, please,’ she begged, not wishing to hurt him, not wishing to get hurt herself, eyes locked on the metal blades, trying to prise them from his grasp. He yanked his arms up then, the sweat that slicked his skin acting as lubricant so that his arms came away cleanly, suddenly, causing him to spin, involuntarily this time and, as he twisted, his right ankle wrapped around his left leg, destabilising him so that he stumbled and fell, performing a half pike as he plummeted so that he landed on his belly, a gasp escaping his lungs as he struck the hard surface.
He did not move.
Heather remained motionless, stunned yet still fearful, afraid that he may be trying to trick her. She nudged at him with an outstretched foot once, twice, then kicked him more forcibly and, when no sound or movement was detectable, she leaned down towards him, still wary of a sudden surprise attack.
None came.
She rolled his body over, a task easily achieved due to his slightness of frame and she held a hand to her mouth when she saw the scissors jutting from his body, the fall angling them somehow so that they pierced the left side of his chest, high up, right where she supposed the heart to be. The precision required for such an eventuality was remarkable and Heather doubted, had she intended to stab him in such a way, that she would have been able to, the blades finding the perfect angle to thrust up through his ribcage, jabbing directly into that most vital of organs so that it beat no more.
Her knees trembled, and she was forced to drop into one of the seats adjacent to the kitchen table, nausea threatening to envelop her, but she fought it off, still reluctant to show any sign of weakness despite the horrors she had endured. She remembered the gesture he had made as he had spoken, pointing with the scissors at the scrapbook on the filthy floor and the feeling of sickness quelled, she got to her feet and made her way into the living room. She looked down at the book, remaining standing for a few moments longer, not really wanting to read the words printed on the pages for fear that they would reveal a truth she would rather not know but aware that, for her life to continue with anything approaching normalcy, she had to know the facts.
She knelt.
She took the book from the floor and eased herself back, perching on the edge of the sofa, opening the scrapbook to the first page, eyes scanning the details: a young woman missing, the latest in a series of disappearances and murders that had the local police baffled. Further, the name of the woman, Monica Stewart and a brief description of her lifestyle and appearance, nothing but positive quotations from friends and family. Onward, through the book, another article, this one from the father, pleading with any potential captor to free her and return her home and, as Heather studied the image that accompanied the story, she gasped aloud, the face of the man who had just attacked her staring back at her. Younger, yes, less wizened, yet unmistakably the same man.
Douglas Stewart.
The dead girl’s father.
Proof positive that, in spite of her doubts about his mental condition, the words he had spoken about his own past were in fact true.
A chill went through her, tickling her at the base of the spine to begin with before spreading, icy fingers crawling upwards, one vertebra at a time.
If that were true, then what about….
She could scarcely finish the thought, instead choosing to flick forwards, scanning swiftly, picking out small details, enough to inform her of the salient facts of the articles it contained.
Bags found in the canal.
Dismembered body parts.
Connection sought between this murder and previous unsolved cases.
Editorialising about the total number of potential victims.
Tyre marks.
Fingerprints.
Speculation.
And then, the final article, the moment of truth that tore her whole world from beneath her, sent her mind racing, a vortex of thoughts and emotions swirling, eddying, seeking to pull her under.
A one word headline: Murderer.
And beside it, a single image.
The image of her father, Thomas Jenkins.
Everything she had thought she had known about her existence was thrown into jeopardy, everything she had believed about her father was rendered obsolete by that single, accusatory word.
Murderer.
She did not even bother to read the details, could not even if she had wanted to due to the tears that pooled in her eyes so that she was unaware of his life sentence, unaware that he would never again see the light of day, was unaware that for twenty six years he had been locked in a cell a mere twelve miles from where she had been raised.
Unaware of anything except that her life had been lived beneath a veneer of lies.
Heather stood then, tears dripping from her nose, not even attempting to wipe them away. She thought back, trying to remember anything at all about the man she had thought long since dead and realised only two things could she recall: the arguments with her mother and the administering of punishment when either she or her sister had been bad.
She walked slowly into the kitchen, surveying the room, oblivious now to the foul reek that permeated all around. She stood above the old man, ‘Douglas Stewart,’ she reminded herself, before bending at the knee, leaning forward as far as she could. She placed a single kiss on his brow, tenderly, despite all that he had done to her, despite his filthy appearance, despite his malodorous state.
She stood and left the building.
The drive to the police station would be short.

© Ian Stevens (2012)
Mail me