Blood Bought

by Robin Roughley

  She moved away, the ground suddenly became cluttered with chunks of brick and stone and she took her time making sure she didn't trip or stumble on the debris.

  The roar behind her blasted out, and yet she remained calm, refusing to give into the fear that plucked at her senses.

  'Mine now!' Bartle sounded out of breath, his words gasped, his breathing laboured.

  When she came across the circle of stone, lying flat amongst the tall ferns, she jumped, her booted feet landing solidly on the old mill-grinding stone.

  Bartle lunged after her, his face fixed in a snarl as he tried to grab her. At the last second, she took to the air, leaping off the stone and landing six feet away in a mass of weeds before moving into a roll and coming to her feet in one smooth motion.

  Spinning around, she looked at the man who stood atop the stone, towering over her, the torch shaking in his trembling hand.

  'Gonna fuck you now, you bitch!'

  The woman didn't bother to move, she waited, her body coiled ready to explode into movement should the need arise.

  Then Bartle placed the torch beneath his chin, with the beam illuminating his shadowed face he leered at her.

  'Bogeyman coming to get ya!' he gloated as he stepped down from the plinth-like stone.

  Instead of hitting the ground, his right leg plunged down, and she saw the look of fear snap onto his face as he fought for balance, his arms thrashing at the air, the momentum pitching him forwards.

  She heard him yell and then, screaming, he vanished through the hole in the undergrowth. A second later, she heard the heavy thud as he hit the bottom of the pit.

  With a smile she pulled the head torch from her pocket before tentatively moving forward.

  Placing the strap around her head she clicked it on, aiming the beam downwards. Clem Bartle lay ten feet below, sprawled on a jumble of crumbling red brick and twisted metal.

  She heard him groan as he slowly lifted his head towards her, his eyes blinking in the beam of light.

  'What the fuck?' he hissed.

  She picked up a half-brick from the ground, testing the weight before she looked down.

  Bartle glared up at her, raising an arm against the onslaught of light.

  The smile on her face widened and she took careful aim before launching the chunk of stone downwards. The half-brick hit Bartle's shoulder and he screamed out in pain.

  Stooping down, she picked up another from the small stockpile she had put there days earlier, adjusting her aim as the man below tried to scrabble up the steep incline of weeds and bricks.

  Grabbing the full brick in both hands, she hoisted it high above her head before putting all her strength into the throw. The projectile slammed into the thatch of oiled, wavy, dark hair and the blood flowed, Bartle fell backwards, his eyes fluttering as he crashed back to the ground.

  The woman took her time choosing the next brick, then she turned back to the hole and looked down.

  'I knew you were weak,' she said. 'Why do men like you always believe their own hype?'

  Clem Bartle continued to wave his arms in the air, the Maglite broken by his side, his eyes moving rapidly from left to right as the blood ran down from the gash in his head and onto his brow.

  'You think because you can lift heavy weights that it makes you invincible, but now you know the truth.'

  Bartle never heard the question, his brain was misfiring, his head full of a thrumming noise as the blood continued to pulse down his twitching face.

  The woman opened her mouth but closed it again when she realised that he couldn't hear a word she was saying.

  Edging around the hole, she stood directly over his head and lifted the stone high before hurling it down. The brick crashed through his open mouth smashing his teeth; the edge of the stone buried itself into his nose and lodged in the wreckage.

  Bartle started to twitch, his legs thrashing against the brickwork, his arms slapping to his side as his body went into shock.

  Five minutes later it was all over, the beam of light picking out every detail of his death.

  Reaching up, she clicked off the head torch and turned before walking away, once more her face bore a look of abject disappointment.

  25

  Lasser was walking out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans, his chest bare, when he almost collided with Karen. Dressed in red-striped pyjamas, hair piled on top of her head, she gasped, and her eyes widened when she saw the huge red welt across his chest dissecting the raven tattoo, another matching bruise was visible high on his left shoulder.

  'Jesus, are you OK?' she asked, her hand hovering close to her mouth.

  Lasser felt his face flood with colour as he backed away towards the open bathroom door, the steam escaping from the shower onto the landing.

  'I'm fine.'

  'But what happened?'

  Lasser sighed as he explained about the attack and watched Karen's face turn pale.

  'Right, come with me,' she said.

  Frowning in confusion he followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  She pointed at one of the chairs and he obediently sat down as she opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle and some thick cotton wool before turning back to him.

  'What's that?' he asked, with a hint of suspicion.

  'Witch hazel.'

  'I never bought any of that.'

  'Actually, you did, you gave me the money and I bought it along with the cotton wool.'

  Tilting the bottle, she soaked the wadding and dabbed at the bruise on his shoulder.

  Reaching out, Lasser grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the table, lighting one he blew out the smoke as she continued along the length of the bruise before tilting the bottle again and starting on his chest, her eyes narrowed in concentration, the look of concern still on her face.

  'I'm no expert but perhaps you should get these checked out at the hospital?'

  Lasser rolled his shoulder slightly and grimaced at the pain. 'I've had worse.'

  Karen could believe it as she spotted the livid, puckered scar high on his chest and the six-inch scar running down the back of his right shoulder.

  Lasser took a long pull of the cigarette as he thought of grabbing hold of Odette and pushing her to one side, her eyes widening in shocked surprise.

  Stepping back, Karen placed the lid on the bottle before sitting down facing him.

  'Do you still fancy that curry?' she asked.

  Lasser smiled and shook his head. 'Will it keep till tomorrow?'

  She nodded. 'What about some toast then?'

  Stubbing out the cigarette he pushed to his feet. 'I need some sleep and…'

  The sound of the front door bell ringing stopped him mid-sentence.

  Karen looked along the hallway, she could see a dark shape through the glass in the door, Lasser followed her gaze, scowling as he recognised Bannister's silhouette.

  'Fuck. He's the last person I can be arsed with!' he groaned.

  'Do you want me to get rid of him?' she asked.

  Lasser looked at her in surprise and then he smiled and shook his head. 'It's OK, I can manage that myself.'

  The bell went again, and he headed for the front door reaching it in five long strides, he opened it to find Bannister glaring at him.

  'I want a word with you,' Bannister made to step forward but Lasser didn't move. 'Are you going to let me in?'

  'I'm tired, so say what you have to then I can get some sleep.'

  When Bannister saw the bruises on his chest, he winced as he realised he had underestimated the severity of the beating that Lasser had received.

  'You need to get those checked out and…'

  'Never mind that, what do you want?'

  'I want you to take some time off. I know you defended yourself, but you went too far – you know you did.'

  Lasser's hand tightened on the door frame. 'Those three bastards killed a man tonight and if I hadn't defended myself then I would have ended up the same way. If you try to make me t
ake time off, then I'll go to Carole Henson and see what she has to say about it.'

  He watched as the colour flooded Bannister's face, the anger igniting in his eyes. 'What did you say?'

  'You heard me, I'm getting tired of doing my job and having you threatening me every time one of them ends up with cuts and bruises.'

  'Try and go over my head, would you?' Bannister fumed on the doorstep.

  'I was doing my job, instead of three getting away we have one in the hospital, with any luck he'll be willing to talk, and we can find out why killed Archer.'

  Bannister thrust his hands into his pockets, his face still blasted with anger. 'You could have restrained the man without shattering his kneecap, he's in surgery right now, rush job and all because you failed to control your temper.'

  'I…'

  'And I wonder why that was?' Bannister spat out the question through paper-thin lips.

  Lasser's brow knitted together as Bannister raised an eyebrow.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'You're always the same with every case, Minnie Beddows was killed and it's eating you up inside not being able to catch those responsible.'

  'I'll catch the fuckers,' Lasser snarled in response.

  Bannister shook his head. 'One-man crusade is it, Sergeant?'

  'I never said that.'

  'I want you to take a week off, get away from this town and…'

  'No.'

  'Then I'll see you in Chief Superintendent Henson's office at nine o'clock sharp,' Bannister snapped as he turned and strode down the drive.

  Before he had climbed into the car, Lasser had slammed the front door closed.

  Karen watched him head up the stairs, his feet thumping on each step.

  26

  She stood in the shower letting the water cascade down her face, eyes closed reliving the chase through the woods. She tried to find a moment when she had felt any real sense of fear but sighed as she realised there had been none.

  Flicking the shower off, she grabbed a towel from the rail and started to dry herself, her muscles toned, her body marred by several bruises on her legs and arms.

  Stepping from the shower, she looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror.

  As always, the scars on the top of her legs made the anger rise up through her mind and body. Even after all this time the scars still looked somehow fresh, the skin puckered and angry from where knife had parted flesh. The bruises were down to the exercise routine, the constant miles she ran over rough terrain when she would occasionally fall or slam into a tree. They would heal but the older scars would never leave her. They were there as a reminder of what had happened, and she studied them every day as she stepped out of the shower and again before she got into bed at night. She looked into the eyes of her reflection and saw nothing but fury. She knew her body bore other scars that could not be seen by the naked eye. Her thick hair covered one such scar from where one of the men had smashed the bottle on her head. Though the ones on the inside were the hardest to bear. After the attack she had spent three months in hospital while her broken body slowly healed. The day the doctor told her that she would never be able to have children had been the hardest and for weeks after suicide had been at the front of her mind.

  Her boyfriend, Jonathan, had sat by her bed, week after week, his face wracked with anguish, holding her hand while she stared off into space, her mind locked on the ordeal she had been forced to endure.

  When they had eventually let her home, her mind had still been unable to come to terms with what had happened.

  She could remember the whispered voices of her family as they tried to find ways to help her, but she had simply sunk further into the mire of desperation and despair, her days an agony of the abuse she had been subjected to.

  Twelve months later, Jonathan had found someone else, with lips pressed together, tears shining in her eyes she watched him drive away.

  Over the following months, she had tried to convince herself that Jonathan had left because she could no longer have children, but she knew the real truth. There was a hatred burning inside her, one that encompassed all men, no matter how young or old, no matter their position in life. As far as she was concerned all males had that gene in them, some hid it better than others, but it was there nonetheless, waiting to be activated if the circumstances were right. She started to study the faces of the men in her family and her friends who came to visit, suddenly it was as if she could see beyond the façade to the true male psyche beneath.

  Her father had reached for her hand, but she had snatched it away and seen the briefest flicker of anger in his eyes. She pictured her brother in her bedroom trying to think of the right words while all the time his eyes kept flicking towards her breasts. When he had looked at her she had seen the subtle want in his eyes, when he had nervously licked his lips she had thrown him out.

  It was the same with the councillor she had been forced to see, he had sat nonchalantly in his leather chair, his face full of fake compassion as he tried to get her to talk about what had happened on the night of the attack.

  When she had refused, he had started to make up his own scenario, almost as if he had been there. Then she realised that the attack was forcing men to see her in a different way. It was almost as if they were all telepathically linked, sharing in the abuse that had taken place. And in each face, she didn't see any disgust, she saw a form of twisted need, as if they all had the same dark fantasy hidden deep inside them.

  As the certainty grew she erected the defences, knowing that to carry on with the hatred in her eyes would be counterproductive. The counsellor had started to talk about medication and a stay in a special unit where they could work on her problems on a more in-depth level.

  So, she had changed and put on the mask that allowed her to function in a male-dominated world. The therapist had acted pleased when she started to talk about the attack, though she had also seen the disappointment hidden deep in his grey eyes.

  She had escaped the trap of drugs and questioning and blended back into the real world.

  She had found a job, the smile firmly locked in place as she navigated the daily routine of working in an office.

  The smile stayed in place until she stepped over the threshold of the flat, only then would it crack and splinter before falling away altogether, showing the true woman beneath. She had started to run every day after work in an effort to keep the hatred at bay, her long legs eating up the miles and without even realising it her mind had started to make plans.

  Now, she looked at her face in the mirror and smiled, the mask snapping back into place, showing white teeth and friendly eyes ready to deceive the males she was forced to engage with; as quickly as it came the mask vanished and the fury was back, the smile slipped until her teeth were bared in an all-consuming hatred.

  'Make you all pay,' she hissed as she stalked naked out of the room, her feet leaving wet marks on the hardwood floor.

  27

  Lasser grunted at the pain in his shoulder as he pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the station car park.

  The wind blew over the open miles of countryside, though thankfully for the time being the rain had stopped.

  When he saw Bannister's Audi parked alongside Carole Henson's car he sighed.

  The DCI had got here early, no doubt giving his own version of how things had panned out at the block of flats.

  Flicking on the alarm, he walked over to the doors, his face still set with a hint of pain as his chest and shoulder throbbed with every movement.

  Once inside the building, he turned left and made his way through a set of double doors. Entering the canteen, he headed straight to the drinks machine, counting out some change from his pocket. He was just debating the merits of a hot chocolate versus coffee, when he heard the door swing open, he turned to find Bannister walking into the room, dressed in his usual dark-grey suit, his tie slightly askew.

  'Number twenty-six,' he said, striding across th
e room.

  Turning back to the machine Lasser punched in the number and watched as the cup dropped into the slot.

  Bannister moved to his shoulder. 'How are the bruises?'

  'They're fine,' Lasser replied, handing the drink over.

  'Listen, about last night, I was out of order.'

  Lasser glanced at him before stabbing at the keys again. 'I defended myself and I'd do it again if I had to.'

  Bannister sighed but Lasser ignored him, grabbed his drink and moved over to an empty table.

  The DCI hesitated for a moment before following and sitting down. 'Look, I get that you were in deep shit and truth be told I would have done the same thing. I should not have come to see you last night, but Odette had tried ringing and you were ignoring your phone, so I said I would call on the way home to make sure you were OK.'

  'I told you I was fine, I had a shower and…'

  'What do you make of Odette and her new fella?' Bannister suddenly asked.

  Lasser tried to keep the hurt from his face though he could do nothing about the sudden heat in his cheeks.

  'She told me about the guy and I wished her well,' he said, his voice almost cracking in the process.

  'It's hard work having a relationship in this job.'

  Lasser didn't reply so Bannister glanced towards the window.

  'You never know, they might stand a better chance with him living in the Lakes, it'll mean Odette will get out of the town to see him.'

  'I guess so,' Lasser agreed.

  'Why do you never want to use your holidays and just get away?' he asked, turning back to Lasser.

  'I like it here.'

  Bannister gave him a crooked smile. 'Come on, it's a serious question.'

  'I am being serious.'

  The smile fell from the DCI's face. 'The last holiday you had was over two years ago.'

  'I know when it was,' Lasser replied as the palms of his hands started to sweat.

  'And you went with Odette.'

  'What's your point?'

  'My point is that you might need someone to go with.'