by Karen Botha
My arms are turning to lead and my strength is waning. My left arm hangs dead at my waist. I’m not choking anymore but my eyes are rolling back.
This is it. If I don’t do something, I could die.
I rally, gather all my strength like a ball of rage in the pit of my stomach. With a fierce savagery that only a fight for life can force, in one swift movement I raise my right hand and crash the base of it against Brian’s nose.
It’s enough.
As blood cascades from his nostrils, his natural reaction is to release my throat and put his hand up to protect the damage. And I run. It’s not far, and it doesn’t take me long. But it feels like I’m in a marathon, a never-ending marathon at a speed worthy of a one hundred metre sprinter.
That run for my life is the longest that time has ever spanned. Not daring to slow or look back, I have no idea if I’ll be captured any second so I just push forward turning the blind panic into energy to speed the cycle of my legs.
I burst through the entrance. I hadn’t realised, but I’m choking and crying, spluttering my distress all over the reception as I struggle to shout, “Get Eric! Get Eric!”
He must hear me, because he comes bounding down the stairs, two at a time, “Bloody hell, Lucy. What happened?” He throws his hands to grip his head, his eyes wild. “Where’s Brian?”
I point outside.
“Go find Brian,” he instructs to his team of brutes who instantly disperse through the door.
Adam
I can’t sleep. I know I said Lucy would be fine and I truly believe she will be, but I’m still unsettled. I have half a mind to get up, go over there and make sure she’s OK. I would if I could be certain my conspicuous appearance wouldn’t blow her cover. I don’t exactly fit in down there.
I get up and do some work, but it’s hopeless. I’m hopeless. I’m more concerned with checking my phone that sits beside me, than concentrating on the plan Todd sent over. In the end, I sign it off regardless of my lack of focus and associated lack of understanding. At least I feel like I’ve achieved something. I head over to the TV, that’s about the limit of my attention span right now.
Late night porn is showing. Jeez this is crass. Two women with over-inflated lips press their over-inflated breasts together and expect me to believe that by taking out a small mortgage to pay for the over-inflated chat line, I’ll be able to engage in a meaningful conversation with them; and that my engaging chatter will ensure those two blow-up dolls will want me. The whole set up is ludicrous.
I flick to a different channel. Only one girl this time, blonde hair strung into a pony tail, school blouse open in a wide V at the front displaying a cleavage like none I’ve ever seen on any girl when I was in school. She’s laying front down on the edge of the bed, in what I’m supposed to believe is her bedroom. The alleged girl’s checkered skirt rides up her thighs as she crosses her stocking clad legs.
I know this is purported to be fantasy, but where are the real women who have options and still choose you? Guess they’re not the types you find on these channels. I sigh. I’m bored. Frustrated and starting to get fidgety.
Collecting the remote again, I prepare for more channel hopping when finally, my phone rings.
It’s Eric’s number.
“What’s wrong?” I snap.
“Brian attacked Lucy. She’s OK. But she’d like you to come and collect her.”
“What do you mean he attacked her?” I scream. I’m already rushing to the door, grabbing a coat from the lobby and shoving my feet into my old gardening trainers.
“She went outside to call Paula, and he heard her conversation.”
“What was she doing out there alone?” The garage door whirs up and I speed off down my long gravel drive.
“I’m not sure. The boys have gone out to look for him, but he must have done a runner cos they’re not back yet. They’ll find him cocker.”
“Fucking cocker. You were supposed to be looking after her! How did you not know she was outside?”
“I had to make a call. Listen, she’s OK. But she wants to be home with you and to be honest, there’s not much point her hanging around here now.”
I stab the hands free which had automatically connected, to shut him up.
I stab the hazard lights and abandon my 4x4 on double yellows before stalking into the casino. I don’t acknowledge the thug on the door who steps aside as I burst in. Crashing through Eric’s office door, I’m greeted with a vulnerable Lucy seated on the couch cradling her smashed phone.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy. I should never have asked you to do this. I should never have trusted this imbecile.” My voice raises as I hurl a scathing look at Eric.
“You were supposed to be watching out for her.”
“I was, he replies. “She took herself off outside.”
“If you were watching her, why didn’t you know?” I’m beginning to scream.
“Adam, it’s OK. He was on his phone up here. I could have waited, I didn’t think. I stepped out and then whilst I was chatting I just walked without realising it.”
“You should never have been allowed to go outside on your own. This is not a great neighbourhood at the best of times. Before we start with Brian and his maniac killing spree.”
“It’s not Brian. I’m sure of it. He’s a nice guy.”
Did she really just say that? I swear, sometimes women are on neither Mars nor Venus.
“How can you think that? He tried to strangle you. Have you seen your neck?”
She shakes her head, fingering the bruises by her throat.
“You can see where he held you, for goodness’ sake. He wasn’t messing about. He’s crushed your windpipe.”
She nods. Hangs her head. And I feel sick with regret.
I place my arm around her shoulders, “Come on, let’s get you home. Have you called Paula?”
“No. Not yet. I was waiting for you.”
“What? Why are you waiting for me?”
She looks stunned that I could raise my voice at her. “My phone got smashed.” She holds it up as though this is explanation enough for leaving a likely murderer roaming the streets.
I give her the benefit of the doubt and bite my tongue. She must be in shock. Sighing, I dial Paula. “I hope we’ve not left it too long for her team to find this guy now,” I mutter as I wait for a connection.
“My boys are out there looking for him.” Eric says.
“You’d better make sure nothing serious happens to him, he’s needed by the police,” I spit out.
Eric picks up his walkie-talkie and exits his office.
Mitchell
Mitchell Swain swipes right on his phone whilst waiting for the instant message on his laptop. He’ll have to get ready soon, he’s due out in less than an hour. The stupid bitch isn’t that pretty, anyway. He flips down the lid on his computer and throws his phone on the bed then heads off to search his closet for his olive shirt to team with his skinny black jeans and black t-shirt. He admires himself in the mirror, this look really accents his broad shoulders. He smooths his hand over his dark quiff and heads towards his door where he pulls on his boots. Grabbing his black winter jacket, he pulls up his hood, throws his man-bag over his shoulder and he’s set.
The canal paths on this section are unlit, so although they are peppered with security cameras, they don’t catch him if he keeps his head down. It’s cold and, as much from the temperature as the need for security, he huddles into his clothes and walks fast, head down and hunched forward. It only takes twenty-three minutes he notes on his wristwatch.
He recognises the woman as soon as he walks in. She already has a pink drink in a tall glass with more ice than liquid. She probably ordered the cocktail thinking he’ll pay. Her spine is rigid as she watches the entrance and sucks in her stomach under the skin-tight dress she’s poured those hips into.
She’s not bad looking in the flesh though, an improvement on her out-of-date picture. Mousy coloured hair, lifted away fr
om her face in some kind of bouffant that probably took her hours of preparation before the tendrils which hang down the side of her face were just right. He can see they’ve been curled. Her eyes glint in his direction for a brief second, before sidestepping back towards the bar, pretending she’s not noticed him sauntering over. Liar. She’s so damn agitated, looking outside every time someone so much as walks past, she could say what every person inside and outside is doing at this precise moment.
He kisses her neck before sitting opposite her, “Boo!” he jokes, more to himself than her. He knows she’s seen him, but she still jumps. She wasn’t expecting him to be quite so forward. He likes to maintain the element of surprise. His grin is broad, displaying his whitened teeth. If you want to win in this game, you have to put in the effort.
“Hi, I didn’t see you arrive.” Her cheeks have flushed and she wafts away something imaginary from in front of her face.
“Oh, I just crept in. Have you been here long?”
“No, not long at all. Only a few minutes.” He notices the lie. Her drink is half finished, and the bar is three deep.
“Mr. Smith, your table is ready if you’d like to go straight through?” A slim waitress asks.
“Sure, let’s do that.”
As she stands, he makes a show of pulling out her chair and waiting whilst she tugs down that ridiculously short skirt. Her outfit only looks marginally better once the top of her thighs are covered.
“Ah, thank you.” The lonely woman grins at him, rubbing her palms over the rumpled fabric.
“It’s a pleasure.” He flashes her the grin again.
The waitress shows them to their table, takes their drink orders, (she has another Cupid’s Hope,) and leaves them to their evening for five minutes before returning to take their food order. Of course the woman has fillet steak, and of course it’s well done. Perfectly delicious meat ruined.
“You look beautiful, by the way. I don’t think I had a chance to say that when I arrived. I’m so pleased we could meet up. I would have been sad if I’d missed you after all the fun we’ve had talking online.”
“Oh, well, thank you. That’s so kind of you, you’re pretty hot yourself. I can’t imagine what could have been more important than being here tonight. It’s a shame you’re not in town for longer.”
“I know, but wasn’t it a co-incidence that just a few weeks after us starting to talk, work should send me to Manchester. It’s a gift.”
She giggles, “Oh, you’re just too sweet.”
Fucking sweet! He smiles, which is generous under the circumstances. Sweet my arse!
The food arrives, and she eats like a small pig. He’s ordered the Lemon Sole and dauphinoise potatoes. Without any warning, her fork swoops across the open space between their plates and hacks off a scoop which enters her mouth with an appalling lack of grace. She’s already munching before he’s had time to react.
Clenching his jaw, he asks, “Nice?”
“Delicious. Would you like a chip?” She shoves her plate of red meat towards him, nodding whilst continuing to chew. At least she offered, but no. He shakes his head and concentrates on his fish, formulating his next sentence with care. Placing another morsel of fish in his mouth with the grace of someone well versed in table manners, he observes as wrinkles form around her’s, giving a clue to her age. She looks younger now she’s made up for the evening. Makeup is truly the mask of deceit.
“Where does your husband think you are tonight?”
She gulps, then sips the tap water which the waitress placed on the table. “Out with a friend in Leeds.”
Perfect.
“Not that he’ll bother,” she continues.
“Oh, really?” His breath has quickened, but she’s too busy eating to notice.
His date shakes her head, but doesn’t elaborate. He wants to know the answer but can’t be bothered to get into the whys and wherefores of her marriage. He doesn’t want to hear her bitching.
Instead, he steers the conversation round to the topic he does want to cover. “So, your brother is in the army then?”
“Yeah, I think he’s an idiot, personally. I said that the other day didn’t I? But he is. For what he gets paid by the government, he could be earning double or more for a private company without the risk to his life.”
“You did say that the other day. I didn’t realise you really meant it though.”
“Sure, why would you risk your life and not get paid handsomely?”
His blood boils and Mitchell requests the bill as soon as they finish their main courses.
“No dessert for you today?” the waitress asks.
“No, we have other priorities for tonight.” He winks at his guest, she giggles as her eyes hit the floor.
“I won’t be a second, I’ll nip to the ladies,” she says.
It’s not a big surprise that she finds an excuse to leave the table just as payment is due, but he leaves her to it and pays in cash before pulling a couple of pre-crushed sleeping pills out of his bag and mixing them in the remainder of her drink.
When she waddles back, he says, “Drink up.”
She’s touched up her lipstick, and it leaves a sticky pink rim on the edge of the glass a she drains the liquid.
They fall quiet as they step outside. In the normal scheme of things, if he found this woman attractive, then they’d amble along, building the foreplay as they walked. However, there’s no time for messing about. Mitchell checks his watch. Already ten minutes down, which means they have to get back to his barge three minutes faster than he walked here on his own. And she is wearing God damned heels.
It’s therefore no surprise when she starts to yawn when they’re about five minutes out.
“I’m sorry. I’ve suddenly come over tired,” she says.
“Don’t worry, you’ll wake up when we get back.” He puts his arm over her shoulder and speeds her along. She nuzzles into the crook of his arm, missing the point entirely.
“Come on, I want to get you inside where it’s warm. It’s freezing out here.”
She nods, yawns again but increases her pace to keep up with his.
Mitchell
She makes a scene getting on the barge, not because Mitchell did anything to provoke it, but merely because he lives on a barge. She didn’t think to ask how he ended up taking his barge on a work trip, but was more interested in the issue of stepping over the water in her tight skirt.
“Go into the bedroom, I’ll fix you a drink.” He bobs down as he opens the door to show her into the compact space.
“This is lovely, it’s so tidy for a man,” she shouts through to him.
“Everything has a home, it’s the only way to live in a place like this.”
And still she doesn’t work out that he would have struggled to get up here on a barge from wherever the hell it was he said he lived for a business meeting. She’s quiet. He hopes she’s fallen asleep, but if she hasn’t, the strong dose of brandy he’s pouring should finish her off.
In the event, it’s superfluous. She’s sound asleep when he returns with an eager smile plastered on his face and a glass in his hand. There is a second where he notices the soft curves of her face, and in that moment, and only in that fleeting second, he feels sorry for her. But then he wipes that thought clear, she deserves this. He’ll let her sleep another half hour first.
Whilst he waits, he sips the drink he prepared for her, standing over her sleeping body, savouring the burn of the acid on his tastebuds. It’s not like she’s a uniquely bad person, she’s the same as so many out there. This woman just got unlucky tonight. She met the wrong guy online and fell for way more flattery than is appropriate for a middle-aged accounts handler with a dog and a husband who thinks she’s in Leeds.
I mean, really? Why didn’t she spot a red flag right there and then? Mitchell is at least fifteen years her junior and has no issue in admitting he’s not bad looking either. Would he really go for her, in any other circumstance than this? Eve
n if he were into older women like he said, there are plenty of better looking examples out there.
When he’s sure she’s not going to wake up, he ends it. It doesn’t take long. A simple pillow over the face whilst seated on her chest. She struggled a bit, but nothing that was ever going to be a problem for him. He just caught her arms under his knees, she didn’t stand a chance. A few minutes and job done. Another stain on society is wiped clean.
He twists the key in the barge’s ignition and presses the button to start the engine which grumbles into life. Once he has the ropes untied, he kicks the lever up to start and begins his twelve hour journey.
Coming from the east, he approaches the old mill he’s found. The low sun catches his eyes, blinding his vision, but he could swear he saw movement around the derelict factory. There it is again, something flashes. He calms the motor and bobs around as he observes. If only he had a dog, he could jump off and walk down, see what was going on with more clarity.
There are definitely people milling around. He sets off, adopting a calm position at the bow, baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. As he draws closer, Mitchell spots the cause of the flashing. It’s the windows of emergency vehicles catching the light from the winter sun as they’re opened and closed. Bodies are being transported. Hmm, didn’t take them long to get discovered this time around.
But, now what?
Mitchell takes a lung of air, and breathes it out, slowly, releasing a whistle.
‘Think, Swain. Where can I dump this stack of bodies so they’ll be discovered and laid to rest?’
Chugging past police procedures in full swing, he has no issue in craning his neck for a better look. That is what anyone in his voyeuristic position would do, he just needs to ensure he doesn’t show his face. There’s not much going on that will help with his impending decision though.
He sails on for a good hour before feeling confident enough to pull over and formulate a new plan. Berating himself for not having prepared for this situation, anger at no-one other than himself rages like a tornado bomber through from his stomach, manifesting out of his mouth in a terrifying roar.
