Soul Destruction: Unforgivable

by Ruth Jacobs

  Shelley declined. She sat down on one of her wooden, folding chairs and lit one of her own stronger brand. She knew why she’d asked Tara to come, and she knew Nicole did too. Although she was aware there would be awkwardness, she’d thought they’d put their differences aside. And earlier there wasn’t a problem. It had only started once Tara was drunk.

  ***

  “He’s awake. I need his drink, babe?” Angel came running into the lounge.

  “Oh shit, I forgot. I’m on it.” Shelley stubbed out her cigarette in the black, stolen-from-a-pub ashtray and got to her feet.

  “Why don’t we make him overdose on roofies? Do you think we’ve got enough?” Nicole asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how many it takes.”

  “Give him what’s left and see what happens.” Angel walked towards the door then added, “Can you bring it in? I can’t leave Tara on her own again. She’s out of it.”

  Shelley walked down the hall and into the kitchen where the early morning sun was streaming through the window above the sink. She didn’t want to let him go so early. He won’t suffer if we do it like that.

  “It won’t take your pain away,” replied a voice from the board.

  Having selected the grimiest mug she could find, she looked by the bottles of alcohol for the Rohypnol. She couldn’t see it, so she shuffled them around on the work surface. Within moments, it became apparent that the paper wrap, which she’d made to store the tablets, was missing.

  “Have you seen the roofies?” She shouted to Nicole while widening her search to the sink and the rest of the work surface.

  Nicole came into the kitchen. “Yeah. They’re on the side, in front of the bottles.”

  “They’re not. Look. It’s not here.” Shelley turned her palms. “Where the fuck I have put it?”

  “It’s there. I saw it when I made the tea. They were in that wrap, weren’t they?” Nicole took over from Shelley shifting the bottles around on the worktop.

  “Yeah, they were, but where the fuck is it now? What the fuck have I done with it?” Shelley drove her fingers into the hair at her temples.

  In order to look in the cardboard box, which she’d used to carry the drinks, Shelley had to crouch on the dirty vinyl. As she did so, she glanced to the side and there she saw her body trapped under the rapist.

  Agony poured into her from the dark cloud hovering above. Then the feeling of suffocation returned until she remembered to breathe. When she got to her feet, she felt shorter. Shorter and thinner. If only she could disappear like that.

  ***

  Shelley and Nicole abandoned their search for the Rohypnol mid-morning and returned to the cellar. The rapist’s muffled groaning echoed in the room. In Shelley’s mind, it took over from her own internal screaming.

  The malodour of dead rat seemed to mingle with something even more offensive. When Shelley approached the rapist, she realised what that was. In her anticipation of the proceedings, she’d omitted to factor in bodily eliminations.

  “Where’s his drink, babe?” Angel asked.

  “I can’t make it. We can’t find the roofies.” Shelley retched and backed off to stand farther from the rapist and closer to the staircase. “This is gross. I can’t stay in here.”

  “You’re not the one who’s been breathing this in for hours. I swear it’s damaging my lungs,” Angel said.

  “Let’s fix him more secure and get out. This has gotta be bad for our health.” Shelley walked over to the brown tape that lay on the concrete near the rapist. She held out one end to Nicole.

  “I don’t think he’s going anywhere, love.”

  “There’s no point risking it, is there?” Shelley said.

  Bound in the wide, brown tape on top of his shiny wrapping, the rapist looked like a parcel. Shelley walked over to the stairs where Tara was asleep on the floor with a bottle of Stolichnaya clutched to her chest.

  “Wake up.” Shelley shook Tara’s shoulders, mindful her friend’s face didn’t rub against the splintered step it was resting on.

  “Tara...You fucking crackhead, wake up,” Nicole shouted in her face.

  “Stop. You’ll scare her.” Angel pulled Nicole away.

  “You sort her out then. I’m done with her.” Nicole stomped up the creaking staircase.

  “Has she said anything to you?” Shelley asked Angel once she heard Nicole’s footsteps walking over the hall above them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. She’s in a weird mood, that’s all.” What a stupid thing to say! Why did those words come out? Of course, she’s in a weird mood. Angel didn’t look concerned by Shelley’s comment, but what she’d really wanted to ask was whether Nicole knew that she’d lied to her about Angel’s gender, but she wasn’t confident to ask either of them outright. She was aware that Nicole’s mood could easily be justified by the current situation as it was – discovering her best friend was a junky who had no Rohypnol and couldn’t find the gun.

  Shelley slipped her hands under Tara’s armpits and Angel lifted her feet. With Angel walking forwards and Shelley backwards, they carried her up the stairs and into the lounge. Shelley scanned the carpet for a clean section on which to deposit Tara. There were none, so she opted for an area under the bay windows where the intensity of stains, dust and dirt was closer to that found in Tara’s own flat – not yet as bad as Len’s house.

  “I bet she’s fucking taken the roofies.” Nicole pointed at Tara.

  “No, she didn’t. She wouldn’t,” Angel said. “She’s drunk, that’s all. She’s polished off a whole bottle.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. Look in her pockets.” Nicole went over to Tara, knelt down beside her and reached for the pocket of her jeans.

  “You can’t do that.” Angel took Nicole’s hand and gently guided it away from Tara. “Believe, she wouldn’t take them.”

  “We have to do something. What about GHB? He could overdose on that. Or heroin. You could inject him,” Nicole suggested.

  “The GHB’s finished and I haven’t got enough heroin.”

  “What about bleach? We could inject him with that.” Nicole said.

  “There isn’t any,” Shelley replied.

  “Something else, then. Flash, Mr Muscle, whatever.” Nicole threw her hands in the air.

  “There’s nothing. Fairy Liquid, shampoo and shower gel.”

  “Would that kill him?” Angel asked.

  “Probably, but if it clogs the needle, we’re fucked. I’ve only got one.”

  “Suffocation. That’ll be—” Nicole began.

  “Too quick and peaceful for that cunt,” Shelley said.

  While Nicole and Angel discussed ideas, which kept leading them into dead ends, Shelley wondered when she’d be able to speak with Nicole about what she’d said in the garden. She needed to know how much Nicole knew of what happened at The Lanesborough. How much had she told her? And while they were on the subject, she may as well find out if the conversation she recalled at Tara’s had ever occurred. If it had, she couldn’t think of a reason why Nicole had never mentioned it before.

  As her thoughts wandered, she recalled the girls she’d met on jobs through Marianne, and others she’d met in Marianne’s flat. The thought that Marianne had sent that animal to all those girls – it was incomprehensible.

  “I’ll do it... I’ll stab him,” Shelley said.

  39. Dressing Up

  On the bathroom floor, Shelley measured out her remaining heroin. There was enough, most probably, to kill the rapist but she’d have to use it all. Therefore, there wasn’t enough because she’d need a hit before administering his lethal injection and she’d need one after, before embarking on the onerous task of removing his body.

  Would there be enough to kill him and leave her with one hit? She remeasured. No, she’d need to use all of it to be sure and it would be a waste of her heroin if she gave him any less and he didn’t die.

  She took the works, spoon and citric f
rom her handbag and began preparing a shot. As she heated the underside of the spoon, her mind was invaded by the tape that had been recorded last night. Although stabbing him would be unpleasant, because of the risk of being spattered with his blood, there could be some satisfaction to be had.

  With the filter in the spoon, she pressed her needle against it and drew up the brown liquid. She pulled her sock halfway down her foot and inserted the needle into a skinny vein, which was the fattest she could find. Too much pressure had been applied and the vein blew. Part of the hit was wasted.

  In the knowledge she only had enough gear for two more hits, she cooked up another. When the syringe was full, she looked for the best vein. None were ideal. To avoid another accident she decided to go for the vein on the back of her knee that hadn’t been touched for a while.

  She pushed herself off the cold, bathroom tiles and stood with the syringe in her hand. She twisted at the waist, bent at the knee, and bowed sideways. Fighting the pain caused by contortion, she manoeuvred her arms lower in position to insert the needle.

  Her impersonation of a gnarled tree made it awkward to pull back on the plunger, but she managed. Then, as she slowly exerted pressure, she felt the power behind the rush of her penultimate hit.

  ***

  When Shelley roused, she was still in a half-dream; she was walking around wearing jumble sale clothes. Genius idea, she thought as she opened her eyes and reached for her cigarette packet. She took a few puffs then flushed the cigarette down the toilet.

  In the hall, she looked through the doors of the bedrooms until she found the room with the double mattress on the floor and the sea of papers and worn-out clothes.

  On finding an oversized and holey white T-shirt, she pulled it over her head. Then she picked up a pair of over-washed, black cotton trousers. Once the trousers were at her waist and falling off, she realised they weren’t a good idea and slipped out of them.

  Rummaging further through the pile, she found a greying-white men’s shirt. With that buttoned up over the T-shirt, it would provide a shield for the holes.

  Using another T-shirt, she covered her hair and face. Although, after trying it for size, she took it off. Before it was operational, she’d need to cut out spaces to see.

  On the bedside table, she found a biro. She poked two holes through the T-shirt for her eyes, one for her nose, and a fourth for her mouth. She put the tight neck of the T-shirt over her head and tied the wide hem in a knot in the position of a high ponytail. After some minor adjustments, widening the holes to reach their required positions, she was ready.

  The dilemma of what to do in relation to protecting her own jeans remained. She went into Len’s room to check his wardrobe. There was nothing of any use hanging up, but among the heap of clothes on the bottom of the wardrobe, she caught sight of a black belt poking out.

  Wearing a pair of stonewash jeans too wide and too long for her, she threaded round the plastic-imitating-leather belt. At its tightest fastening, she realised there weren’t enough notches in the belt. To secure it, she tucked the free-end under a section on the side of her waist. With the hems of the jeans rolled up a few times, she was ready to go down.

  ***

  “Are you planning on haunting him to death?” Tara asked Shelley in the lounge.

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to say anything. What the fuck were you thinking getting drunk like that?” Nicole looked angrily at Tara.

  “I needed a drink. That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Was it just the vodka or did you take the roofies? Tell me the truth, Tara.” Shelley took a seat on a folding chair near the bay windows where Tara was sitting upright on the carpet in the same spot Shelley had left her sleeping a few hours ago.

  “How can you even ask me? I expect that from Nic, not from you.”

  “Where else could they have gone?” Nicole shouted.

  “Don’t start on that again. She said she didn’t take them and I believe her.” Angel walked into the lounge and sat on the folding chair to the other side of Tara.

  “It’s just odd, isn’t it? I mean where—” Shelley was cut off.

  “For the last time, I didn’t fucking take them and I’m not staying around for you to pick on me.” Tara glared at Shelley. “You’re the one who’s fucked up. They’re aiming a rifle at me! We're under siege! You imagined you fucked your punter to death."

  “That wasn’t my—”

  “Leave it, Shell.” Nicole stood in front of Shelley, took her hand and dragged her into the kitchen. “Don’t talk about that with her.”

  “What are you on about? She was out of order.” Shelley took one of the clean glasses she’d brought with her and poured herself a gin.

  “You don’t need to talk about that punter with her. She doesn’t know. She thinks you were hallucinating.”

  “What the fuck? Who the hell is that?” Shelley walked out of the kitchen and peered around the corner to see the front door. There was a shadow through the glass of someone too big to be the quidnunc neighbour, but it could be her husband. It could be anyone. Shelley’s blood felt like it was panicking as it raced in her veins.

  She heard what sounded like the clunking of keys. Then she watched as the door was pushed open. She ran back to the kitchen to hide, but there was nowhere.

  “Shhh.” Shelley stood by the fridge. She put her index finger to her lips and looked at Nicole with wide eyes. Tapping footsteps crescendoed in her ears.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Shelley shouted.

  “I was down the Grove but then I fucking— Why am I telling you? I don’t need to tell you. This is my fucking gaff,” Len slurred.

  “Yeah, and you’re not supposed to come back until I say.”

  “Chill out, Shelley, man. You ain’t no estate agent, are ya?” he said, coming so close she could taste the beer on his breath. “If you wanted a fancy dress party you only needed to ask.”

  “This is a private matter.” Shelley put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him out of her personal space.

  He staggered backwards out of the kitchen and stopped partway down the hall. “By the way, I want my jeans washed and ironed before I have ’em back.”

  Shelley was surprised he’d noticed. Not only was he clearly drunk but also his wild eyes indicated drug use, and the darkness around them, that he hadn’t slept. The palm tree sprouting from his crown, however, and the mud stains on his jeans and leather jacket could betray a night spent in a park, possibly inclusive of a fall from a bench.

  40. The Gun

  Two hours later, at five o’clock, Len was still asleep upstairs and Shelley and her friends trapped in limbo in the lounge. The revised plan was for Shelley to talk Len into leaving the house with her, so that one of the others could kill the rapist. However, the improvised blood-splatter protective clothing, which Shelley had been wearing, lay on the lounge floor unclaimed.

  The problem was posed by the final part of the plan – body disposal. Firstly, it would have to be undertaken in the middle of the night and as none of them knew the length of time it took for rigor mortis to set in, there was consensual concern regarding its potential to prevent, or at best hinder, the malleability and manipulation of the body. Secondly, it required four of them to carry the body; it had already been established that with three, the body could only be dragged. Therefore, Shelley had to come up with a scheme not only to get Len out of the house, but also to keep him out and allow her to return.

  “Can you hear him?” Shelley picked up her faux-fur coat.

  “You don’t need that. Look outside.” Nicole pointed to the window. “Just go.”

  Shelley listened to the footsteps getting closer. She walked into the hall, carrying her handbag. Even if she couldn’t get him out, it would be a good time to visit the bathroom.

  “How long’s this party going on for?” Len asked Shelley by the foot of the stairs. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “We had a deal. Five-hundr
ed pounds for one night, isn’t what it was.”

  “Something happened... It was coming on top. I had to come back.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t mean— It’s nothing. Look, Shelley, man, this is my—”

  “Can you score for me?” Shelley grabbed the sleeve of Len’s brown leather bomber jacket and pulled him towards the front door.

  “Back up, love. It’s in my pocket.” At the front door, Len pulled his arm free from Shelley and then lurched his way into the kitchen.

  Shelley chased after him. “Not here. Not in front of my friends.”

  From his position by the draining board, Len curled his hand around the edge of the worktop and propelled himself out of the kitchen, gaining velocity from his swimmer-like push-off. He stopped at the undersize door opposite, his fingers on the gold handle.

  “I don’t wanna go in a fucking cupboard. For God’s sake, come upstairs.” Shelley walked to the staircase, hoping Len was behind her. When she turned, she saw that he wasn’t. “Come on. Hurry up.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Don’t fucking speak to me like that.” Shelley retraced her steps until she was outside the kitchen. In front of her, she saw Len kneeling. His head was cradled sideways in his arms and his arms were resting, opened flat, against the small door.

  ***

  “Listen, can you hear that?”

  “I can’t hear anything,” Shelley said. “You’re tripping. Have you seen the state of your eyes?”

  “There’s something down there and I know what it is.” Len turned the handle. “I’m going in.”

  “There’s nothing there. Come on.” Shelley tugged at his sleeve, but he didn’t move.

  “Unless you wanna see ratty’s mate, you best go in the lounge,” Len warned. “This is the fucker that won’t die with poison.”

  Shelley sprinted into the lounge and frantically waved her arms in the air, signalling for her friends to come close. Huddled in the centre of the room, she whispered into the space between them.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Nicole said.