by Anton Palmer
“Yes, he’s fine now…oh, apart from his knee. His knee sometimes plays him up if he’s spent too much time on his feet.”
“What about medication? Is he on any tablets?”
“No. Just over the counter pain killers now and then.”
“Hmmm…well it seems to me,” the officer darted a glance at his computer screen as if double-checking the name, “Miss Jenkins that Mr Davies is a grown man who doesn’t seem to fit the criteria of being vulnerable in any way. “
Lisa pressed against the desk, leaning slightly forward, “So what are you saying? That you’re not going to look for him?”
“The thing is, Miss - as I said, he’s a grown man who’s free to come and go as he pleases.” The sergeant noted the look of dejection on Lisa’s face and softened his voice a little, “Are you sure you’ve not had any problems at home that might be playing on his mind?”
“No, nothing like that. We’re happy!”
“Could Mr Davies have been worried about something, perhaps? Maybe he needed to get away for a bit and get things straight in his mind before coming home to tell you. Money worries, maybe?”
Lisa shook her head in despair, the tears she had valiantly sniffed to defeat a few moments previous suddenly flowing freely down her cheeks.
The officer pulled a tissue from a box on his desk and offered it to her.
“In my experience, Miss Jenkins, most people who take off like that usually return within a day or two, but I’ll put the word out – as he’s on foot it’s possible he hasn’t got too far…do you have a photo of Mr Davies at all?”
“Oh, yes…” She dug a hand into a rear pocket of her jeans and pulled out a snapshot from the previous Christmas. “He’s got a paper hat on – is that ok?”
The sergeant scanned the photo. “This’ll do nicely. As I said, I’ll put the word out, check the local hospitals - just in case… “
Lisa took a step back, feeling suddenly sick at the mention of the word ‘hospital’.
“I’ve got your phone number so I’ll contact you if we find him – but, I must warn you, if he doesn’t want us to tell you where he is then all I can do is let you know that he’s safe…”
Lisa nodded her head forlornly, acknowledging the possible outcome.
“And if you hear from him, please let us know so that we can ‘stand down’ as it were.”
17
When Bob woke and his senses began to clear a little the first thing he was aware of was the soft hiss of burning gas and the bubbling of water in a pan, but only as he raised his throbbing head to look towards the source of the sounds did he begin to realise his predicament.
He suddenly remembered opening his kitchen door.
Remembered the bacon sandwich.
Then what?
He screwed his eyes tight as he attempted to drag the memory from the groggy recesses of his concussed brain.
Oh, yeah – the stranger; with the piece of wood…
His head pounded harder as if confirming the recollection. Attempting to raise a soothing hand to his throbbing temple, Bob found his arms were held fast. He raised his head once more.
Roger was leaning against the stove, staring at his captive, waiting for him to speak. He had already decided that he wasn’t going to utter a single word in return to the fat fuck secured to the table. No matter how much Bob begged, pleaded or screamed Roger wasn’t prepared to waste a single breath on explanations - he was just going to take care of business – inflicting excruciating agonies on the twisted heap of blubber before despatching his sick soul straight to Hell. He smiled as he watched Bob tug at the bonds that secured his limbs, and, as he saw the dawning of reality creep across the flabby face, he knew it was time to get to work.
Leaving the pan of boiling water bubbling merrily on the hob, Roger flicked the cigarette lighter he had found in Bob’s trouser pocket. Twisting the little cog to turn the flame up to the max, he grinned as he held it in front of Bob’s eyes. The fat man twisted his head to one side, fearful that his captor was going to thrust the flame into his face.
Roger released the switch and the flame died away.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
Bob’s first words.
Roger was surprised it had taken him this long to ask what was going on but he suspected that Bob knew precisely what was happening – that his chickens had finally come home to roost, his crimes coming back to bite him in the ass.
Roger said nothing – although, it was more difficult than he imagined – resisting the urge to tell Bob that he knew all about his sick perversions and the atrocities he had committed; but he bit his tongue and stuck to the plan.
Bob’s genitals were dangling over the end of the table, exposed and vulnerable. Despite his hatred for the man, Roger couldn’t help but be a little envious of his endowment: his scrotum sagged a good six inches, weighed down by a pair of balls that wouldn’t look out of place on a tennis court and his circumcised penis, even in its flaccid state would give Roger a run for his money at his most engorged.
Mother Nature was a cruel bitch, he thought – why waste tackle like that on a hideous creature like Bob? But then again, back in caveman days, long before trans-fatty acids, processed sugar and takeaways, Bob would not have been the bloated specimen he was now – fit, toned and naked with his appendage swinging as he walked, he may well have been the alpha male – with his pick of the females. And with no concept of romantic lovemaking - just animal-like rutting – he would have been in his element.
Perhaps Bob was just a victim of modern food trends and 21st century social niceties?
As if sensing a potentially sympathetic swing, the voices again filled his head while unseen hands tugged forcefully at his innards. Roger dropped the lighter as he was forced to his knees, visions of the suffering that Bob had inflicted filling his inner eye and burning at his nerve endings. Sweat sheathed his skin as any sympathy towards his victim was instantly banished through his soaking pores, and, job done, the voices faded as the pain in his gut withered away.
He picked up the lighter from the stained lino on the kitchen floor and flicked it back to life as he rose to his feet.
Bob strained, lifting his head to see what his captor was doing. His eyes widened with fear, lips quivering as he watched Roger slowly lower the lighter towards his naked genitals.
Roger held the flame beneath Bob’s unsheathed glans, watching with glee as the heat quickly reddened the flesh, Bob’s screams echoing around the kitchen. Roger’s grin grew wider at the sounds of his victim’s agony and the sight of his limbs thrashing in their secure bonds - and he was suddenly aware that this was a pleasure shared as the voices in his head returned, gratitude radiating from the mashed up melee of words, his own penis filling with blood, throbbing harder than he could ever recall, the nerves in that sensitive organ registering the sensations of being someplace welcoming, warm and wet: his encouragement, his reward…
Roger waved the burning lighter around, ensuring every bit of Bob’s exposed glans felt its heat. The volume of the voices in his head rose and his penis swelled with pleasure as the bright orange flame ate at the opening of the fat fucker’s urethra, the unblinking eye weeping a tear of yellow pus as the flame burned deep into flesh.
The heat of the lighter’s flame was starting to burn Roger’s fingers and he was finally forced to release the switch, shutting off the gas.
Bob’s screams died to whimpers along with the flame and, as his seared penis oozed pus and other fluids onto the filthy floor, Roger took the pan of boiling water from the hob and held it beneath Bob’s scrotum, slowly raising it until the saggy sack skimmed the bubbling surface.
The room once again echoed to screams of agony and Roger lowered the pan. Bob’s face had turned pale and clammy, sweat dripping from his forehead as he tried to bear the pain. Roger grinned at him then raised the pan higher, fully submerging his victim’s testicles in the boiling liquid.
Bob’s body bucke
d and jumped on the table, almost lifting his scrotum out of the water and splashing the scalding fluid onto his tormentor’s hand.
Roger hissed through his teeth and quickly replaced the pan on the lit hob. After searching around, he retrieved the piece of the gate from the floor and worked at the exposed nail - twisting, tugging and wiggling until it finally broke free of the wood. He held the rusty piece of iron aloft for a second like some kind of trophy before pressing its corroded but still lethal point against the skin at the top of Bob’s ball-sack. Using the piece of wood as a hammer, he pounded the nail through the flesh and into the table, holding the wayward scrotum firmly in place.
Discarding the piece of broken gate, he retrieved the pan from the stove, the water back up to boiling point and plunged Bob’s testicles into the steaming bubbles. His victim screamed and cursed, twisting his head from side to side as his bloated body bucked and bounced on the table to no avail – his nailed scrotum remaining fully submerged in the scalding water.
Roger held the pan in place for several minutes, watching as the coils and tubes inside Bob’s scrotum visibly undulated with the heat, writhing like a sack of frenzied snakes. Only when the water had stilled, its boiling heat dissipated did Roger remove the pan, placing it back onto the hob.
Searching through Bob’s kitchen drawers, Roger found what he was looking for – a pair of scissors. He opened the handles – the blades were dirty and scraped against each other but he was satisfied they would be up to the job. A stack of dirty plates and dishes sat next to the sink. Roger grabbed a bowl. Despite being on the top of the pile of dirty crockery, the dish looked as though it had been sat there, waiting to be washed for a few days, the dried remains of a previous meal crusting its inner surfaces.
Returning to the table, Roger opened and closed the scissors in front of Bob’s face, grinning at him for second until the lack of fear in his victim’s eyes sucked the fun away.
Perhaps with what he had just endured the fat fuck simply didn’t care anymore, Roger mused.
He would care again – very soon…
Bob’s scrotum was lobster red and massively bloated by testicles that were no longer ball shaped, just a bubbling stew of boiled jelly. Roger placed the dirty dish beneath Bob’s scalded ball-sack and sliced through the skin beneath the rusty nail. The blades were not as sharp as he thought and it took several attempts to hack his way through, the poached testicles eventually plopping into the waiting receptacle, a twisted, spaghetti-like mess spilling from the ruptured skin. Roger grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer where he had found the scissors and stirred the sick stew around for a few seconds before scooping up a spoonful and walking around the table to offer it to his host.
Bob barely seemed to notice the spoon that was proffered towards his mouth. His eyes were vacant, his breathing slow, as if his mind was elsewhere, hiding from reality, seeking refuge from the excruciating torment he had been forced to endure. Roger pressed the spoon to his lips and tried to force it between them but Bob’s jaws were clenched, his teeth creating an impenetrable barrier.
Perhaps he needed a new agony - fresh screams to get his jaws unlocked, thought Roger.
The pan of water was bubbling and steaming on the stove once more. Roger picked up the scissors and plunged them hard into Bob’s bloated abdomen, twisting and tearing at the fatty flesh until he had opened up a rent in his gut. Flicking his gaze to Bob’s face he was pleased to see a flicker in his eyes, a little recognition of pain. He opened the blades, widening the hole further and poured some of the scalding water inside.
Bob screamed loudly, mouth gaping wide. His body bucked, loosening the scissors from Roger’s grip and forcing water out of the steaming hole in his gut. The fetid stench of boiling bowel quickly filled the air in the small kitchen. Roger quickly grabbed the bowl and ladled the contents into his victim’s open mouth, jamming the steaming jelly down his gullet with the spoon. Bob’s screams turned to gurgles as he choked on his stewed scrotum and Roger pushed his fingers deeper into his open jaws, forcing the spoon further into Bob’s throat. Within moments Bob was still. A soft splat sounded as his sphincter gave way and a watery stool hit the linoleum.
Ignoring the stink, Roger returned the pan to the hob and turned off the gas. The moment he did so, his legs almost gave out from underneath him and he suddenly realised how tired he was. The dead who had been controlling him for the last couple of days seemed to have let him go and the exhaustion they had been keeping at bay flooded every part of his body.
He stumbled into Bob’s living room and crashed onto the stained and battered sofa, falling into a deep sleep before the groaning springs had even ceased their protestations.
18
Steve slammed his hand blindly onto the bedside table before finally rolling onto his side in order to reach the alarm’s ‘off’ button.
“Bastard,” he cursed under his breath.
It was Wednesday.
Both he and Sam were back at work today - the novelty of their new home about to be swept aside by the grim return of nine-to-five normality.
He shook Sam gently. “Come on, babe. Time to get up…”
“Christ!” his wife groaned, “My head is killing me – did we get drunk last night?”
Steve’s own skull was pounding as well but he was certain they had only had a couple of glasses of wine each the previous evening – nowhere near enough to bring on a hangover. Forcing himself out of bed, he accidentally placed his weight on the creaky floorboard. Sam immediately covered her ears with her hands, screwing her face up tight.
“Fuck…that squeak is going right through me.”
“Sorry, babe. The bloke’s supposed to be coming to fix the thing later so hopefully it’ll be sorted by the time we get home tonight.”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t forget to drop off a key at the sales office before you go.”
Steve tutted in annoyance and left his wife hugging her pillow as he padded into the en-suite. Perhaps a morning shower would wash away his headache.
*
Margaret Brown sat up in her bed and looked at the clock.
Eight minutes past seven.
She frowned – she had been used to early starts when she was an army wife and even after Robin retired, his years of conditioning often had him up and about at the crack of dawn, inadvertently waking her at the same time - but since her husband’s passing she had gradually settled into a more leisurely routine, usually not stirring until at least nine.
She could vaguely hear the young couple next door moving about, a toilet flushing.
Perhaps the new-home-honeymoon was over, she mused, the pair of them up early for work.
She shook out her pillow and tried to settle down again, grab another hour or so of sleep, but her head was throbbing at her temples and she just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. After only a few minutes, the elderly woman decided to get up and make a cup of tea. She was a retired widow, after all – no firm plans for the day or places she had to be, she could always have a doze on the sofa later if her early start caught up with her.
*
As Steve left the en-suite, towelling off his hair as he did so, Sam was buttoning up her white blouse.
“Managed to finally drag that gorgeous arse of yours out of the sack then,” he grinned, playfully slapping her skirt-clad backside.
She flinched, twisting away from him as he tried to kiss her.
“What’s up with you?”
“Sorry, babe-” she pecked him on the cheek, “it’s just this headache – have we got any painkillers?”
“In one of the kitchen drawers, I think…”
Sam wiggled her feet into a pair of shiny, back high-heels and tottered off to the kitchen, her shoes clacking loudly on the floor tiles.
Steve hurriedly dressed and then headed off to the kitchen himself to give his wife a kiss before she left. As he entered the room Sam was just grabbing her keys off the kitchen worktop.
“You leaving without
saying goodbye, babe?”
Turning towards him, the guilty look on her face was a clear indication that her husband’s question was not without foundation. She massaged her forehead and sighed. “Sorry, babe. My head is all over the place…”
“Did you find any tablets?”
“Yeah, I took a couple – hopefully they’ll kick in soon.”
“Ok…well, try and take it easy, baby…love you.” He kissed her on the cheek, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
“Love you too. See you tonight.”
Steve had another quarter of an hour before he needed to be on the road and decided to make a cup of instant coffee – see if a bit of caffeine could do something about his groggy head that his morning shower had miserably failed to achieve.
19
“I’m sorry, Jean, I’ll call you back this evening…yes, yes, I’ll be fine – it’s just this blooming headache. I can’t seem to shift it…” Margaret held the telephone away from her ear for a second as her friend said goodbye. The voice through the earpiece felt almost painful.
The widow lay back down on the sofa and switched on the TV. She wasn’t a big fan of morning television but the chat shows and magazine programs did provide a companionship of a sort; on the dark days when she suddenly felt alone, felt her age – felt the slow ticking of the eternal clock…
After only a few moments Margaret turned the TV back off. Even at a low volume, the false cheeriness of the presenter grated like fingernails down a blackboard. She turned her face towards the back of the sofa and nuzzled deeper into her soft pillow as she tried to sleep.
*
Jonny Wong let himself into the apartment, careful not to bang his toolbox against the fresh and unblemished paintwork.
Just a year ago he was a restaurateur, winning his establishment from the previous owner on a lucky hand of cards. Jonny had tried his best to run the place but business was not his strong suit and he was fortunate enough to sell the restaurant on for a half-decent sum before he had completely run it into the ground.
