by Emmy Ellis
All the blood must have drained out of his face, as it went cold. “You did put the fucking blood there, didn’t you.”
“I did.”
“You told on me.”
She didn’t answer, just stared at him impassively. What had happened to her? Why was she being so cruel? Why had she been so cruel, even back then? They’d promised not to tell, and he’d kept to his side of the bargain, yet behind his back, she’d bloody got the coppers onto him. He’d seen her the evening before his arrest an’ all. A Thursday it had been. They’d gone out to The Flag for a bevvy and quiz night. Got along fine, like they had before he’d used the knife. She was nice to him, laughing and joking, but now he came to think about it, there was something different. They’d normally be at it like rabbits, but since they’d returned from the coast, there’d been one excuse after another as to why he couldn’t do her against an alley wall like usual. The only time they did it in a bed was in Landerlay.
She’d withheld her sexual favours, distancing herself from him, knowing what she was going to do. When had she decided? After she’d seen about the rave bloke in the paper? She’d phoned him, frantic about it, and he’d told her there were too many people packed in to have seen what he’d done, plus, it was a good job that Jason fella was dead because he’d be able to identify him.
Jenny had played him, pretended to still care, just waiting for that Friday when those coppers had pulled him over. She’d lied to him earlier, saying she was just as shocked as he was that he’d been arrested.
What a slimy fucking cunt.
He lunged forward, a fist out to strike her, but didn’t get very far as George hauled him back.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” George asked. “Going to hit a woman, were you?”
The beast’s other hand came up, shaped into a fist, and clocked Ollie’s jaw. His teeth clashed, his tongue between them, and he let out a howl of pain.
“Oh shut up, you bloody ponce.” George gripped Ollie’s face in his paw and squeezed. “Now then, we’re going on a little trip—and it’s got nothing to do with acid.”
“You fucking whore,” Ollie spat towards Jenny. “I trusted you!”
She laughed, the sound full of bitterness. “But I never trusted you.”
George marched Ollie out into the hallway, where the other brother stood there holding up a slice of duct tape. He slapped it across Ollie’s mouth then punched him in the crown jewels. Pain radiated through his groin, and Ollie bent double, dragging in air through his hungry nostrils, his eyes watering.
Jenny had sold him down the river.
Jesus fucking wept.
* * * *
Nigel had soiled himself. It was cold and uncomfortable, but that was nothing to the fear pervading him. The Brothers had left him tied to this chair, his arms pinned to his sides by many coils of rope, his ankles chafed by the same. A rag tasting of the smell of washing powder clogged his mouth, and George had placed silver tape across his lips, pressing down hard, his finger across Nigel’s nostrils for long enough that he thought he’d pass out through lack of air.
George had taken his hand away at the last minute, laughing so much he had tears rolling down his face. The bloke was an out-and-out nutter, no two ways about it, and his twin was just as bad, tugging at Nigel’s eyelashes, saying he’d always wondered what someone would look like without any. Well, now he knew. He’d ripped all of them out, and the pain had been excruciating.
Nigel’s eyes were obviously sore now, but not just from the missing lashes. He’d cried the moment they’d walked out and left him, hot tears, jolting sobs, his mind awhirl with what could happen when they got back. Or if they didn’t come back and left him there to piss and shit and starve.
He didn’t know which option was worse.
He sat stock-still at the sound of an engine rumbling.
Fuck, they were back.
Fear coiled his stomach tight, and a bit of wee seeped out again. They’d come to kill him, they must have done. He stared at the doorway and waited. Held his breath at the whine of the code being prodded on the keypad. Frowned at the muffled “Mmm, mmm, mmm!” that came from that direction.
The door swung wide, and a man stood there, George behind him.
A man in a Stones T-shirt.
Shit, they’d gone and found Ollie.
“I believe you two are acquainted.” George propelled Ollie into the room.
Nigel looked into Ollie’s eyes: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Ollie stared back, murder in his expression—or what Nigel could see of it anyway. They’d taped Ollie’s mouth up, too. Greg came in and waited by the outside door, holding it open. And then someone Nigel never thought he’d see again entered, the beautiful Jenny, the love of his life. She walked into the main room while Greg shut the door, then he took her by the elbow and steered her inside, letting her go to draw a second chair out from somewhere and placed it beside Nigel’s.
George pressed Ollie onto it and tied him up.
Ollie and Jenny stared at him, at his ruined face, and Jenny gagged.
“Now then,” George said, “we’re going to get some apologies out of the way, then you’ll need to make amends with God if you believe in Him.”
Nigel swallowed. He’d apologise for anything if it got him out of here. And as for God, he’d pray like he had faith, like he believed. Right this moment, he’d grass Ollie up in front of him if it meant he’d see his wife and kids again.
He’d do whatever it took.
If they gave him the chance.
Chapter Twenty
George was enjoying himself. He was glad they’d decided to abandon Nigel and go down the route of killing them at near enough the same time, the pair of them together like old times, except they weren’t in a cell but a warehouse where no one would hear their screams. No screw to come and rescue them.
He smiled at the thought of Greg yanking out Nigel’s eyelashes earlier. It proved Greg was back on track. Although he’d never really liked hurting someone for the sake of it, Greg had changed, stealing a part of George for himself, the part that revelled in causing pain.
After a stop-off at home for George to collect a couple of weapons, they’d agreed on the journey to the parlour that they’d give Amaryllis the option to kill Ollie if she wanted to. After all, George knew how cathartic it was to murder the person who’d given you so much grief. It went a long way to allowing yourself to heal, gave you a chance to grab back some of the control. It wasn’t normal, wasn’t ethical or morally right, but it felt bloody good.
He snatched the tape off Nigel’s mouth with a bit too much force, you know, for the fun of it, and the bloke howled. While the gaping mouth wavered in front of George, he took out the cloth and threw it on the floor. “Now then, Nige—or do you prefer being called Rover? You’re going to sit there nice and quiet while I tell your old buddy a little story.”
He glanced at Amaryllis to see if she wanted to relate the tale, but she shook her head. He understood. She was getting her bearings, feeling her way into the situation. He’d give her time.
George winked at Greg who stood behind their captives, a length of rope strung tight, their ends wound around his hands. Greg smiled: they’d discussed this part already.
George stood in front of Ollie. The man’s eyes were wide, and he snorted through his nostrils, snot flying. George couldn’t work out whether the reaction was from fear or anger and decided he didn’t give much of a fuck.
“Now then, all those years you thought your mate here was keeping an eye on your bird, he was copping a feel. You know that—Nigel’s let us know it was over her clothes, and Amaryllis confirmed it.”
Ollie frowned.
“That’s her new name, by the way. Nice, isn’t it. Anyway, it wasn’t just the kind of touch you thought it was. He got a bit exited, if you catch my drift.”
Ollie’s eyes closed for a couple of seconds, then he opened them again and glared at George.
“Did
that sting?” George smiled. “I should imagine it did. But this will sting more.” He paused, inspecting his fingernails to drag out the tension. Returned his focus to Ollie. “He fell in love with her.”
Ollie growled.
“Hmm. He wanted to run away with her, as early as a year after he started spying on her for you. Take her away from you, look after her like you should have done. Imagine that, all those letters you received from him, where he swore he didn’t get a stonking great snake in his pants. Lies. Our Amaryllis, she didn’t want to know—because you’d scared her off men for life. So Nigel, he found another bird. She’s a redhead, you know. I’ve seen her picture in his wallet. Looks like Amaryllis. Creepy if you ask me. He chose someone like the woman he couldn’t have.” He turned to Nigel. “Did I get anything wrong?”
“No,” Nigel whispered.
“So you don’t deny getting off on putting your slimy hands on her?”
“No.”
“And you were prepared to steal your mate’s girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
George swivelled back to Ollie. “How does that make you feel?”
Ollie had stopped snorting. He stared ahead at the back wall, where Amaryllis stood, glowering at her.
“I don’t know what you’re directing your arsey feelings at her for,” George went on. “She was providing a service—she had no fucking choice because no one would employ her. She’d have shagged Nigel if that’s what he wanted. She didn’t know who he was. She thought he was a friend.” He swiped the tape off Ollie’s mouth.
“Ow. Fuck me…”
“No one in their right mind would fuck you, Ollie, my old son. Not now. Have you looked in the mirror lately? Christ.” George took a weapon out of his pocket. Held it up to the light. “What do you think of this then? What would you call it?” He twisted it around.
Ollie ignored him.
“If I were you, I’d answer,” George warned.
“I don’t know what it is.” Ollie’s eyebrows met in the middle.
“Ah, I forgot these things weren’t in all households back when you killed Amanda. They’re a lot more common now. Do you know what it is, Nigel?” He glanced his way.
“A meat thermometer.”
“That’s right, a meat thermometer.” George faced Ollie. “You see this spike? You stick it in meat, and on the top there, can you see the LCD display? That tells you how hot the food is.” He grinned. “Shall we see how hot your arsehole is?”
At last, a reaction from Ollie. He let out garbled words, and Nigel said, “Fuck, no. No!”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Nigel,” George said. “It was you who gave me the idea with that little toothbrush shiv story. I thought you’d like to see it all over again, some bloke buggered by a sharp implement. Right, Ollie, let’s get to it.” He bent and untied one ankle, then moved to the side so he didn’t get kicked and removed the other. “On your feet, there’s a good boy.”
Greg stepped forward, rested the rope across Ollie’s neck, and pulled up, forcing him to stand. Ollie choked, his fingers twitching where he was most likely desperate to lift his trapped arms and scrabble at his throat to relieve the pressure. His face going purple, he created a right old racket trying to suck in a breath. Greg release him, dropped the rope, and came round the front. While Ollie recovered from the ordeal, Greg yanked Ollie’s scutty jeans and pants down, spun him round, and forced him to kneel over the chair, his cheek squashed against the seat.
George had the disgusting sight of the man’s brown star winking at him.
“You might want to look away now, Amaryllis.”
Then he plunged the spike into Ollie’s arse, laughing his head off at the man’s screams, Greg holding the wanker down with a splayed hand on his back. Blood trickled down Ollie’s inner thighs, and George bent over to read the temperature.
“Thirty-six point five. There’s a thing you know now.”
* * * *
Princess had been unable to look away. She’d wanted to, but some force had compelled her to watch that spike disappear up Ollie’s backside. She was appalled, revolted, and should be frightened of George, but she wasn’t. He was doing this for her, taking it upon himself to fix everything that was broken, with glue that actually stuck solid this time.
She’d forever be in his debt. In Greg’s.
Ollie cried. She never thought she’d see the day. Even in court at sentencing he’d remained stony-faced, no sign of any inner turmoil. Now here he was, blubbing, in pain, and she wondered, perhaps spitefully, perhaps justifiably, whether he hurt as much as Jason and Amanda had, whether he’d felt the slide of the spike like they’d felt the slice of the knife.
Karma had come to see him with her brand of vengeance, using George as her instrument, Greg as his handy helper. Nigel had done his part as well, although Karma would face him, too, turning her wrath on him. There was no escape.
The blood wasn’t as shocking as it had been on Ollie’s hand at the rave, nor the bright scarlet in the bedsit. This seemed fitting, the burgundy trails going down his legs something he deserved. George whipped the thermometer out and tossed it to one side. It clattered on the floor and skittered away, coming to rest beneath a strange contraption on the wall that had spikes sticking out of it.
She hoped they wouldn’t use it today.
Greg hauled Ollie around and plonked him back on the chair. Ollie cried out from the pressure and looked over at her, his folded face even worse now. This time his stare wasn’t full of spite or anger but pleading: Help me, please, please, help me.
She imagined Amanda, how she’d maybe called out for her mother with those mumbles. Princess steeled her heart against the man she’d once cared for. He didn’t deserve help, and paying by going to prison was no longer enough. She wanted him dead, to never see the sun again, never taste new food, see all the places in the world—like Amanda couldn’t. And poor Jason, a man who’d just gone to a party, the last one he’d ever attended. She’d found out later from the news that he hadn’t taken any drugs, which made sense, him being a nurse and knowing the dangers, and it had been his first rave, one his mates had persuaded him to go to.
He hadn’t even wanted to. He shouldn’t have been there.
“Fuck off, Ollie,” she said. “Just fuck the hell off.”
He closed his eyes, his cheeks shiny from tears, and she felt nothing but contempt.
George faced her way. “Yes or no?” He held up a long-bladed knife.
She swallowed. Imagined holding the handle tight. Striking Ollie. The heat of the blood—“…blood’s pretty hot when it gushes out, Jen.”—and the sense of justice she’d feel for the two people who hadn’t deserved to veer onto his terrible path.
“Yes.”
She walked forward, somewhat in a dream state, outside of herself, not in control of her actions. George held the knife out, and she took it. He knelt to secure Ollie’s legs to the chair—the pants and jeans were concertinaed around the ankles—but Ollie didn’t protest. It was as if he knew it was a waste of time, that the end was here, something he had to endure until he took his last breath.
She turned away, unable to stand the look in his eyes; it disgusted her. Her gaze landed on Rover, and his was just as sickening. He wanted her to stop them from hurting him, she saw it right there in his expression, and much as she’d toiled with the issue of him being her friend, he hadn’t been, and that was what she had to remind herself of now. He’d wanted information from her, that was all, and his shitty story about falling for her was just that—a load of old shit.
His eyes were so red, and she blinked, trying to work out what was wrong.
Oh my God, he doesn’t have any eyelashes left.
She glanced at George, who laughed, and Greg nodded as if to say: I did that.
She dreaded to think how that particular torture had panned out and focused back on Nigel. “I won’t help you. The only people I want to help are Jason and Amanda. They won’t
know what I’ll have done, but I will, but if there’s a Heaven, if they’re watching, they’ll know. No one deserves any sympathy but them and their families, your family. Not you, not him, and certainly not me.”
“Please, Princess. Please…my wife, my kids…”
George stood from tying Ollie’s legs. “You should have thought of them at the time, you absolute munter. It’s too late now. There’s no going back once your arse hits that chair.” He stepped back, one arm out, giving Princess the floor.
She moved to stand in front of Ollie. “Are you as scared as Amanda must have been?” You should be. I want you to be.
“Don’t do this, Jen.”
“Jen doesn’t exist anymore. And do you know what really gets my goat? I’ve been worrying about that bloody Polaroid and the earring ever since you sent McFadden to show me, worrying about them all through the years in case you didn’t burn the picture like you said, when all along, you can’t really tell it’s me, and the fucking earring proves nothing against me—it gets you more in the shit because the police would know you’d been in the bedsit with a dead Amanda because it had her blood on it.” She’d screamed the last three words, so angry at herself for allowing her mind to play tricks on her, stealing her wellbeing, her sanity at times. “So telling me not to do this… Stick it up your fucking sore arse.”
She lashed out, slicing him diagonally across the face. He screamed, and the skin parted, revealing his cheekbone on one side and his molars on the other. She did it again, copying his movements with Amanda, wanting to do like George had said and have Ollie feeling the same as that poor girl, in agony, scared, knowing the end was near. His face was a criss-cross of slashes now, blood hiding his skin colour, his mouth parted so screams could come out, that…fucking…gap…driving…her…mad.
She screamed with him, in anger, frustration, hate, sorrow, guilt, every-fucking-thing. This was for his victims—and, she admitted, for herself.
Princess swiped his neck, again the same as with Amanda, except she chose a spot that would nick the carotid. Blood gushed from the wound, spewing from his mouth, drenching his chin and throat. Out of breath, she paused, panted, then rammed the knife into the same place he’d stabbed Jason. She twisted it, Ollie bellowing in pain, blood from his breath misting onto her face.
