Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘I’ll have to go soon,’ he whispered as she gripped his shaft more tightly, working up a rhythm, coaxing him to full hardness.

  ‘Soon,’ she breathed in his ear.

  They lay back across the bed, bodies entwined.

  Four

  The houses in this particular part of Clapham all looked similar. Terraced and semi-detached, inhabited by unremarkable people with unremarkable lives.

  People like John and Susan Hacket.

  It was their home which the men in the grey Ford Escort had been watching for the last twenty minutes.

  As if some kind of silent signal had been given both of them swung themselves out of the car and walked unhurriedly up the path towards the passageway which led towards the back garden of the Hacket’s house. The street lamp outside the house was off, and it afforded the two men the cover they needed. The curtains of the houses on either side were drawn. It was too late in the day for people to be peering out checking on callers. A couple of doors down a dog barked but the two men paid it no heed. The first of them, a tall man with what seemed like abnormally long arms, gently lifted the catch on the passage door and opened it.

  His companion followed him into the enveloping gloom. The passage was about fifteen feet long, the floor of chipped concrete. The two men moved cautiously along the narrow walkway, careful not to create any noise as they made their way to the back of the house.

  The garden was in darkness.

  A rusted tricycle stood close by and the first man pushed it with his foot, ignoring the protesting squeal from its wheels. He smiled broadly and looked at his companion but the other man was already trying the back door, finding, not surprisingly, that it was locked.

  The knife he took from his belt was about eight inches long, double-edged and wickedly sharp.

  He stuck it into the frame of the window, working the blade expertly up and down until the window lock finally came loose. He nudged it gently and the window opened a fraction.

  Peter Walton smiled and nodded to his companion who squatted down, clasping his hands together to form a stirrup. Walton put his foot on the helping hands and allowed himself to be hoisted up onto the window-sill. He paused there for a moment then swung himself inside, the sound of the TV reaching his ears as he eased himself down onto the tiles. He stood in the darkened room, watching as the tall man followed him inside.

  Ronald Mills moved with remarkable dexterity for a man of over six feet. He clambered through the window and joined Walton in the kitchen, taking a step towards the closed door. He too could hear the sounds coming from the lounge.

  Walton chewed his bottom lip contemplatively. He hadn’t expected anyone to be at home. His expression of bewilderment gradually melted into a grin of satisfaction. This was an added bonus.

  He looked at Mills and nodded, reaching for the handle of the door.

  It opened soundlessly.

  Both men stepped into the hall, the staircase to their right.

  The sound of the TV was louder now.

  Caroline watched the end credits of the soap opera. She even watched the adverts after it had finished. It was like seeing them for the first time watching them in colour. But finally she decided to make herself a cup of tea then check on Lisa. She hadn’t heard any noise from the girl’s bedroom, she never had any trouble with her, but she thought it part of her duty as baby-sitter, to actually check her temporary charge. Caroline stretched then got to her feet, glancing back at the television, as if reluctant to leave it for too long. She pushed open the door and walked out into the hall, slowing her pace.

  It was dark.

  And yet, hadn’t Mrs Hacket left the hall light on when she’d gone out?

  Caroline was actually reaching for the switch when the hand grabbed her by the throat, stifling any attempt at a scream. She was yanked backwards, almost lifted off her feet by the hand which held her.

  She felt something cold against her cheek and realised that it was a knife.

  Ronald Mills pressed the razor sharp blade against her flesh and whispered in her ear, his voice low and rasping.

  ‘You make one sound and I’ll cut your fucking head off!’

  August 26, 1940

  She wouldn’t stop screaming.

  Lawrenson had tried to calm the woman, tried to reassure her, but his efforts had been useless.

  They couldn’t stop her screaming.

  ‘Give her an epidural for God’s sake,’ snapped Maurice Fraser. ‘She’s in agony.’ He bent close to the woman’s face, seeing the pain in her bulging eyes, as if he needed further proof that she was indeed suffering.

  ‘No pain killers,’ Lawrenson said, quietly, his eyes never leaving the woman. She was in her mid-twenties but the pain etched on her face gave her the appearance of someone ten years older. Her feet were secured in the metal stirrups by thick straps, her arms also held firmly. Despite the restraining straps though, she jerked and shuddered incessantly as wave upon wave of pain tore through her.

  The white gown which she wore had slipped away from her lower body, exposing her swollen belly and, as Lawrenson watched, he could see the sometimes violent undulations from inside her abdomen.

  It looked as though the baby was trying to tear its way free.

  A particularly violent contraction tore through her and she unleashed a scream which reverberated around the room. Lawrenson felt the hairs at the nape of his neck rise.

  ‘She’s losing a lot of blood, doctor,’ Nurse Kiley told him, watching the steady flow from the woman’s vagina. Several swabs had already been used, unsuccessfully, to stem the outpouring of crimson fluid, they now lay discarded in a metal receiver like thick placental fragments. Another pint of blood was attached to the drip which fed blood into the prone woman by way of a twisted tube to her left, the needle jammed securely into the crook of her arm.

  ‘Remove the baby, for God’s sake, Lawrenson,’ Fraser said. ‘Perform a Caesarean before it’s too late. We’ll lose them both.’

  Lawrenson shook his head.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.

  Another piercing scream filled the room and drummed off the walls.

  Nurse Kiley, who was standing between the woman’s legs, peered towards the weeping vagina then glanced at Lawrenson.

  ‘It’s starting,’ she said.

  Lawrenson moved closer, anxious to see the birth.

  Fraser gripped the woman’s shoulder, trying to offer some comfort but she continued to scream in pain as the contractions became more violent. She felt something inside her tearing, as if part of her insides were detaching themselves then, incredibly, the pain seemed to intensify.

  Lawrenson saw the top of the baby’s head, the lips of the woman’s vagina sliding back like fleshy curtains to expose the first couple of inches of the child. The bloodied lips reminded him of a mouth, trying to expel something bloated and foul tasting. The labia swelled until it seemed it must tear, until it appeared that the woman would begin to split in half. Blood pumped from the widening cleft which was now opening ever wider to release its precious load.

  The woman began thrashing madly on the bed, so ravaged by pain that she actually managed to pull her left arm free of the restraining strap. As she waved it before her, the drip came free and blood spurted madly from her arm and also from the end of the tube. Nurse Kiley hurried to re-attach it.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Lawrenson, watching as more of the baby’s head came free. ‘Push. It’s nearly over.’

  There was a soft, liquescent spurt as the woman defecated, the waste mingling on the reeking bedclothes with the blood which still streamed from her vagina.

  The head was free now, the child itself twisting from side to side, as if anxious to escape its crimson prison. The woman’s labial lips spread ever wider as the child slithered into view. Lawrenson reached for it, ignoring the blood which drenched his hands.

  He lifted the child, the umbilical cord hanging from its belly like a bloated snake, still attached t
o the placenta which, seconds later, was expelled in a reeking lump.

  The woman’s head lolled back, sweat covering her face and body, her hair matted to her forehead.

  Fraser turned to look at the child which Lawrenson held aloft, gripping it like some kind of trophy.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ murmured the doctor, his eyes bulging wide.

  Nurse Kiley saw the child and could say nothing. She turned away and vomited violently.

  ‘Lawrenson, you can’t…’ Fraser gasped, one hand clapped to his mouth.

  ‘The child is all right, as I said it would be,’ Lawrenson beamed, holding it up, not allowing it to squirm out of his grip. The umbilical cord still pulsed like a thick worm. It looked as if a putrescent parasite was burrowing into the child’s stomach.

  He held it towards the mother who had recovered sufficiently to look up. Her eyes were blurred with pain but as she blinked the clarity quickly returned and she saw her child.

  ‘Your son,’ said Lawrenson, proudly.

  And she screamed again.

  Five

  Walton guessed that the girl was seventeen, maybe older. He didn’t care.

  She stood before him, hands clasped, shuffling her fingers like fleshy playing cards. There were tears in her eyes as she looked back and forth at the two men who stared so raptly at her. One of them, the taller one, kept wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and Caroline was sure he was dribbling. His breath was a low rasping wheeze, like an asthmatic gasping for air.

  ‘You’re pretty,’ said Walton, touching her cheek with the point of the knife.

  Caroline tried to swallow but her throat was dry. She closed her eyes and, this time, the tears did flow, running down her cheeks.

  Walton pressed the knife against her flesh, allowing one of the salty droplets to dribble onto the metal. He withdrew the blade and licked the moisture with his tongue. Then he smiled at Caroline.

  ‘Take your blouse off,’ he said, softly, still smiling.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she said, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

  ‘Take the blouse off,’ Walton urged, his voice now almost inaudible. He took. a step closer to her, his face close to hers. He breathed stale cigarettes and tooth decay over her.

  Still she hesitated.

  ‘Take the fucking thing off or I’ll take it off for you,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.

  Caroline reached for the top button, her hands shaking uncontrollably but, slowly, she managed to undo the fastener then repeated the procedure until the blouse hung open. Even through her fear she blushed.

  ‘I said take it off,’ Walton reminded her. ‘Do it.’

  ‘Please…’

  ‘Do it,’ he snarled.

  She eased first one shoulder then the other out of the flimsy material, allowing it to drop to the floor in front of her. She sniffed, trying to fight back the tears but not succeeding.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whimpered, looking at both men as if expecting to find some trace of compassion. There was none.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  It was Mills who asked the question this time.

  He moved closer to her, and rested one hand on her left shoulder, peering at her breasts, which she attempted to cover.

  He slapped her hands away and pulled at the strap of her bra.

  ‘You’ve got lovely hair,’ he told her, winding it around his hand, pulling her head to one side, towards his face. ‘Kiss me.’ He smiled broadly then looked at Walton, who nodded as if to urge his companion on.

  ‘Well, go on, kiss him,’ Walton said.

  ‘Please…’

  She got no further.

  Mills pulled her round to face him, pushing his mouth against hers. She gagged as she felt his thick tongue pushing against her lips, his spittle running down her chin.

  ‘A virgin. Never been kissed before?’ Mills asked, pressing the point of the knife under her chin, digging it into the flesh gently at first. He watched as tears mingled with his own sputum.

  ‘Take your bra off,’ Walton said. ‘Show us your body.’

  Caroline shook her head almost imperceptibly, sobbing now.

  ‘You said you didn’t want us to hurt you,’ Mills reminded her, grabbing a handful of her hair once again. He pressed the razor sharp knife against her taut locks and sliced effortlessly through, pulling the handful of hair free. ‘Hair today, gone tomorrow,’ he chuckled, looking at Walton who merely nodded.

  ‘Take off the bra,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

  She tried to plead, tried to beg but no words would come. Instead she reached behind her and unfastened the clasp of her bra, holding it for precious seconds before releasing it, pulling the garment free and exposing her breasts.

  Walton rubbed his growing erection through his trousers. ‘Now the jeans,’ he said.

  She was crying softly all the time now, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  The two men stood a couple of feet back, watching the obscene strip-show with growing excitement.

  ‘Don’t kill me,’ she sobbed, standing before them in just her knickers. ‘I’ll do what you say but don’t kill me.’

  ‘Take off your panties,’ Mills told her. ‘Slowly.’

  She hooked her thumbs into the elastic and eased them down over her hips and thighs, shrugging them off to finally stand naked before her tormentors. She raised a hand to cover her sandy pubic hair but Mills gripped her wrist, lifting her hand instead to his own crotch, forcing her to touch the throbbing erection he now sported.

  ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ Walton asked, pressing himself against her.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Have you?’ he snarled, jerking her head around so that she was looking directly into his staring eyes.

  She shook her head, her eyes now clouded with tears, her whole body shaking.

  ‘So you don’t know what it’s like to be touched by a man?’ Walton said, softly. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He chuckled and gazed at her breasts for a second. ‘Now if you’re good we won’t hurt you. Are you going to be good?’

  She tried to nod but it was as if her body was paralysed. She thought she was going to faint.

  ‘Dance for us,’ said Mills, smiling.

  ‘I can’t,’ she wailed, close to breaking point.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, chidingly, pressing the knife to her left cheek. ‘Every young girl can dance.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t hurt me. Please…’

  Walton bent down and picked up her bra on the end of his knife. He dangled it before her like some kind of trophy.

  ‘Dance,’ he said.

  ‘Mummy.’

  All three of them heard the word.

  Mills spun round, a faint smile on his thick lips.

  ‘Who else is in the house?’ snarled Walton, grabbing Caroline by the hair.

  ‘It’s a child,’ said Mills, his eyes blazing.

  ‘Where is she?’ Walton rasped.

  ‘Upstairs,’ sobbed Caroline.

  Again the plaintive call.

  Mills moved towards the door.

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ Caroline shouted but the exhortation was cut short as Walton clamped his hand over her mouth and forced her down onto the sofa, the knife held against her throat.

  ‘I’ll see to her,’ Mills said, softly, heading out of the room and towards the stairs.

  ‘He’s very good with little children,’ Walton informed her, fumbling with the zip of his trousers. ‘Now, you just stay quiet for me, all right?’

  Mills reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, listening to the calls from upstairs then, slowly, he began to ascend.

  He reached the landing and moved towards the door which was slightly ajar.

  He saw the child sitting up in bed as he opened the door, his frame silhouetted against the light.

  The child was silent as he walked into the bedroom.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, gaily.

 
; Lisa looked puzzled by this newcomer. She’d never seen him before but she remained silent as he knelt beside her bed.

  ‘You’re a very pretty little girl,’ Mills breathed. ‘What’s your name?’

  She told him.

  ‘What a pretty name.’ He pushed her gently back into bed, looking down at her, smiling, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Then he reached for the knife.

  Six

  The ward sister nodded politely as Susan Hacket passed her. She managed a smile in return and walked on up the corridor.

  A tall nurse also smiled at Sue. Most of the staff recognised her by now. After all, she’d been coming to the hospital every night for the last six weeks. It was as if she belonged there. As she pushed the door to room 562, she wondered how much longer she would be repeating this ritual.

  She paused in the doorway for a moment, closing the door slowly behind her.

  The air carried the familiar smell of stale urine and disinfectant, but tonight it was tinged with a more pungent odour. Sue recognised it as the stench of stagnant water. The flowers which stood by the bedside were wilting, some of them weeping their shrivelled petals onto the cabinet. The water was cloudy. It was three or four days since she’d changed it.

  She walked towards the bed, aware of the chill in the air. She shuddered involuntarily and noticed that the window was open slightly.

  She murmured something to herself then shut it, keeping back the cold breeze which had been hissing under the frame. Then she turned towards the bed.

  ‘Hello Dad,’ she said, softly, smiling as best she could.