Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  Casting aside his philosophical musings, Jennings picked up the menu and glanced at it for a moment before taking another look at the dining room of the hotel. Each table had a vase of flowers at its centre, every napkin and tablecloth was spotlessly clean. The lighting was subdued to the point of gloom. Perhaps to hide the state of the food when it finally arrived, he thought, returning his attention to the menu.

  The choice was small but fairly adventurous for a place of The Bull’s modest means. Steak in red wine and mushroom sauce. He glanced at the price. Expensive, but what the hell, it was going on his expense account. He checked the wine list.

  ‘Hello.’

  The voice startled him from his considerations and he looked up to see a young woman standing there. Woman was somewhat overstating the fact, perhaps and a quick appraisal told Jennings this newcomer was in her late teens. She smiled at him and he noticed the pad in her hand and realised that she was the waitress.

  She was slim, that fact accentuated by the tight fitting black skirt and top she wore. A thick mane of shaggy blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her thin face from which two eyes like chips of sapphire seemed to shine as if lit from within. She wore no make-up and the freshness of her complexion seemed almost unnatural for a girl in the throes of pubescence. She stood beside the table patiently and Jennings glanced down to see that she was wearing not the flat shoes of a waitress but a pair of high heels. The girl was little short of stunning.

  She smiled at him again when she noticed his surprise.

  ‘Did I startle you?’ she said, happily. ‘Sorry. My Dad’s always telling me not to sneak up on customers.’

  Jennings returned the smile.

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yes, he owns the hotel. Him and Mum have been running it for about twenty years, since before I was born.’

  She kept those sapphire eyes on him, also appraising.

  ‘You’re new here aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Just arrive today?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So, you know all the guests?’

  ‘That’s not difficult,’ she told him. ‘We hardly have any at this time of the year.’ She looked more deeply at him. ‘At least none like you.’ No blushing. No quick glance down at her pad. The remark hadn’t slipped out by mistake.

  Jennings could not resist a sly glance at her breasts, the nipples pressing gently against the cotton of her blouse.

  ‘Thanks for the compliment,’ he said. ‘Is that included in the price of the room?’ He smiled.

  ‘I had a boyfriend who looked like you,’ she said, her gaze unwavering.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Had?’

  ‘We split up. I got tired of him.’ She smiled. ‘He couldn’t keep up with me. Not many of them can.’

  Jennings coughed, trying to disguise the laugh which threatened to escape him. She wasn’t flirting with him, she was practically propositioning him. About as subtle as a sledgehammer. But then again, as he looked at her face once more, the laugh faded. No doubt about it. She was stunning.

  ‘I’d better order something,’ he said, looking at the menu.

  ‘Am I making you nervous?’ she asked, brushing a speck of dust from her skirt with exaggerated slowness, pulling the material tight at the top of her thigh to ensure he saw the outline of her suspenders through the skirt.

  ‘No,’ he told her, rather enjoying the game. ‘But I don’t think your Dad would like it if he walked in and heard the way you were talking to me. He’d probably ask me to leave the hotel.’ He winked at her. ‘Then what would I do for the night?’

  ‘Dad doesn’t care what I do,’ she said, still gazing at him. ‘Nor does Mum. So why should it bother you?’

  He shrugged, again drawn to those blazing eyes. Jennings ordered then handed her the menu, watching as she walked away, unable to keep his eyes from her legs. She disappeared through into the kitchen leaving him alone in the dimly lit dining room.

  ‘Would you like a drink while you’re waiting, Mr Jennings?’ Tony Kirkham called from behind the bar. ‘I see Paula’s taken your order.’

  Another five minutes and she’d have taken my bloody trousers, Jennings thought with a smile.

  He ordered a pint of bitter, retrieved it from the bar and returned to his table. Paula returned a moment later with his starter which she duly set down before him.

  ‘Thanks. By the way,’ he said, spearing a couple of prawns with his fork, ‘is there any nightlife around here. I was planning on going out after I’d eaten.’

  ‘There’s a cinema down the street, a couple of discos,’ she shrugged. ‘Not much. We have to make our own entertainment.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I thought that’s what you’d say. Maybe I’ll wander down to the pictures. Thanks.’ Jennings wasn’t sure whether or not to continue the little game. A glance at her persuaded him. ‘It’s a pity you’re working. You could have showed me around.’

  ‘I still can,’ she whispered. ‘Later.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  She turned and left him alone.

  He finished his meal, drank a couple of brandies, then decided to venture out and sample Hinkston’s somewhat limited nightlife.

  As he stepped out of the hotel the wind whistled around him and he pulled up the collar of his jacket. Then, hands dug deep in his pockets, he set off down the street.

  Hidden by the darkness of the bedroom, Paula Kirkham watched him disappear out of sight.

  Twenty-four

  ‘No.’

  ‘He has a right to be told.’

  The two men faced each other across the small office, cigarette smoke floating lazily in the air like a grey shroud. ‘I said no,’ DI Madden snapped, stubbing out the Dunhill and pushing the overflowing ashtray towards the edge of his desk.

  ‘Why can’t we tell him?’ Spencer wanted to know.

  ‘Because we’d be breaking the rules.’ There was a note of sarcasm in the senior officer’s voice.

  ‘To hell with the rules,’ Spencer rasped. ‘Hacket’s daughter was butchered by this fucking maniac.’ He held up the arrest sheet, brandishing it before him as if it were some kind of accusation.

  ‘We can’t prove that, yet,’ Madden reminded him, getting to his feet. He lit up another cigarette.

  ‘Then why did we even bother pulling him in? Was that procedure?’ Spencer glared at his superior. ‘We can hold him for twenty-four hours and then we have to charge him. Only we’ve got nothing to charge him with. So what happens?’

  ‘He walks,’ said Madden, flatly. He sucked hard on the cigarette then wearily blew out a stream of smoke.

  ‘Call Hacket,’ Spencer insisted.

  ‘What good would it do?’ Madden wanted to know.

  Spencer continued to gaze at his companion, his expression challenging.

  Madden shrugged then, slowly, pushed the phone towards Spencer.

  Twenty-five

  The man was tall, powerfully built, larger than Hacket. Subduing him had been difficult. The wounds on the side of his face and his scalp testified to the number of blows from the hammer it had taken to finally batter him into unconsciousness.

  Now Hacket stood over the man who was beginning to come round, his eyes rolling in their sockets like the reels of a fruit machine. He blinked hard, trying to clear his blurred vision and, finally, he looked up at Hacket.

  The man tried to straighten up but found that his arms were secured by rope, tied so tightly that the hemp bit into his flesh when he squirmed to escape the bonds. His ankles too were similarly secured. He was spread-eagled on the floor of what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

  And he was naked.

  Hacket held the claw hammer in his right hand and took a step closer to the prone figure, then he twisted the tool so that the steel prongs of the claw were facing his captive. With a blow combining incredible power with uncontrollable rage, Hacket brought the hammer down onto the right
knee-cap of the bound figure.

  The claws shattered the patella, tearing through the cruciate ligaments at the back of the knee and almost ripping the knee cap itself off. Blood from the hideous injury ran freely from the site of the damage and the man on the ground screamed in agony as he felt Hacket trying to pull the hammer free. The claws had wedged behind the knee cap and, with each tug on the shaft, the flat piece of bone rose a few more millimetres until Hacket realised he was levering it free. The sound of tearing ligaments was almost audible above the man’s insane screams. Hacket put more weight behind the hammer, determined to lift the patella free.

  It came away with a vile, sucking sound, the shattered bone skittering across the floor, pieces of it dangling on the end of tendrils formed from ripped muscles and ligaments. The man on the floor writhed in uncontrollable pain and Hacket looked at his face, wanting to see the agony register.

  But the man had no face.

  Where the features should have been there was just smooth skin.

  No eyes. No mouth.

  The screams seemed to be coming from inside Hacket’s head as he stood over the man, the hammer dripping blood.

  No face.

  Hacket began to laugh, the sound joined by the faceless man’s terrible screams. And by a new noise.

  By the strident ringing of the telephone.

  Hacket sat up in his chair, his face bathed in perspiration, his cut hand still throbbing madly.

  Momentarily disorientated, he looked around him, looking for the claw hammer. For the faceless man.

  Neither was present and, as the phone continued its monotone screech, he realised that he’d been dreaming. All that was real was the pain in his hand. He winced as he dragged himself out of the chair, wrapping a handkerchief around the swollen appendage.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Hacket staggered across the room, towards the hall wondering why his face felt so stiff but then remembering the congealed blood which caked it. He scratched at one cheek with his index finger and saw some of the dried, mud coloured mess come away beneath his nail.

  He blundered through the doorway to the hall and snatched up the phone.

  ‘Yeah,’ he panted. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mr Hacket?’ the voice asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Spencer. I’m sorry to disturb you but you did say you wanted to know if there were any developments in your daughter’s case.’

  Hacket gripped the phone more tightly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve got a suspect in custody. We think he might have been involved in your daughter’s murder.’

  Twenty-six

  It was almost 10.30 when Jennings returned to The Bull. He’d decided to by-pass the cinema in Hinkston. The idea of sitting through the umpteenth cinematic episode of ‘Star Trek’ hadn’t appealed to him. He’d eventually ended up in a pub a couple of streets away called ‘The Badger’s Set.’ There he’d spent a couple of reasonably diverting hours with a couple of the locals discussing topics ranging from the possibility that Margaret Thatcher was a man to Liverpool FC’s latest trophy-winning exploits.

  Now he pushed open the door which led into the reception area of The Bull and withdrew his hands from his pockets, feeling the welcoming warmth.

  Irene Kirkham was behind the desk. A rotund woman in her early forties who still had a pretty face. Perhaps Paula inherited her looks from her mother, thought Jennings with a grin. He wondered who she’d inherited the sexual precocity from but decided it had been nurtured rather than inherited. He crossed to the desk and asked for his key and an alarm call for the morning.

  ‘Is there any chance of something to eat?’ he asked. ‘Just a sandwich would be fine, thanks.’

  ‘You go to your room and I’ll take care of it,’ Mrs Kirkham told him, handing over the key.

  He thanked her and bounded up the stairs to the first floor, the boards creaking beneath his feet as he entered his room. He closed the door behind him and pulled off his coat, throwing it onto the bed, then he flicked on the TV and wandered into the bathroom to relieve himself.

  He was half-way through draining his over-filled bladder when there was a knock on his door. He finished then hastily zipped up his jeans, cursing as he caught a pubic hair in the metal teeth. Re-adjusting himself he crossed to the door and opened it.

  Paula stood there holding a tray which bore a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk.

  She had changed from earlier. Now she wore a pair of faded jeans which bit into her crotch so deeply he could practically see the outline of her labia. It was obvious she wore no panties. Just as she still wore no bra, a fact attested to by the prominence of her nipples which strained against her white T-shirt. She was barefoot.

  ‘Room service I presume,’ he said, smiling, stepping back to allow her entrance, his eyes flicking admiringly over her bottom as she wiggled past.

  ‘Where do you want it?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows. Ha, bloody, ha, thought Jennings. More games.

  He decided to play.

  ‘On the bed?’ he chuckled then shook his head and motioned to the dressing table. She set down the tray and looked at the various toiletries on show. There was some anti-perspirant, some after-shave. Paula unscrewed the lid of the bottle and sniffed it.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘How did you enjoy Hinkston’s nightlife?’

  She sat down on the stool which faced the dressing table, one leg drawn up beneath her.

  Jennings hesitated a moment then closed the door of the room. She smiled as he crossed to the dressing table and picked up a sandwich. As he stood before her she reached up and ran one hand gently across his thigh, allowing it slide higher towards his penis.

  Game on. Your move, Jennings told himself.

  He swallowed the remains of the sandwich and looked down at her. She didn’t attempt to stop her firm stroking and, despite himself, Jennings felt a tightening in his groin. Paula smiled up at him, those chips of sapphire pinning him again in that electrifying gaze.

  ‘What about your parents?’ he said, quietly, his erection now painfully constricted by his jeans.

  ‘I told them I was going to bed after I’d given you your food. They won’t check on me.’ She began to rub more firmly over the bulge in his jeans, outlining his stiffness with her thumb and index finger then she loosened the popper on his waistband and, slowly eased his zip down.

  Jennings sighed as the pressure was relieved, that sigh of relief turning to one of pleasure as she eased his pants over his hips exposing his throbbing erection. She bent forward and closed her lips around the bulbous head. He moved closer as she flicked her tongue around the glans, allowing her fingers to trace a pattern across his tightened scrotum. He began to thrust gently in and out of her mouth as she covered his throbbing member with her saliva, still sucking greedily at it.

  He slid his hands through her hair, amazed at the fineness of it. Then his hands slipped to her shoulders then down to seek her breasts which he kneaded through the material of her T-shirt, coaxing the nipples to even greater stiffness.

  She pulled away suddenly, allowing his penis to slip from her mouth. Then, with a grin on her face she pulled the T-shirt off and moved swiftly across to the bed. Jennings stepped out of his jeans, tugged his socks off then removed his shirt, watching mesmerised as she shrugged off her own jeans, undulating and writhing on the bed, peeling them off like a snake sloughing its skin.

  Naked, they were joined on the bed.

  He cupped her left breast in his hand and squeezed, his tongue flicking over the stiff nipple, teasing it between his teeth before repeating the procedure on the other. Her hand found his shaft and she enveloped it in her fingers, beginning a rhythmic motion which brought him immense pleasure. He twisted round so that his face was between her legs, nuzzling his way through her tightly curled pubic hair until he found her swollen vaginal lips. He flicked his tongue along each in turn before seeking her clitoris, drawi
ng back the fleshy hood with his teeth, feeling the firmness against his tongue.

  Her cleft wept moisture into his mouth as he brought one hand around and began softly stroking the inside of her thighs. Her breathing became deeper.

  Then she rolled over, pulling him onto his back, lowering herself onto his face, pressing her wet pubis against his mouth for a moment longer before sliding down his chest, leaving a moist trail. She straddled him taking his penis in one hand, guiding it towards her wetness, rubbing his swollen glans against her clitoris. Using him to stimulate her further. If this was still a game, then he was playing by her rules now.

  ‘Fuck me,’ she gasped, insistently and lowered herself onto him, enveloping his penis with her cleft so that it felt as if he was being seized by a slippery glove which tightened more as he thrust up to meet her downward movement. She gasped and ground against him harder, moaning as he rubbed her swaying breasts, knowing that he was close to orgasm himself.

  Paula leant forward and kissed him, her tongue pushing into his mouth, flicking across his lips as she rode him faster. She sucked his tongue into her mouth and he felt it against the hard edges of her teeth. Felt her own tongue retreat to allow his to probe deeper.

  Felt her front teeth closing on his tongue.

  Felt the uncontrollable agony as she bit through it.

  Blood burst from the tumescent appendage, filling his mouth and hers, spilling over his chin to stain the sheets beneath.

  She sat back, swallowing the tongue with one huge gulp then she bent towards him again, still riding his now shrinking penis, still feeling the uncontrollable pleasure building within her as he bucked beneath her.