Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  She ran the taps, washing the mess from the sink, glancing at her own haggard reflection in the mirror. She groaned again as she caught sight of the apparition which stared back at her. Pale skinned, eyes black from too much smudged mascara. Her hair, so carefully prepared before the party, now hung limply around her face. There were stains on her red blouse and also on her tight white skirt. She shook her head but even that minor act of disapproval caused her to reel once more. She had no idea how much she’d drunk, or even what she’d drunk. The party had begun four or five hours ago, she thought, but now she wasn’t even sure of the time. Amanda glanced at her watch but it seemed to dissolve before her eyes. Her drink clouded vision refused to clear and she sat down heavily on the toilet seat, feeling the vomit beginning its upward journey for the second time that night. She clenched her teeth together and the feeling passed momentarily. It felt as if her head was spinning around on her neck like some bizarre kind of top. She gripped the edge of the toilet seat for fear of falling off.

  Amanda was beginning to wish she had never agreed to come to the party. She didn’t like loud music, she didn’t know many of the other guests and, ordinarily, she didn’t drink much. Perhaps someone had spiked her drink, she pondered, rubbing her stomach with one shaking hand. Whatever the answer was she knew she couldn’t stand another night of this purgatory. She felt her stomach contract suddenly, struggling to her feet just in time to reach the sink. She hung over it, waiting for the inevitable but the spasms passed and she began to straighten up. Again she caught sight of her reflection. God, she thought. She looked about fifty instead of nineteen.

  There was a bang on the bathroom door.

  ‘Amanda.’

  She barely recognised the voice.

  ‘Amanda. Are you all right?’

  She blinked hard, trying to clear not only her vision but her head too.

  Outside the door, Tracy Grant exhaled wearily and banged once more. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t invited Amanda. If she threw up on any of the carpets there would be hell to pay. If her parents discovered she’d had the party in the first place while they were away for the weekend she’d be in big enough trouble but, if they came back to find puddles of puke everywhere then she may as well pack her bags and leave home. It would save them the bother of throwing her out. She banged again and repeated Amanda’s name.

  ‘Are you all right, I said?’ she shouted, forced to raise her voice over the sound of the music thundering away downstairs.

  There were a series of raucous cheers from below her and, despite her anger, she managed a smile as she heard the chugging rhythm of AC/DC’s ‘You shook me all Night long’ and realised that her brother was more than likely engaged in his duckwalk dance.

  Tracy heard the sound of a bolt being slid back and the door opened.

  ‘You look awful,’ she said as she saw Amanda swaying uncertainly before her.

  ‘I feel awful,’ the other girl told her. ‘I’m going home.’ She took a step forward, almost overbalancing.

  Tracy grabbed her.

  ‘Not in that state you’re not,’ she snapped. ‘What have you been drinking anyway?’

  Amanda could only shrug.

  ‘I’ll get Carl to drive you home,’ Tracy told her. ‘He’s about the only one who’s still sober.’ She snaked an arm around Amanda’s waist and the two of them struggled down the stairs. As they got to the hallway Amanda clenched her teeth together once more and put a hand to her mouth.

  Tracy muttered something under her breath and dashed to the front door, pulling it open in time to allow Amanda to get her head out and retch violently into a rhododendron bush which Tracy’s father had so carefully nurtured.

  ‘You stay there,’ said Tracy irritably and stalked off into the sitting room where the music was reaching ever more deafening proportions. Amanda gripped the doorframe as best she could, supporting herself while her stomach somersaulted, finding yet more fluid to expel should she lose control. A moment or two later Tracy returned with a tall youth in his early twenties, his face pitted around the chin from the ravages of acne. But, apart from that he had strong features and piercing green eyes which immediately focused on Amanda’s backside and legs. He smiled appreciatively.

  ‘Carl’s going to drive you home,’ Tracy announced.

  ‘I don’t want her throwing up in my car,’ Carl Dennison said, suddenly realising the state of his intended passenger.

  ‘Drive with the window open,’ Tracy snapped, supporting Amanda with both arms as Carl scuttled along the path to his waiting Capri. He’d bought it off a friend about a week ago and the last thing he wanted was some boozed up bitch spewing up all over his mock-tiger skin seats. Still, he thought as he looked more closely at his drunken passenger, she should be all right until he got her home. It was after midnight, the roads in Hinkston would be quiet. He could make it in less than twenty minutes if he put his foot down. Carl slid behind the wheel and started the engine, glancing across at Amanda who had already wound down the window and was leaning out, trying to suck in lungfuls of air. As the car vibrated the girl felt her stomach turning more forcefully and, only by a monumental effort did she manage to retain its contents.

  Carl drove off, seeing Tracy in the rear-view mirror. She stood there for a moment then disappeared back inside the house.

  Carl looked across at Amanda who was groaning quietly as he drove. The wind was whistling through the open window, blowing her hair away from her face. She had her eyes closed. He took his eye off the road momentarily to glance down at her legs. She’d kicked off her high heels and one leg was drawn up beneath her on the seat. Carl turned a corner, saw that the road was deserted and slowed down slightly.

  As the needle on the speedometer dropped to below thirty he reached across with his left hand and touched her knee, feeling the soft material of her stocking beneath his fingers. He grinned.

  Amanda moaned and slapped feebly at his hand but there was no strength in the rebuff, she was more concerned with holding down her drink.

  Carl’s hand slid higher, towards her thigh.

  She mumbled something and drew her head back inside the car for a second, glancing wearily at him.

  He withdrew his hand, aware of the erection which was beginning to uncoil inside his jeans, pushing painfully against the denim as it became harder.

  As Amanda put her head back out of the window he let his hand slip back onto her thigh, but, this time, he pushed it higher, allowing his fingers to brush against the sleek material of her panties.

  Again she tried to slap his hand away but this time he hooked two fingers into the top of her knickers, feeling her tightly curled pubic hairs. Amanda shook her head.

  Carl smiled triumphantly and pulled his hand away just long enough to unzip his own jeans and pull out his erection. He grabbed her right hand and wrapped the limp fingers around his stiff shaft. What the hell, she was so pissed she wouldn’t even remember what she’d done in the morning.

  She pulled her hand away but he closed his own over it, forcing her back to his penis, guiding her, using her to masturbate him.

  Amanda grunted in disapproval, not sure whether she was more disturbed by the vomit rising in her throat or the fact that she was an unwilling partner to Carl’s approaching gratification. She turned in her seat, her hand still clasped around his shaft, his own fist wrapped around hers moving it rhythmically.

  ‘Go on, do it,’ he urged, his breathing now becoming more heavy. He was staring ahead at the empty road, aware of the sensations building in his groin.

  Amanda finally lost her battle.

  She leaned towards Carl and vomited into his lap.

  He yelled in rage and disgust as his jeans, the car seat and his throbbing penis were all covered in the copious regurgitation.

  He slammed on the brake and leant across, pushing open the car door, digging his elbow into Amanda’s side, shoving her from the seat.

  She fell heavily onto the grass verge at the roadside
and Carl himself felt his stomach spinning as the stench of her vomit filled his nostrils. It covered him like a sticky yellow blanket.

  He shouted something at her then drove off, leaving her lying on the damp grass.

  Amanda tried to rise, tried to call him back but her protests dissolved into a flood of tears. She thought she was going to be sick again but the feeling passed. Finally, she managed to rise, aware that her shoes were still in the car, now disappeared into the night. She felt the dampness soaking through her stockings as she walked.

  She had no idea where she was, not even which part of Hinkston. There was a garage about a hundred yards down the road, the forecourt in darkness. But, beyond it there were houses. If she could reach one of those she could use a phone, call her parents. They’d be mad at her. Furious. But she didn’t care. She just wanted to get home to bed, to drift off to sleep and shut out this terrible feeling once and for all. Amanda began to walk, her gait shambling, as if her legs would not obey her brain. Twice she stumbled, almost falling. The second time she fell against a hedge, the leafless twigs snagging her stockings and scratching her skin. She moaned, her head still spinning, her plight, it seemed, intensified by the chill night air. She felt as if her head had been stuffed with cotton wool.

  She glanced towards the petrol station again and something caught her eye.

  A figure moved on the forecourt.

  Perhaps it was someone walking their dog. Someone who could help her. She tried to quicken her pace.

  The figure stepped back into the shadows at the side of the main building and disappeared.

  A second later she saw car headlights lancing through the blackness. The vehicle swung out of the forecourt turned and moved unhurriedly towards her. It slowed down as it drew level with her then it stopped, the engine idling.

  Amanda couldn’t see the driver, he was hidden by the gloom inside the vehicle.

  She staggered towards it, both surprised and relieved when the passenger side door was pushed open as if to welcome her.

  ‘Help me please,’ she slurred, fighting back the nausea as she stuck her head inside the car.

  The stench in there almost cleared her head.

  She jerked upright still unable to see the driver, appalled by the smell, aware that it was going to make her vomit.

  She tried to step back but a hand shot forward and clamped across her mouth, forcing back both the seething hot bile and her scream.

  The long, double-edged stiletto blade darted forward and buried itself in her right eye.

  Amanda was dragged into the car, the door slammed behind her.

  The car moved away, the driver indicating thoughtfully as he turned a corner. Only then did he speed up.

  Forty-five

  She heard the thunderous blows on the front door as he tried to batter his way in.

  Sue Hacket stood in the hallway for long seconds, mesmerised by the incessant pounding, her eyes fixed on the door which seemed to bow inward an inch or two with each successive impact.

  Another second and he would be through.

  She thought about screaming but realised that it would do no good. The house stood at least thirty yards from its closest neighbour, even if they should hear her cry for help it was doubtful if they would reach her in time.

  He was nearly through the door.

  Perhaps they had heard the banging, perhaps the police were already on the way.

  Perhaps…

  Sue spun round and caught sight of the phone on the stand behind her.

  The thunderous blows on the front door seemed to increase and her eyes widened in horror as she saw the first split appear in the wood. It zigzagged across the paintwork like a crack in a sheet of ice.

  If she could reach the phone. Call the police.

  Would they arrive before he got in?

  Before he reached her?

  She had one hand on the phone when one panel of the door was smashed inwards.

  Sue screamed, dropped the phone and hurtled up the stairs as fast as she could, stumbling on the fifth step. She whimpered under her breath, glancing around to see his hand reaching through the pulverised wood, feeling for the lock and chain which secured the door.

  He freed it and kicked the door open.

  Sue screamed again and hauled herself upright, running for the landing, towards the bedroom as she heard him career into the sitting room. Then out into the hall once more, his footfalls pounding on the stairs.

  She slammed the bedroom door and stood with her back against it, her breath coming in gasps.

  He would find her.

  He didn’t even need to hurry. There were only four rooms on the first floor of the house. He would be able to move at will from one to the other until he found her and then she knew what would happen.

  Just like the woman who had lived in this house before her she would die.

  Slaughtered like an animal by the man who supposedly loved her.

  The last occupant of the house had been a schoolteacher just as the new occupant was. Only this new occupant was her own husband.

  It was John Hacket who prowled the landing stealthily, the double-barrelled shotgun gripped in his bloodied hands.

  She heard him kick open the door of the bathroom, then the other two bedrooms.

  She heard the creak of the floorboards as he stood outside the room where she hid. There was only three inches of wood between her and her husband.

  Her and the shotgun.

  Sue crossed to the window and tried to open it but the old sash frame had been painted over and the emulsion secured it as if it had been nailed shut. Through the glass she could see the school beyond, its tall buildings rising into the night sky as if supporting the low clouds.

  Hacket drove his foot against the door and the hinges groaned.

  Sue spun round, knowing there was nowhere else to run. Knowing that this was the end.

  She had just one comforting thought.

  She would soon be with Lisa again.

  Strange how, when death is near, the human mind clutches at even the most ridiculous notions to ease its fear.

  Hacket roared with rage and drove his shoulder against the door.

  It swung back, slamming into the wall and he stepped across the threshold, raising the shotgun to his shoulder, aiming at her head.

  He was smiling.

  Sue screamed.

  Hacket fired and the scream was lost in a deafening crescendo of blazing lead as both barrels flamed.

  The scream catapulted her from the nightmare.

  She sat bolt upright in bed, perspiration covering her like a translucent shroud.

  In the darkness of the bedroom she blinked, trying to readjust to the gloom, to push the nightmare from her mind, not sure for fleeting seconds what was real and what was a residue of the dream.

  Like the figure which stood at the foot of her bed.

  She blinked, expecting it to vanish.

  It didn’t.

  Standing at the bottom of her bed, his eyes pinning her in an unblinking stare, stood six-year-old Craig Clayton.

  His body was quivering from head to foot.

  Forty-six

  Sue looked at the child through the darkness, barely able to make out his features, illuminated as they were by the thin shaft of light from the landing.

  He seemed to be swaying gently back and forth at the bottom of the bed but, throughout the strange motions, his eyes never left her.

  She pulled the sheet around her, aware of her nakedness and strangely uncomfortable beneath the unflinching stare of the boy.

  ‘Craig?’ she said, softly, as if trying to break his fixed concentration. To distract him from that piercing stare. He seemed almost trance-like.

  She pulled her house-coat on hurriedly and swung herself out of bed, blinking hard to clear her vision.

  As she approached him the door of her bedroom opened and Julie walked in.

  Sue saw the look of shock on her sister’s face as she loo
ked at the boy and she motioned for Sue to stay back.

  ‘I thought I heard him get up,’ Julie said.

  ‘When I woke up he was just standing there,’ Sue explained.

  ‘Come on, Craig,’ Julie said, sternly, taking the boy by the shoulders as if to drag him forcibly from the room. ‘You’ve disturbed your auntie now.’

  ‘He didn’t disturb me…’ Sue began but then hurriedly closed her mouth as Julie shot her a withering glance.

  Craig, come on. Back to bed,’ Julie snapped, pulling him with even greater urgency.

  The boy wouldn’t move. He shook loose from Julie’s grip, his eyes never leaving Sue.

  ‘Is he all right, Julie?’ she asked, seeing the boy’s expression darken.

  Julie didn’t answer, she merely gripped the boy by the shoulders and pulled.

  He tore himself free of her hold, spun round and punched her in the side, his eyes blazing.

  Sue looked on in shocked dismay.

  ‘You’ll have to help me,’ Julie gasped, making another grab for the boy who was now facing his mother, his hands twisted into claws, as if ready to strike at her should she try to touch him again. Julie moved forward and Craig backed off, his back touching the wall. He glanced at the two women and Sue almost recoiled from what looked like pure hatred in those eyes.

  ‘Mike, come here,’ Julie shouted, rousing her husband.

  She lunged forward and grabbed Craig, holding one of his wrists, but he gripped her hand, tugging at the skin on the back of it until his nails drew blood. Julie yelped in pain and withdrew her hand, the bloody furrows weeping red fluid onto the carpet. He looked at Sue as if daring her to approach him. She could see the first clear dribblings of sputum beginning to seep through his clenched teeth.

  Mike Clayton entered the room, pushing past the two women, making straight for the boy, a look of determination on his face.