Ben stopped. “Chantelle didn’t send me.”
“Bullshit,” Dani spat.
“She didn’t.”
“Morbid curiosity was never your strong point. You hate getting involved in things like this. She put you up to coming here. Probably wants an update for her blog or something.”
“I came to see if you were okay.”
Dani paused. A sense of sincerity tinged his voice. She almost fell for it. His betrayal tinted every word. “I want you to leave.”
“I came for you.”
“Yeah, well, if you weren’t such a cheating bastard, you might have the fucking right to do so. You have no idea what you did to me that day. I had to walk home and find my boyfriend, the guy who told me to ignore my parents warnings, the boy who confessed his love to me, playing tonsil tennis with another girl. A slag, nonetheless. Kissing isn’t cheating? Isn’t that what a whore would say to a client? What sort of deluded world does she live in?”
“Dani –”
“– I don’t want to hear it, Ben. I learned one thing from you and that is to trust no one. We’re done. After today, you won’t be seeing me again.”
She turned and walked back into the garage.
“Dani?”
“Fuck off.”
Dani dropped her phone on the floor and kicked it behind the dusty workbench in the corner. She watched Ben struggle with his emotions, his lack of chance to get a photograph – she’d seen him slide the phone from his pocket, hesitant to snap her hideous visage – and eventually, he walked off the driveway and home, vanishing from sight. He’d bottled it, as always. She wondered how Chantelle would react to his failure.
Good riddance, she thought.
Dani opened the driver door and climbed in. The leather squeaked beneath her rump. She slipped the key into the ignition and turned the car on, thumbing the radio off. Slowly, she pulled out of the garage and turned into the road, snapping the CRIME SCENE tape. Dani didn’t look at the house as she drove the car away from her entire past.
Leaving her home and the horrific memories behind.
A moment later, her mobile phone vibrated on the concrete floor.
It remained unanswered.
PART TWO
Best Laid Plans
ELEVEN
ONE YEAR LATER
Bradley blew out a stream of acrid cigarette smoke and casually observed.
He liked to observe, it relaxed him.
Observing was a preferred pastime of his, something he thoroughly enjoyed. Bradley had never been one for video games, TV, poker, or anything that helped pass a person’s mundane existence. He felt it spoiled the cognitive function, caused distractions. Bradley didn’t like to be distracted; in his line of work, it could be fatal.
He liked music, but that was something else entirely.
Distractions denied focus, they stunted organisation. He couldn’t have that.
No, Bradley preferred to be organised. For forty long years, he had been prepared; ready for anything and poised for nothing to go wrong. It made him a valuable asset to anyone who knew him. As a result, he was also extremely dangerous.
A prepared man is essentially a deadly one.
He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt in the fireproof bin to his left, and pulled the heavy iron door open. A wave of heat gushed out, warming his wind-bitten face. Bradley stepped through the door and let it shut behind him. He closed his eyes and took in the smells, breathed in deeply. The perfumes, the sweat, the food, and odors of normal everyday activity. Bradley opened his eyes. He stepped forward and walked through a wooden archway. Once through, he paused.
He liked to observe, it relaxed him.
The concourse before him bore little resemblance to its former life as a basketball court. The concrete floor still stood proud, yes, and the worn red and blue markings of the various zones relevant to the sport still divided the concrete into useless sections. The hoops were still secured high up in the air, suspended on rusted metal arms. They retracted far into the ceiling; there was no use for them now. The nets hung awkwardly, leaning against the dusty metal rims. Bradley smiled, remembering his youth. He played basketball once or twice. He recalled being quite good at it, but boxing was more his sport. He almost went pro.
The court divided into areas, with each area providing a home to two mobile cabins. Bradley didn’t count, but he knew there were sixteen units, eight areas in total. The units were green and basic and the windows wired up, the type of units you see on building sites, to occupy the staff on lunch breaks. He’d been on a few sites in his time so he knew the feeling. Cold, stinking of coffee or tea, and being crammed into them like sardines with all of your workmates. Trading soggy sandwiches and anecdotes, slandering the wives and cheating girlfriends behind their backs.
It wasn’t a feeling he wished to relive.
These modified units were home to a number of women. Bradley knew they currently had twenty working girls on their books. They had a rotation system, which meant each woman occupied one cabin at a time. The four remaining women were working, bringing in the money. Bradley knew the money was a reasonable amount. It kept him in work and very comfortably at that. He owned an Audi, rented a plush, minimal apartment, and wore a Rolex.
Times were good.
Bradley walked across the court and idled between two units. Closed doors meant the women were sleeping, resting after their multiple performances of the day. Strict rotation meant that Thursday was a quiet day. Two or three performances meant that the women rested for a few hours in between each. They would probably have the whole night to themselves, locked away in their units, counting their takings or patching themselves up. They could do whatever kept them happy.
Bradley knew that each woman had access to a bed, a bookshelf, a TV fed from a main switcher box upstairs, and toilet and medical facilities. They had comforts, but they had to realise they were there to work. In addition, they had to take the chance to rest; the weekends were usually hectic. Married customers could feign business trips during the week, but many wouldn’t risk it until the weekend. It meant they were less restricted, freer with their earnings. Bradley smiled at the idea of marriage. Nowadays, it seemed more like a hindrance than an actual tradition.
He had heard that fifty percent of marriages ended in divorce, many in their early years.
Why bother? Bradley found himself shaking his head.
He moved on. As he strolled, he brushed his fingertips along the coarse cabin walls. Possibly feeling for movement inside, mostly out of routine. The cold, anti-corrosive paint felt fresh and smooth beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes, savouring the touch, the cool feeling.
The simple things are best, so many take them for granted, he thought.
After a moment, he reached the double doors that occupied the right side of the court.
Beyond the doors lay the business centre of Rhodes’ little empire. He took one final glance at the cabins, studied each for two seconds, smiled when content, and turned around. Bradley stepped through the double doors and waited.
He could hear faint music on the air. A recent song, familiar, one he’d heard numerous times, but couldn’t recall the name or artist. Not one of the greats, not one he would find in his music collection. Nothing as classic as Holly or Springsteen or Clapton.
Bradley was in an aqua blue hallway, which was home to a number of marked doorways. Between each doorway, hanging on the wall, was a painting. Bradley was not a fan of art and didn’t know the paintings by name or painter. There was one with a tree. Another with a screaming man. A third with a man standing on a dock, staring out to sea. All very elegant. They seemed like pieces picked out of a catalogue for their convenience or popularity rather than for their tradition. It gave the hallway a welcoming, but tidy appeal. Bradley knew people didn’t come here for the scenery outside of the rooms anyway. He smiled and strode down the corridor.
A door burst open behind him. Bradley spun casually and saw a woma
n collapse to the carpet. She was naked bar a small black thong, one mostly hidden in the cleft of her shapely behind. Her legs had folded up beneath her. Her mane of dark hair covered her face and shoulders, and her arms crossed defensively, covering small breasts with dark nipples. She spun to face the door and threw her arms out, hands spread, in an attempt to shield her from whatever was coming after her. The girl was sobbing.
A man emerged behind her. He wore a dark red robe that hung open in the middle, his pale, hairy gut protruding from between the material. His expensive white boxers did nothing to hide his throbbing erection. In one hand, he held a tumbler of amber liquid. Whiskey or bourbon? Bradley couldn’t tell. The other hand was trying to grab the woman by the hair. She was cowering away, yelping.
Bradley recognised the girl as Britney. It was her nineteenth birthday today, which meant this was her solitary shift for the day, a gift from Rhodes himself, one bestowed on all the girls. She was Brazilian-American, which gave her a special foreign appeal. International flavour, high in demand, and very expensive. In his eyes, Britney was the most beautiful woman they had on the payroll. Unfortunately, because of her age she was also quite naïve. It was obvious the customer was trying it on, taking advantage, and Britney was having none of it.
Bradley stepped forward and made a mental note of the room number. After a second, he approached the man. He said nothing, simply lingering in the man’s peripheral view. The man became aware of his presence and looked at him. Only then did Bradley smile. “Problem, sir?” He had his arms folded behind his back. He resembled a bouncer outside a nightclub.
“Yeah, this whore won’t let me fuck her in the arse.” The man jabbed at the air violently, gesturing towards the sky, the drink sloshing in his other hand. Britney was receding into the wall. Any further and she would probably vanish into it.
Bradley continued smiling.
“I apologise sir, but as you can see you are in B-Wing. Room fourteen is for our basic customers, sir. You haven’t paid for anything other than basic sex, normal sexual positions and a bit of cheeky fellatio. I call it our amateur package, for beginners if you will. Britney is simply abiding by our strict rules and doing her job. Please don’t put me in a position to use force here, okay?”
“But I want to fuck her in the arse, it shouldn’t cost extra. What sort of fucking Mickey Mouse operation do you run here?” The man looked appalled.
“Do you have your membership card, sir?”
The man glared at Bradley. After a long second, he stepped back into the room with a huff. He returned with his wallet and handed it to Bradley. It was fat and full of cash, the strained leather bulging with paper and credit cards. More credit than a man could need, or want, the sign of a man consumed by greed and power.
A man who felt entitled to anything he wanted.
Bradley shook his head. It wasn’t how this operation did business. He flipped open the wallet and slipped out a silver membership card, recognising the familiar insignia in the left corner. RR. He tossed the wallet back to the man, who grunted as it slapped him in on his bulging cheek. Bradley inspected the membership card. Embossed letters spelt the man’s name. It shone in the light.
“Bernard, may I call you Bernard?”
“No you may not; my name is Dr. Bernard Buck. Dr. Buck to you, okay? May I have my card back?”
“Bernard. For that little spat, I will now refer to you as arsehole. Dr. Arsehole, just so we are on the same fucking level here. You, Dr. Arsehole, have a silver membership card. That entitles you to – I hope you’re listening – basic amenities. Rooms ten to fourteen only, which means basic sex as I mentioned. You can fuck, you can get your dick sucked and you can fulfill any boring, sexual position that your wife won’t allow. Allow or finds repulsive, after all, look at the state of you, you fat cunt.”
Bernard’s eyes bulged and widened, his mouth hung agape.
Bradley continued. “However, you will not be fucking Britney in the arse; you will not be grabbing her by the hair because that constitutes BDSM and rough sex, which is way beyond your membership quota and, finally, you certainly will not be arguing with me on this. We don’t run a Mickey Mouse show here, if you want that, you can fuck off to Disneyland like a proper little nonce. We have a professional business here, and if you cannot abide by the rules, then your membership will be terminated, are we clear?”
Bernard was silent. His erection had subsided, probably because the blood has rushed to his face. His mottled cheeks were bright crimson. Clearly, no one had spoken to him like that in years, possibly ever. He seemed like a man who did what he wanted when he wanted. He finished his amber liquid, the glass trembling between his chubby fingers, clinking on his wedding band, and went back into his room. Moments later, he returned with his suitcase and hat. He looked absurd. He still wore the red gown, in addition to leather loafers and his boxers. A sheen of sweat illuminated his large forehead below the lights. He stomped off down the hallway. He stopped and looked back at Bradley. Bradley was still smiling.
“Off you fuck, go on!”
Bernard turned and walked away, slamming the door behind him.
After a moment, Bradley bent down to Britney. She was still cowering away. He swept her hair back to make sure she was okay. Britney stared up at him in terror, eyes wide. Bradley lingered on her eyes for a second before helping her up. She truly was beautiful, despite the black eye she had recently acquired.
Beautiful.
Just like her.
Just like Danielle.
Bradley flinched, backing away.
I haven’t thought about her in months, he thought.
When she was on her feet, Britney nodded sheepishly, stared at the floor and walked into the room, closing the door behind her. Bradley stared at the door, placing his palm flat against it, and then pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Cursing, he dialed a number and waited. After a muted second, there was a click on the phone.
“We have a problem. We have a customer who overstepped his boundary. What shall I do?”
The voice on the other end said, “Whatever is necessary”.
Bradley snapped his phone shut. He closed his eyes and smiled. This was the favorite part of his job. He removed his hand from the door. Thirty seconds later, he was walking down the hall.
Dr. Bernard Buck, forty-four and overweight, married with no children. Found dead in a ditch the next morning. They found his severed tongue deep in his anus. The fingers and toes were missing. They found his wallet, his credit cards and his hat in his engorged belly. A terrible mess. They found his wife at home, a gouge where her throat had once been. The missing fingers and toes were scattered around her corpse. The neighbors said they had been a normal couple; the husband was always away on business. Mrs. Buck has been an exemplary social figure. The events were a mystery.
Bradley blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, pocketed his pen and closed his notebook. He wondered how long it would be before the press printed that article, with little or no detail.
The sack of shit had it coming. He made me think of her…of Danielle.
Bradley closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts.
No distractions, you know the rules.
Observe – that’ll calm you down.
He liked to observe, it relaxed him.
He liked to problem solve even more so.
He closed his eyes, pushing the memory of the lovely Danielle from his brain – after all, she was dead, no one could survive that attack, especially a teenager – and smiled.
She’s dead. It’s been over a year. Forget her.
TWELVE
Corey Cross, Alan Cahill, Jorge Sanchez, and Philip Andrews, the lackeys.
Bradley Innis; the right hand man. The man who killed her family and mutilated her.
Their boss, Ross Rhodes.
Dani scanned her weary eyes down the piece of paper in her hand, the off-white sheet crinkled from multiple handlings over the past year. It held six names, the six re
sponsible for her family’s demise. Her father had scrawled them in red ink, neatly and tightly. It detailed their activity and their respective role in their organisation, the organisation her father had worked for until his brutal murder.
His name was next to Corey and Alan, a solid black line through it.
Her handiwork.
After all, he was dead now.
Face facts. He wasn’t coming back to help her.
Dani grunted and sat up. The mattress beneath her creaked as she adjusted her lithe frame. She placed the list on her bedside cabinet next to her parent’s platinum wedding rings, linked together via a small silver chain. Her smooth, tanned legs rolled over and her sock covered feet plodded onto the laminate floor. She crossed her apartment, wearing only a pair of blue panties and a sports bra – and the socks – and entered her walk-in shower, a concrete rectangle with a wet floor and wall. She slipped her garments off and tossed them into the hamper, walked behind the partition and started to shower.
Every morning the same.
Washing the tragedy off her skin.
She ran the water to near boiling, until she felt her skin object to the level of heat and stayed there for eleven minutes, as she did every morning. The tingle of searing pain crawled beneath her skin. Her scars itched beneath the heat. Two seconds had extended to thirty seconds and that had extended to one minute, then two, then three. Gradually, over the next year, she’d extended her mini ordeal to eleven full minutes. This time, she didn’t flinch. A murky mist rose around her. Dani inhaled, clearing her sinuses with a deep lungful of steam. Her back became numb under the scorching water. Still, she didn’t flinch.
Not once.
A year ago, she’d have cried tears and probably ran cold water over the burned area immediately.
Now, no such action was necessary.
Progress.
After all, routine was important. As was discipline.
Emerging from the shower with hot, pink skin, she wrapped a towel around her, tucked it at the side of her breasts, and walked to her desk. She booted up her laptop and sat down. Her eyes flicked to the brown box on the desk beside her and her mind wandered.
Grin Page 8
