Girl Seven

by Hanna Jameson

  I am sitting on a mountaintop...

  Oh, fuck off.

  I waited for a moment, then rang the doorbell, hoping that an adrenalin kick would carry me through.

  A tall silhouette appeared behind the glass.

  When the door opened I saw that he had no need to put the safety latch on. Issa Taggart was a huge black man in his early thirties, with a friendly face and the biggest hands I’d ever seen; hands that looked as though they could wrap around my skull and crush it.

  ‘Hi,’ I said with a professional smile. ‘Mr Taggart?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Noel Braben sent me.’ I looked up coyly from beneath a sweep of my hair, playing up the submissive Japanese stereotype as much as my urge to vomit would allow. ‘As a thank you for all your hard work for him. A gift, free of charge.’

  I figured it could only work to my favour if I spoke a little like English was my second language. It made most men speak to me as though I was mentally retarded.

  Issa Taggart scanned his road over the top of my head, decided that no one could see us and stood aside to let me in.

  I bowed my head to him and did as he indicated.

  His house had the appearance of one that was in the midst of the awkward transition from home to a young rebellious couple to family haven. Ornaments and cheap-looking nude oil prints were all jam-packed into high places while the stairs were shielded by a child-gate.

  He led me into his living room, which looked as though it wanted to be messy but had been forced into a state of unnatural cleanliness, namely by shoving all items into the corners of the room or stacking them under chairs and coffee tables to hide them from sight.

  There was a derelict fireplace that had obviously never been used, but there was a holder full of pokers and tongs next to a flayed leather sofa.

  ‘My, um... wife will be back in two hours.’

  I put my bag down without much noise. ‘I will only stay for as much time as would please you, sir.’

  He seemed to relax a little the more he stared at me.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Whatever you would like.’

  He smiled. ‘I like Asian chicks like you. I’ll bring you wine. Where are you from, Thailand?’

  I gritted my teeth as he left the room to go to his kitchen, and silently moved one of the pokers from its holder to slide it down behind one of the sofa cushions.

  There were a couple of photos of his young wife and newborn baby above the fireplace. His wife was extremely pretty; about the same size as me.

  ‘Japan, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Ain’t no woman called me “sir” for a long time!’ he called. ‘You can come again! Bet I’m too broke to afford a chick like you every day though. Am I right?’ He laughed to himself.

  It never ceased to amaze me how stupid men could become when they were offered sex. I couldn’t imagine any woman letting a stranger into her house on the promise of being able to come multiple times within an hour.

  I waited for him to come back through to the living room.

  He handed me a glass of red and I pretended to sip it, even though the smell alone was almost enough to make me gag.

  I was starting to seriously doubt my ability to knock him out and restrain him. He was so fucking big. It would be like hitting a shed. If I was a second too slow he would smash me to pieces.

  Taggart sat down on his sofa with his wine and appraised me.

  ‘Noel ain’t never done nothing like this for me and mine before,’ he said, baring a set of distractingly white teeth.

  ‘Mr Braben is very selective.’

  ‘So you’re here for as long as I want? You do whatever I want? Really?’

  I nodded, malleable as snow.

  ‘Take something off,’ he said with a glance at his watch.

  I pulled the lace vest over my head.

  I wasn’t wearing a bra.

  ‘Come here.’

  He put his wine to one side and beckoned me forwards.

  I approached him, took both vast hands in mine and straddled him. What felt like paralysing fear to me would probably just look like sexual arousal.

  ‘Close your eyes, sir,’ I said, undoing his belt and pulling at the buttons on his jeans.

  With a last wistful look at my tits he did as he was asked, with this big stupid grin on his face.

  I took the heavy iron poker out from behind the cushions and stepped back and out of his grasp. Before he opened his eyes I gripped it tight in both hands and brought it crashing downwards and sideways, as if I were swinging a baseball bat, into the side of his head.

  There was a sound like someone dropping a melon.

  He made a dull protest, flattening against the sofa as a trickle of blood ran down his jaw.

  His eyes were half open.

  Holding my breath, I swung the poker again. Not quite as hard, but hard enough.

  His eyes closed.

  After putting my top back on I dragged Taggart’s vast bulk to the floor and set about wrapping him in so much masking tape that I was on the verge of mummifying him. Once I was sure that he wouldn’t be able to move either his arms or his legs, I stood up, sweating, and called the Russians to let them know that I had Taggart under control and I was going to find the money.

  ‘OK.’ Alexei sounded surprised, but sceptical. ‘Call when you do.’

  I rang off, muttering, ‘Well fuck you very much, dickwad.’

  Putting a cautionary piece of tape over Taggart’s mouth, in case he regained consciousness while I was absent, I started walking from room to room, trying to put myself in the mindset of someone who had a lethal sum of money to hide.

  I stared at the kitchen and opened and closed a few cupboards.

  It was fruitless; I could tell already. The money wasn’t going to be put in any old place. Chances are he had a concealed cabinet, a loose floorboard, a cupboard with the top and back removed, or a hole in the wall behind a bookcase. Fuck, it could have been in the baby’s room.

  There were dirty clothes slung over the banisters and some socks had fallen down on to the stairs. I surveyed the landing and put my head around the doors to the bedrooms and bathrooms. There was an attic too, situated ominously over the stairs, with no visible way of reaching it.

  I sat down on the master bed for a while, hugging a cushion. I thought I’d feel more shaken by having to bash the man’s head in, but I didn’t feel much at all. I had become strangely accustomed to that.

  There was a book on physics on their bedside table called Parallel Worlds, by Michio Kaku.

  I took it downstairs with me and put it in my bag.

  Sighing, I knelt beside Taggart and gave him a small shake. When he didn’t respond I got his glass of wine and poured a little over his face. After a few seconds his eyes flew open.

  I stood up and leapt backwards as if he was going to grab me, and remembered that he couldn’t.

  The eyes widened, refocused on me, narrowed, and then he began shouting from behind the tape.

  I walked away, breathless, and retrieved the stubby little gun from my bag.

  ‘Look,’ I said, returning to where he could see me clearly. ‘Look, this is nothing personal. I don’t know you. I’m working for someone else. Just tell me where the money is. I have these... I have these knives in my bag and if you start screaming and stuff when I take that tape off your mouth I’m gonna take a finger or something, OK? So just don’t do it... Because I really don’t want to do that. It’ll be really fucking gross. OK?’

  I leant down and ripped the tape off.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Now can you just tell me where the money is? Because if I don’t have it when your wife gets back, and your baby, I’ll kill them.’

  I wasn’t sure if I meant it.

  He seemed pretty sure, spluttering, ‘Fuck! Fuck, this is fucked-up! Fuck...’ while blood dried on his face.

  ‘Hey!’ I snapped, wavin
g the gun at him. ‘Money! Now!’

  ‘If I tell you, you gonna kill me anyway.’

  ‘Maybe, but... You know what, I probably will because now you’ve seen my face and stuff, since I didn’t have time to bring a goddamn fucking wig, I’m gonna have to so that you don’t rat me out to Noel.’ I spread my hands. ‘But I promise I won’t kill your wife and kid. I won’t if you just tell me where the money is.’

  ‘Fuck...’

  ‘You think you’re fucked? I didn’t want to do this! I’m not...’ My voice was getting shrill. ‘I’m not a bad person, OK? I’m not a fucking psychopath!’

  ‘You are psycho bitch!’

  ‘I’m not, I...’ I stopped and sighed, my face in my hand. ‘I’m not. I’ve just got to do this. So tell me where the money is and I won’t kill your family.’

  He was breathing unnaturally fast. ‘You gonna kill me, fuck... Please... Please!’

  I felt the tears rising in my throat but I forced them down. ‘It’s you or me. Now where’s the money?’

  No answer, just breathing.

  ‘Where is it?’ I shouted.

  Nothing.

  I put the gun down, took the kitchen knife out of my boot and rammed it into one of his exposed fingers.

  He howled.

  I dropped the bloodied knife, stood up again and kicked him. ‘Where the fuck is it?’

  ‘Please please please...’

  ‘I’ll cut your fingers off, I fucking promise I will!’

  Nothing. He just screwed his eyes tight shut, thrashing on the floor and shaking his head from side to side. For a moment I was worried that the tape wouldn’t hold, then the energy left my legs and I sat down on the carpet.

  I tried not to look at his slashed finger. It made me want to cry.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, cross-legged and hunched over. ‘But I really need to know where the money is. If you don’t tell me I’m gonna have to kill your wife and I don’t wanna do that, OK? But I have to kill you, you get that, right? You’ve fucking seen me!’

  ‘If you hadn’t got me all trussed-up I’d break your fucking neck, right, bitch...’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Thanks. No, really, thanks. More of that and I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.’

  I stretched both my legs out and got to my feet, making a load of strenuous sounds as if I had a bad back or hip.

  Looking at the clock, I saw that I still had just over an hour.

  ‘Where’s the money, Issa?’ I shrugged. ‘Or I will cut your fucking finger off.’

  He just glared at me. It was almost scary imagining what he must have been thinking: a million different ways to kill me horribly.

  Without a word I picked up the knife again, knelt down by him and jammed it into his already bleeding finger. When he cried out I just twisted it harder, and harder, feeling the blade collide with bone and work its way through the skin on the other side.

  I retched a little.

  ‘FUCK! OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK!’

  ‘Where is it, you fucking sack of shit!’

  ‘Microwave! Fucking microwave!’

  ‘What?’

  I withdrew the knife and he screamed, ‘The microwave isn’t a fucking microwave!’

  Dropping the knife again I ran back to the kitchen and opened all the small rectangular cupboards until I came across the microwave. It looked normal from the outside, but when I opened the door there was nothing behind it but a hole in the wall.

  I reached inside, feeling around until my hands gripped the handles of a heavy bag, and dragged it out.

  It fell to the floor with a solid thump.

  There was nothing else in the hole so I dragged the bag back through to the living room.

  I realized too late that I had dropped the knife right next to Taggart’s hands, and he had been sawing through the tape with a violent flailing motion.

  He had one arm free when I ran for the gun on the floor.

  I felt it wrap around my ankle and drag me down.

  There was blood in my mouth and I was being wrenched backwards.

  I kicked and kicked until I felt my feet connect with flesh and then I scrambled for the Derringer and turned and fired it into his face, which caved in under the bullet and showered me with blood as the recoil sent the gun spiralling out of my hands and the sound of the shot impacted against the inside of my skull and my ears began ringing.

  I’d bitten through my bottom lip when I fell and it hurt like fuck.

  Hands over my ears, I struggled into a kneeling position.

  Issa Taggart was dead. He was really fucking dead.

  I hadn’t been this close to a dead person since my parents and sister. I kept watching him, sure he was going to move, because he was human-shaped and humans always moved, but he didn’t. The human in him was gone. Now he was just a lump, like the sofa he was lying next to.

  Grimacing, I stood up and put my knife and empty gun back in my bag. I went upstairs, dragged the duvet off their bed and took it downstairs to put over the body. Hopefully his wife would know he was dead on sight and wouldn’t feel the need to look, wouldn’t scar herself with the memory of seeing her husband wrapped in masking tape, sans finger, sans face...

  I pulled a bag on to each shoulder and switched the lights off on my way out of the room, so I didn’t have to look at the body or the photos of his wife and baby.

  At least he didn’t make me kill them, I thought.

  I let myself out of the house and walked shakily down the driveway and a little way down the road, to where the Russians were still waiting in total darkness in their car. They had turned around while I’d been gone.

  The last of the daylight had died while I’d been inside.

  Isaak opened the back door and shifted over to let me in.

  I swung the bags in before me in silence.

  Everyone looked at me.

  I looked at my hands.

  The driver started the car and pulled away.

  Alexei grabbed the new bag from the middle seat and unzipped it. His eyes widened in the yellow intervals of light from the passing lampposts.

  He muttered something in Russian, and Isaak undid his seatbelt to lean forwards and look.

  ‘All there?’ I asked.

  Alexei zipped the bag back up and pushed it into the footwell. ‘Yes, it is.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Isaak turned to me, his face blank with shock.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said, taking the leather gloves off and stuffing them in my bag. ‘I want my cut tonight so you might as well count it now.’

  Alexei picked up the bag and rested it on his knees, apparently lost in thought.

  The driver looked at me in the overhead mirror and said, ‘Well done.’

  I heard him but tried to think about nothing. Not even the mountaintop or the leaves on the wind.

  18

  I’d seen it in loads of gangster and war movies: the scene where some inexperienced youngster takes their first human life, often by accident, as I had just done. They always ended up standing fully clothed under a shower sobbing into the tiles, writhing and gurning with flashbacks, clawing at their hair and face, plagued by sleeplessness and hallucinations of blood on hands. Hell, fictional women had thrown themselves from castle walls over it.

  I didn’t have any of that.

  Feeling weirded-out by the strained car journey, I left my travel bag, now heavy with money, in the living room and let myself drop face down on to my bed.

  It was almost midnight.

  I refused to think any more about what had just happened. In the car I’d started to dwell on the idea of Taggart’s wife returning, picturing the changing expressions on her face, but I dismissed it. It was like a fire door closing in my mind. If I didn’t want to think about something, I shut it off and let it burn itself out without my direct attention.

  My limbs were limp with exhaustion, but I made myself get back up, put Bob Dylan on my iPo
d just inside the bathroom door and go for a shower.

  I didn’t cry in the shower; just washed.

  When I came out of the bathroom I fell straight back into the bed still wrapped in my towel. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remembered was being woken up by the sound of my phone ringing in the living room.

  I launched myself off my bed, thinking that it might be the Russians, or Noel having found out about the body and money...

  But it was Daisy.

  ‘Can I come over?’

  I shook sleep out of my eyes and glanced at the clock, but I wasn’t that attached to the idea of sleep anyway and she sounded uncharacteristically glum.

  ‘Yeah, go for it. You OK?’

  ‘I’m outside actually, pissed and... I have Smirnoff Ice.’

  I smiled while simultaneously kicking my travel bag out of sight down by the side of the sofa. ‘Come up. I’ll buzz you in.’

  ‘Wheeey! Thanks, bub.’

  I buzzed her in and quickly made sure the bag was hidden before letting her in, holding the towel in place under my armpit.

  Daisy swayed inside wearing a jumper and tights, and handed me a Smirnoff Ice. ‘I don’t know why I bought them. Imagine if I’d been hit by a bus or something, I’d have died with these things. People would think I was the sort of girl who drinks Smirnoff Ice at one in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind for an epitaph.’

  ‘I’m a cheap date, me. I think I’m just pissed on the E numbers.’ She hopped around on one foot taking her ankle boots off and collapsed on to the sofa, putting her feet up on the arm. ‘Sometimes when I talk to Nic I think he’s just pretending to be dense so that he doesn’t have to say anything. Seriously, I ask him a question and he just stares at me, like “Huh?” It’s like living with Kevin the teenager.’

  ‘Have you guys had an argument?’

  I sat down on the rug and opened the Smirnoff Ice with my lighter. It didn’t even count as alcohol in my mind. I wasn’t even sure you could get drunk on it.

  ‘Yeah and no, not really. I just didn’t want to stay there; he drags such a fucking atmosphere around when he’s sulking.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I never thought I’d ever have to like him that much, that’s the problem. Let alone say it or... show it or anything. I thought people who did that should be euthanized.’