by Linda Coles
It was during all this spare time, when others slumbered and snored all around him, tucked up warm in their beds with loved ones, that he had taught himself how to code and to set up a business. But his business was a little different from the conventional ones a client might find listed on Google. His business lived in a secret place, a dark place, one accessible only by invitation to select and affluent clientele. When he’d first had the idea and begun to put the bones of it together, he’d been surprised at the custom that had come his way – not so much the volume as the customers who had seen the opportunity for him to expand his offering to so much more and had been willing to put money into the venture.
Of course, he’d started small, and had done the majority of the work himself with the help of actors looking to pay bills of their own. He paid much better than waiting tables. Some of those early actors were still with him today, though times had changed with the advances in technology. Still, Chris’s business wouldn’t work without the humans involved; not everything could be left to technology. No, humans were the very essence of his group. And they had their needs.
Back in 2004, there had been only a handful of sites like his, and he’d had to use the common web to get things going. That and dank basements where others involved in illegal activity did their trading. It had reminded him of prohibition and illegal underground bars: secret locations, secret access and secret clientele that could be trusted.
Trust.
Trust was essential for a business like his to operate outside the norm, and he’d come up with a foolproof way to ensure nobody blabbed.
Self-incrimination.
In order to gain entry, a member had to supply proof of their desires and proof of themselves satisfying those desires. That way, if anyone felt like snitching, there was evidence of their own full involvement – and who would be crazy enough to drop themselves in it and report him to the authorities? So that’s what kept his service running smoothly, without aggravation from law enforcement. Even if an undercover officer managed to gain entry with an invitation, they were never going to supply their own proof of incrimination, and Chris would sniff them out immediately.
The other built-in security measure he’d added was the constant merry-go-round of site addresses. He used these like squatters use derelict homes, moving from one location to another at regular intervals. A short time before the group went live for the evening, a link would be sent out to his client base with the address where the gathering would be held encrypted in the message. Illegal dog-fighting rings did the same, except they met in the woods in person, while Chris’s group met in the cloud under pseudonyms.
Sat at his desk as Stephanie slept in his bed, Chris entered the group under his usual admin login and sent a message to the rest of his ‘management team,’ those who co-owned it. He had an opportunity lying fast asleep in his bed next door, and he knew there would be the perfect match-up for her somewhere. He just needed to find out who. He stepped back into his bedroom and took a picture of her lying fast asleep, her beautiful hair on show and her sweet face in blissful repose, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. He knew otherwise. He typed a short message and attached the image, then hit ‘send’ and waited while it pinged across various servers around the world. It wasn’t long before the first response came back.
Hair for a hijack, read one.
A beating for two pints of red, read another.
Feet for finances drained, read the third.
Chris smiled at the devilish delights his clients were willing to give in order to get what they wanted. While he himself would have liked to put a hit out on the man who had upset Stephanie, the rules of the group were clear: no one got physically hurt. No one would die, no feet severed, no eyeballs collected. Nothing to cause physical pain was ever to happen. That was not the business he was into. His role was arranging pleasure and fulfilling sexual fetishes for one group in return for something the providers would appreciate or enjoy themselves, and ensuring that neither party realized the two parts of the transaction were connected.
As he put it, he offered a dark service.
Since he himself was the client in this particular scenario, the ‘hair for a hijack’ offer stood out to him now. Stephanie could cope with losing her hair, he decided. It would grow back, and setting up the perfect hijack would be fun: William Botham would be scared out of his sleazy mind when the time came to throw a sack over his head and manhandle him out of his home.
He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled together in thought as he quickly worked out the logistics. He wanted it done tonight. He glanced at the clock on his computer: it was just coming up to midnight, which gave him around five hours tops, and since he knew nothing about the target as yet, he’d have to work quickly to get the pieces in place. While he felt sorry for Stephanie, since she’d undoubtedly be upset for a few days, he knew she wouldn’t be harmed in any way. Using a hijacker who demanded only money for the service was not how these exchanges worked: Stephanie needed to frighten Botham into silence, so there needed to be a forfeit in return. So there was no way around it: Stephanie would have to give up her beautiful long locks.
He got to work with his plan. First was a background search: his client’s location, activities and finances, both company and personal. It made him smile as he dug into what the man had been up to; his credit card statement read like a porn library and it seemed he had more than one property listed to his name.
“Which one are you sleeping in, Mr. Botham?” he said to the screen as he typed. He sat back and looked at the current power consumption of each of them. “Ah, I guess one is a bolthole for ‘special occasions.’ I wonder if your wife knows about it. Shame you’re not there in that flat. It would make the job a little easier later on.” He searched on and was pleased to discover Botham had a regular gym session with a personal instructor at 6 am each workday.
Well, he wouldn’t be going tomorrow.
He walked into his bedroom and bent at the side of the bed, kissing Stephanie lightly on the cheek. She really was a beautiful woman, and her long brown hair fanned out gloriously over the pillow.
“It will grow back, my love,” he whispered, “and your problem will be solved.” He slipped into bed beside her and stroked the very hair that would soon be appreciated by someone else.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
His shoulder throbbed. Was there any wonder? William looked at the red and now quite swollen skin in disbelief. Four little dark bloodied holes seemed to glare back at him, and he did his best to ignore them.
“Bitch,” he said to the reflection in the mirror, then peered more closely at his wound. His pyjama top had kept it concealed from his wife in bed; otherwise she’d have been asking awkward questions, questions he didn’t want to answer. How exactly do you explain that you were stabbed by a woman at work whom you were teasing? What was she on, anyway? Couldn’t she take a joke?
“Bitch needs an orgasm to release her pent-up frustrations,” he grumbled. “Probably not had one for years. Stuck-up cow – who does she think she is, attacking me?” He roughly lathered his face in foam and began to shave quickly, all the time cursing inwardly at the woman who’d taken him aback the previous night. He’d have to deal with that little problem later today: nobody got one over on him. In frustration, he swept his blade over his chin far too quickly and nicked himself. Claret mixed with creamy white, like strawberry coulis on vanilla ice cream.
“Shit!” he cursed out loud as he watched the red drop travel south. “Bitch,” he added again, and kicked the wall to vent his annoyance at something that wasn’t going to fight back.
Twenty minutes later he was on his way down to the underground car park and an hour punching a bag with his instructor at the gym before work. Still seething, he unlocked his car as he approached. It beeped in response and he flung his kitbag on to the back seat. As he got into the driver’s side, a figure slipped into the passenger side next to him, startling him. Even in t
he dim light of the garage he could see the person was wearing a black balaclava. Adrenalin poured into his bloodstream.
“What the fuck? What is this?” He turned to the figure and his face met the muzzle of a gun.
“Shut the hell up and drive. Head for the gym – as usual.”
It wasn’t lost on William that the ‘as usual’ meant whoever this was knew his movements. “What do you want? I don’t have any cash if that’s it. But I can get it later. Just leave me alone,” he said, his voice quivering.
Chris smiled inside the balaclava. This one was going to be too easy. It always amused him, when he undertook this role, how people reacted, how they’d start spilling their guts, what they started offering. And sometimes who they offered. He shook his head and tutted softly; this guy would probably sell out easily. He was tempted to ramp things up a notch. But he wasn’t there to harm the man, just scare him shitless. He spoke with a practiced fake Irish accent that even to his own ears sounded menacing.
“Shut the fuck up and drive. Don’t make me have to tell you again.” He pressed the gun into Botham’s thigh.
Botham took the hint and started the engine, pulling out of the dark garage and out into the weak morning light. He tried to look down at the gun, but the man pressed the muzzle in harder.
“Watch the road. You know what this is so don’t make me use it.” He felt Botham quiver slightly and hoped he wouldn’t wet his pants. Some of his victims had, and he hated the smell, but this was only going to be a short journey. He got down to the business he was there for.
“You weren’t very friendly last night. Now you’ll pay for it.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Are you really that stupid? Perhaps you are. They said you weren’t particularly bright. And I’m inclined to agree. Think back, dumbshit.”
A moment passed before Botham spoke. “Really? It’s about the bitch from the office?”
A punch to the side of his head sent the car careering into the other lane for a moment until Botham managed to correct it back to his side of the road.
“There you go again, disrespecting a woman. Not bright.”
“Oh, now I get it. This is my warning to stop, is that it? Who the hell are you, her boyfriend?”
Another blow caught him hard and he winced, closing his eyes for a second as the pain sliced through his skull.
“Do I sound like her boyfriend? I doubt she’d date someone with my particular skills.” He chuckled snidely and noted with satisfaction that Botham swallowed hard. The gym was just visible in the distance now.
“Pull into the car park and park over in the far-right corner, behind the shed.”
Botham obliged and steered the car into the space he’d indicated. “Turn the engine off and stay facing forward. Keep your hands on the steering wheel. If you move, it could get messy. And I don’t like mess.”
William sat po-faced like a naughty child doing as he was told. He felt movement at his side but dared not to look. Then suddenly everything went black as something – a sack? – was placed over his head. He gasped in panic as the smell of damp earth from the sack filled his nostrils. When nothing else happened, he tried to relax a little and keep his wits and bearings. He heard the strike of a match, and the stench of cigarette smoke filled the car. He waited for the man to speak, to find out what was coming next. The smell of smoke became stronger as the man exhaled, and William tried not to cough.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the man said at length. “Go about your day as usual. Do not under any circumstances speak to, look at, touch, or do anything with Stephanie today or any other day. If we hear of any contact with her whatsoever, your wife will be notified about the little love nest you keep for your extracurricular activities and the women who frequent the place with you. That should lead to quite a nice divorce settlement for her, I should think.” The man took another long drag on his cigarette, and William could just see the red glow of the ember through the woven sacking.
“Okay, I hear you. Can I go now?”
“Not quite. As a little reminder for you, in case you get tempted to digress, I want you to remember our conversation with this.”
The man gave no warning as the cigarette seared the skin on the back of William’s hand; he yelled in pain as the man increased the pressure, stubbing the cigarette out fully on his skin. He clutched his hand, gritting his teeth in pain.
“Now remember what I said or there will be more where that came from, much more. Look at the mark every time you see her, as a reminder of our conversation.”
William heard the car door open, and the man slipped out without another word and shut it quietly behind him.
William sat aghast. What the hell was going on here? First his shoulder, then his shaving, topped off with two blows to the head, a sack over the head and a burn on his hand. He was beginning to feel like Michael Palin in A Fish Called Wanda. All he needed now was a bloody nose.
He sat still, listening, for several more minutes. Finally, hearing nothing, he dared to turn his head. Had his assailant gone? He chanced lifting the sack away from his face and, squinting in the early morning light, looked cautiously around the vehicle. No, he was alone. He climbed gingerly out of the vehicle, cradling his burned hand, headed to the back door of the gym and went inside. While he wasn’t going to work out, he relished the sanctuary the building offered, and he felt his thumping heart begin to slow down. The bright receptionist, his current plaything, smiled coyly at him, but he was in no mood for flirting today. Maybe never again.
“Done?”
“Done. And what a pathetic excuse of a man he turned out to be. Bullies often are. He won’t be any bother now.”
The driver started his engine. “Excellent. Fancy a Sausage McMuffin?”
Taking his balaclava off, Chris replied in a very English accent, “Love one.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
She’d awoken in a strange bed. Chris was lying fast asleep next to her and she palmed her forehead in dismay. Has she really stayed over at Chris’s? And what had happened to him sleeping on the coach? Her head hurt from downing too much wine too quickly, and she jolted back to the events of the evening before.
At work. And what she’d done.
Grimacing, she gently folded the bed linen back and crept out of the room in search of the bathroom. Locking the door behind her for privacy, she examined her face in the mirror and took in the swollen eyes and blotchy skin. She looked like she’d had a good cry, that’s for sure, and she didn’t have any make-up with her. She flopped down on the toilet and took a pee, head in her hands. A light knock at the door pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Are you okay in there?” Gentle as ever; he’d always been the perfect gentleman.
“Be out in a minute,” she called back. “I need to get home and changed. I look like hell.”
“Never, but yes, I’ll drop you home. Time for a cuppa first?”
She had no idea what time it was, but if she was late, she didn’t really care anyway. She’d be lucky if she still had a job to go to, but she wasn’t going to stay away completely.
“Please.”
The smell of toast wafted up the stairs and met her on the landing. Her stomach grumbled in appreciation. When Stephanie eventually entered the kitchen, Chris had laid the table with juice and cereal packets.
“You may as well eat here,” he said, busying himself buttering toast. She took a slice. Butter ran close to the crust edges and she licked at it greedily. Chris couldn’t help but notice.
“Thanks for letting me stay last night. What happened to the sofa, though?” Chris smiled. “Relax, we didn’t do anything. You weren’t that out of it.”
Relief relaxed her shoulders a little and she smiled back. “I didn’t think so. I guess we can be two adult friends and sleep in the same bed, can’t we? Others manage it.”
“Well, while I don’t know of any, we managed just fine.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How
do you feel about going in to work? Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine. I might not have a job later this morning, but I’m not staying away. Or I could be answering questions down at the police station, of course.” She chuckled to let him know she wasn’t stressing too much about it. The beating of her heart was another matter, but what was done, was done.
By the time she’d finally got to work, every fibre of her body felt as tight as a stretch band. She stood in the lift taking deep breaths to steady herself for what was probably going to be an unpleasant experience. She’d dressed in a navy-blue pantsuit, the one piece in her wardrobe that she felt invincible in, like Wonder Woman without the cleavage but equally as strong. Last night she’d barely thought about her actions and her brute strength had surprised her, but today she needed all the help she could get, and from wherever. If power dressing was a crutch, then she’d lean on it for all it was worth.
The doors slid open and her booted feet stepped out into the reception area as she tried her best to ooze confidence and strength. While she looked great on the outside, on the inside she oozed about as much strength as an empty tube of toothpaste. As she made her way to her desk, she chanced a glance to either side of her, expecting either security guards approaching ready to remove her, or at the very least William’s P.A. hot on her heels. But there was no rush from either side – no men in uniform, no demanding P.A. She was surprised, but shrugged it off and carried on to her desk, quickening her pace only slightly.
Mid-morning came and went. Nothing.
Lunch came and went. Still nothing.
Surely mid-afternoon? No, nothing.
End of the day? Ditto.
