Surefire

by Ashe Barker

  Oh, God, what if he shoots Tom? He would, I know he would. Terror and despair start to build, threatening to overwhelm me, but the helpless presence of my baby grounds and steadies me. I have to survive, I just have to. It’s that simple.

  “Thought you could just grass on me and then fuck off and leave me, didn’t you? Thought you could get one over on me, you and that interfering old bitch of a mother of yours. Well I taught her a lesson, showed her what happens if you mess with me. And you’ll get yours soon enough, you lying little whore, same as she did.” He’s ranting, rambling, the words seem to be aimed at me, but he’s not waiting for an answer, just babbling.

  “Should have waited, waited for me, you should have been there waiting when I come out. Should have never put me in there in the first place, you slag. But you tried to fit me up and then you was going back with her, I knew it. Not fucking having that, saw to her good and proper. Stupid bitch. Interfering snooty old cow, looking down her nose at me like some bit of scum. Not good enough for her precious daughter, her little slag of a fucking daughter…”

  I stumble, confused. He’s babbling, right? He seems to be talking about my mother, but it makes no sense. He doesn’t even know she’s dead. How could he, I never told him?

  “Got rid of the old bat, but I’m thinking I might keep you around a bit longer. Have some fun, eh?” He reaches for me, grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. “You were never up to all that much, frigid little cow, but you’ll do for a quick shag…”

  At last something penetrates. He’s talking about raping me, but that’s not what horrifies me. There’s more, something much, much more dreadful here. I stagger backwards, staring at him, wide-eyed, appalled. “Got rid? What do you mean, ‘got rid’?” An awful notion, something truly unthinkable, truly horrendous, is curling darkly around the back of my mind, an ugly suspicion, gathering form and taking root. My voice is a whisper, “What are you talking about? Who did you get rid of?”

  “Your fucking mother, that’s what I’m talking about. God, you’re as stupid as her. Snooty cow, thought she could get one over on me. And you, you were just as fucking bad. Did the pair of you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t work out that you grassed me up, got me put inside, and then you were planning to dump me again and piss off with her as soon as you got out? No way, not happening. Not fucking happening.”

  I dread the answer to my next question, but I have to know. “What did you do?” My voice is low now, controlled, as I ask what I need to ask.

  “I got shut. Fucking got rid of her.”

  “She died in an accident, a hit and run…”

  He laughs. Actually laughs in my face as he sneers at me. “An accident—yeah. An accident I arranged. An accident I fucking paid for. Except I didn’t. I never even had to pay up. ‘Cos Tony’s fucking stupid too. Promised the stupid git five hundred quid to run her over, but the fucking moron never had the sense to get the cash up front.”

  My head’s reeling, I’m still struggling to find a reason not to accept, not to believe what he’s saying. It can’t be true. It’s just too awful, too cruel, too senseless even for Kenny. “Tony…?”

  And now he’s laughing, no doubt finding humor in my horrified expression, gloating, proud of his brutal solution to his problem. “Tony—Tony who shared a cell with me, got out two weeks before you were due to. Just enough time to nick a car and work out where to do the hit.”

  “Oh no, oh, Christ…” I drop to my knees, my face in my hands as the truth settles upon me like a dark cloud, crushing me. The cruel, bitter reality of a senseless, meaningless death. Of a life wiped out because some lowlife thug thought he’d found an easy way to earn a few hundred quid. Five hundred pounds for Christ’s sake. Five hundred pounds was all it had cost to rob me of my family and my future.

  “Fucking shut up, it was your fault. You did it, not me. You caused all of it. I’ve got rights, you owe me. You stay with me until I say you can go. Until I fucking say. And you never, ever, grass on me. Not fucking ever. You knew that, you fucking knew what I’d do, what’ll happen to you now. What always happens to lying little shits who go crawling to the fucking cops.” His voice is rising, he’s bending over me, shouting the words into my face. His hatred and bitterness are all that’s driving him, distorting everything in his head, twisting his reality.

  I deliberately, forcefully shove my grief aside, try to tune in, try to listen, to understand what he’s saying, how this all looks to him. Because if I’m getting out of this, if I’m going to be able to give myself any chance at all, it’s going to be because I managed to get inside his head, managed to see which were the right buttons to press to calm him down. He’s deluded, just plain crazy. Any moral compass he might once have possessed has now completely deserted him. I can’t honestly recall a time when what Kenny Potts wanted was not exactly what he believed he should have. In his self-obsessed world he’s the wronged party, the one owed an apology, entitled to retribution. That much is obvious, but it just makes him all the more dangerous, all the more unpredictable.

  I try groveling again, forcing the words out when all I really want to do is throw up. “I know. I know that now. I’m sorry. I should never have…”

  “No you fucking shouldn’t have. And now you know what happens if you fucking cross me. If you grass on me? You can’t get rid of me that easily. No fucking way. I got you back, got you to come back. Torched that flea-ridden house of yours and you came running back like a fucking stray dog. Stupid bitch.”

  I stumble, turn to gape at him. He stops, returns my stare, his grin malevolent, proud, as he enjoys my growing horror.

  “So it was you. You set fire to my house.” Even though we already knew, we’d worked out it must have been Kenny, it still shocks me to the core to hear him say it. Admit it. Gloat about it even. “But why? Why set fire to my house. I wasn’t even there. But there were people in there, asleep. People could have been killed…”

  He laughs, the sound a tinny cackle ugly, out of place here, intruding on the otherwise eerie stillness of the moors. “Serves ‘em right, lazy fucking bastards. If they can’t be arsed getting out of bed when the house is on fire they deserve what they get. Not my problem. I knew you wasn’t there, I knocked earlier, asked for you and some spotty kid said no one called Shaz lived there. Said it was a student house, rented. So I thought if you’d rented it to fucking students you must have some cash by now. And you owe me. So I torched your fucking golden goose, see how long it took you to come running back. And it fucking worked, got you back there, that’s all I wanted. And you fell for it, stupid cow. All I had to do was sit and wait, and you showed up. Like I say, you think you’re so fucking clever, but you’re as stupid as the rest. You and your fancy farmer and his ponsy mate with hair like a fucking girl.”

  I don’t bother to point out that the ‘farmer and his ponsy mate’ took on six of them in Gloucester and came out without a scratch. Instead, “How do you know he’s a farmer?”

  He laughs again, the harsh sound now rasping in the wide open silence. I’m beginning to think he’s ill as well as deranged.

  “Cos I’ve been fucking watching you. Weeks now, I’ve been here, living up here. Been coming to your boyfriend’s fancy little farm, slept in one of his barns for a while, nearly got caught by some nosy bastard poking around.”

  Seth Appleyard, probably. And suddenly I feel sick, remembering that afternoon in the barn, that feeling of being watched while we—Christ.

  Sure enough, he’s giggling, some sort of crazy childish cackling as he gloats over what he saw, what he watched. “Yeah, I’ve been watching you, and him. Pair of right fucking perverts you two are. I watched you fucking him in the hay, after he’d laid into you with a bloody stick. Maybe I’ll do that, should have done it before. Might have taught you some fucking manners, could have taught you what happens to cheating little bitches who can’t keep that shut.”

  Ha pauses in his tirade long enough to grab my face and
jab at my mouth with the muzzle of the shotgun. I freeze, terrified, one slip and I’m without my face. I crumble, collapse in a heap when he finally lets go of me.

  Leaning over me he snarls his hatred, “I was always too fucking soft with you. From what I’ve seen now you like it hard, you fucking love your bit of rough don’t you? And that fucking farmer of yours is it, your rough bit on the side. I had to move out of the barn when that nosy bastard started snooping around, had to find somewhere else to live for a while. But I’ve been following you. And him. And helping myself to his stupid fucking hens when I felt like it. And more sometimes—you country folk really should lock your fucking doors once in a while. And be more careful about leaving keys around where anyone can frigging well help themselves.”

  I gasp, sickened. He’s been in the house. Our house. And that day in the barn, he was there. He must have been well hidden because Tom looked around and couldn’t find him. He found his left over rubbish though, knew someone had been there.

  Tom used to leave a key outside for me. Under the log close to the back door. But he gave me my own key a few days after I moved in, and I’ve not seen the other spare key since. Why would I? I just assumed it stayed under the log in case of…well, in case. It sounds as though Kenny somehow found it, and from there on could come and go as he liked. I still can’t believe that neither of us realized.

  Kenny cackles again, obviously loving my horrified reaction. “And you hadn’t a fucking clue, neither of you. I’ve been letting myself into your fucking house, helping myself to your food—nice bit of bacon, some crisps, sweets, whatever I fucking liked. I even slept there once. When you was away somewhere and the farmer pissed off with that mate of his, the one with the flashy car.”

  When I was in the Peak District? Tom did say he’d stayed at Black Combe one time, when he and Nathan had one of their football and beer fests. And all that night this piece of scum had been poking around in our home. Looking at our stuff, messing with our private things. Finding out about us, about our life. I’m not ashamed, not even embarrassed really. I’m an adult—I’ll do what the fuck I like. But he’s invaded me. Us. His unwanted, uninvited presence in our home has infected me somehow, left a dirty smear, and I just know I’m going to throw up. Shit. Shit, shit, fucking shit.

  Oblivious to my reaction now, he goes on, wrapped up in his story, swelling with cocky pride at how clever he’s been, how cunning, how ingenious to outwit us. “I’ve been up here, while you’ve been taking bloody pictures all day with that fancy camera. Nearly took it off you a few times, but you always had that fucking great dog with you. So I waited, waited till now, and I got a gun, your fucking farmer’s gun, and I shot the bastard. Now I’ve got you. And now it’s payback time, you dozy, cheating, lying little mare.”

  My head’s reeling, trying to keep up, to take it all in. Tom’s gun? He has Tom’s gun? But how? Where did he get that from? I know Tom has a shotgun, I’ve seen it regularly. All farmers do, for dealing with foxes and other vermin. Tom’s gun is properly licensed, locked in a secure cabinet in the farm kitchen, along with the cartridges. I’ve never used it, but I knew where it was kept. It seems Kenny did too. He must have taken it today, after we left the house. There’s no way he could have broken into the gun cabinet and it not be noticed immediately.

  I remember, Tom left first after our little heart to heart around the kitchen table, and Eva and I followed him out about twenty minutes later. I shiver, my revulsion now beyond any disguising. Kenny must have been there, watching, waiting for his chance. And as soon as he saw us all leave he must have let himself inside, broken into the gun cabinet and helped himself before following us up here. On the quads we made better time, that’s why he was a good hour or so behind us. But he still had plenty of time, we were in no rush. So he picked his spot and got himself into position, then dealt with Barney. And more than ever I’m sure that was a lucky shot, but at point blank range, he wouldn’t need much in the way of luck to murder me. He wouldn’t even need a particularly steady hand.

  He’s still ranting on about my cameras and ‘fancy fucking bike’ but doesn’t seem to realize that in his excitement about abducting me he forgot to also grab my expensive equipment. I viciously suppress the impulse to prick his self-satisfied bubble and instead decide to let that lie, I don’t want him being seized with a sudden fit of greed and going back down there and maybe running into Eva again. I’m hoping she’s got away, but I can’t be sure. Instead, exhausted now and utterly devastated at the realization that he’s been stalking me, spying on me and Tom for weeks, I rock backwards and forwards on my knees. My voice weak, I ask the one remaining question I can think of, “How did you manage to find me?”

  He leers, obviously so damn proud of himself he’s near to bursting with it. “Got your fucking address from your car. You left it parked in the street outside that fucking burned out house of yours when the stupid coppers come and slung you in their car—what a fucking laugh that was, but in the end they let you off. I just had to smash the window, had a look around, found a garage bill with your address on. Or his, didn’t matter. I knew where to come looking for you, and here you are, you sneaking, lying little bitch. Here you are. And like I say, you’re mine, you’re not fucking off just when you feel like it. Not this time, never again. I’ll always find you. And now you know what’ll happen to you too, what happens to cheating little tramps who forget who’s in charge, forget their place, tell the fucking cops about me and fucking piss me off.”

  His voice has risen, he’s screaming into my face now, his eyes watering and the pupils dilated ominously, spittle spraying from his slack mouth. Christ, to think I once—even in my dim and distant and incredibly stupid past—ever, ever found this vile specimen the least bit desirable. The least little bit attractive. To think I broke my mum’s heart for him. I gaze at him, incredulous. He ignores me, finishes his ranting tirade, “So from now on you treat me right, you fucking bitch, and you do as you’re fucking well told. If I decide to take you back with me you’ll never open that fucking lying trap of yours again. I’ll nail it shut first.”

  I’m on my knees, dry-eyed but stunned, desperately trying to assimilate all of this, all of this crazy tale, this deranged series of events, the deluded, dangerous logic of Kenny Potts. And of one thing I’m absolutely certain—he’ll kill me and anyone else who crosses him, gets in his way, without a second thought. What Kenny Potts wants—what he wants to do—is what he gets.

  But I need to survive. I have a life to live. Two lives, if the one inside me counts too. I think it does, and I’ll say anything, do anything, to get out us of this alive. So, more groveling… “Yes, I’m sorry. I will. I… What do you want me to do?”

  He snarls at me, his hatred pouring off him. “Get up and get fucking moving. Not far now, then I’m gonna have me a bit of what’s mine. A bit of what I’ve been missing out on while you’ve been dangling your bits in front of that fucking sheep shagging boyfriend of yours.”

  He jabs my shoulder with the shotgun, prodding me until I struggle awkwardly to my feet again. He means to rape me, that’s clear. I tell myself I can handle that, if I have to. I survived that before, more than once. I can survive it again. Being alive’s what matters, nothing else.

  Except it is different now. Now I’ve had Tom, been with Tom, I know the difference. Kenny’s self-obsessed, self-important, deranged ramblings are ludicrous in comparison to a real Dominant, a real Master. Tom commands me, Kenny just disgusts me.

  “You thought I was stupid, thought I wouldn’t see through that crap you told the police.” He’s behind me again, prodding me with the gun every few yards to keep me moving, keep me climbing upwards toward the highest crags.

  I stiffen, grit my teeth against the pain as I struggle with the terrain. It’s steep now, hard enough in good health but near enough impossible with broken ribs and one eye now completely shut. I wonder how long it’s been since we left Eva. I’ve no notion of the time, no idea if she might h
ave been able to get help by now, if anyone’s coming, how much longer I’ve got before he decides he’s finally done with me.

  “You thought if you told the court I was with you those nights I’d not suss out that it was really you who told the fucking cops who did them shops. It had to be you, no one else knew. You were the only one who knew where the lock-up was. You thought if you said I was with you I’d think you was on my side, not know you’d double-crossed me. Not work out what you were planning, you and that evil old bitch. Not work out that you were going to dump me again as soon as I got locked up, planning to piss off with her. You thought I was fucking stupid, but it’s you who’s thick. I’m too frigging smart for you, remember that, cunt.”

  A wave of nausea washes over me. He knows. He really does know. He’s worked it out. I did think I was being clever, but in reality all I was, was desperate. I covered my tracks as best I could but I couldn’t break my ties completely. It was always going to come to this, if he found me. That’s why I knew I had to leave, get away from my old home, try to start again somewhere else. And now, it’s all for nothing. In his head I ‘betrayed’ him. He’s bitter and vengeful and means to make me pay. The worst crime of all, the very worst thing imaginable in Kenny’s criminal fraternity, is to be a grass.

  He might, he just might have forgiven me for trying to end our relationship, settle the matter with a good battering and a few brutal fucks, but he’ll never forgive me for telling the police. I can’t at this moment really understand why I’m still alive now. He could have simply shot me back then. Whatever he says about taking me back, he’ll never let this go. I need to get away, and soon, because unless I do, I’m as good as dead already. Like my mother.

  My mind’s racing, desperately re-assimilating, re-aligning what I know. Trying to make sense of it. One thing’s glaring at me. And it chills me to my core. If he knows I was the informer—that it was me who turned in the ram raiding gang—then probably so do his mates who came with him to Gloucester that day. So, what was their motivation? Revenge maybe—that’s what Tom thought. Or was it just the prospect of a bit of fun in the back of a van with a helpless girl? I shudder at the sheer idiotic cruelty of it, and at Kenny, who callously set me up to be gang-raped just because he thought he had a score to settle. Because he’d decided I deserved it.