by Sian Rosé
Although they were raping her, gradually stealing and breaking down her soul, bit by bit, at least she could temporarily escape from their hellish prison.
On one occasion, Minnie told Ronnie that she had learned to simply lay back, stare up at the ceiling, and float up, up and out of her own body. It was, she said hazily, a bit like alien abduction movies, where the flying saucer sends down a brilliant white beam and sucks you up out of your body.
Ronnie didn’t know whether she just said this to make him feel better.
Soon, it was as though they’d beaten the fear out of her entirely.
She’d no longer cry when she was brought back to their dingy, foul-smelling cell where they were imprisoned. Instead, she’d simply curl up into a ball and let Ronnie hold her tightly in his arms whilst she let her body succumb to unconsciousness.
He, on the other hand, had to stay stone-cold sober.
Every waking minute, he was alert, his brain frantically whirring as he deciphered the horrors that surrounded them and fought a constant battle not to rip apart the veins in his wrists with his own teeth.
He was confined; his vision now fully adjusted to the dark so that even the dull sliver of light that occasionally crept into the room burned his eyes.
Hunger pains induced fitful insomnia so that for hours on end, the young boy was forced to just sit there, painfully aware of the torment that Minnie, the love of his life, was being made to endure, whilst he stood helplessly by.
Life was no longer living. It was an endless nightmare from which neither of them could escape.
From her trips out of the house, Minnie knew it was wintertime. Sometimes she talked to Ronnie about the weather outside, what it was like to feel splatters of rain on her skin, or an icy chill ripping goose flesh up and down her arms.
A few times, Ronnie wanted to know why she didn’t get up and run when she was on a public street. She said it was because whatever drugs they’d filled her up with made her impossibly dizzy so that she couldn’t carry her head or even make a coherent noise.
It was the skinny, skin-headed man who came one day.
This time, for Ronnie.
He was gaunt, almost skeletal, and normally Ronnie was certain he’d have overpowered him with ease. But the teenager was so malnourished and so weak, rendered powerless by his festering wounds and dehydrated organs, he could do nothing but allow himself to be dragged away. Filthy fingernails pierced the flesh around his neck as he was pinched and roughly coerced out of the dark shadows of the cage, clammy skin on his legs grazing against grimy floorboards.
As he went, he desperately focused his eyes to catch a final glance of Minnie somewhere within the darkness. But the girl remained curled up inside herself, her face still buried deeply in the empty cradle she made with her forearms.
Her refusal to meet his eye left him feeling cold and alone, a feeling that made his bones quiver as his body was hauled out into the blinding brightness of the corridor outside. He flinched at the sound of the familiar door being closed, followed by the snap of a key turning in the lock.
“Get up,” the man demanded gruffly.
Ronnie obeyed. He briefly contemplated the idea of trying to run or trying to fight back, but it was quickly flushed away. He knew it would be a fucking stupid idea. He’d be caught, and they’d probably kill him.
Then Minnie would be all alone.
The young man got to his feet and followed his captor’s gestures to follow him down a bitty carpet that was coated in dust and grime. Beneath his bare feet, the fabric felt bewildering; it made his skin prickle and his knees wobble unsteadily with every uncertain step. But he forced one foot in front of the other, continuously aware of the rough man leading him down the passage and then down a curved staircase.
Downstairs, Ronnie recognised his surroundings almost immediately, despite months having passed since he had last been let out of his cell. The same smoky haze washed over him, and the same uncomfortable heat congealed with the nervous sheen of sweat that covered his skin. He realised that he had been locked up in the very same house he had been sent to burgle all those weeks ago. The realisation inspired a flicker of hope in the pit of his belly.
They were being held in a normal terraced house on a seemingly normal residential street.
Maybe, he dared to let himself think; maybe escape was not such a foolish idea after all.
He blinked and struggled to hold his head up as he continued down the last few steps that led down into a tiny utility room at the back of the houses’ kitchen. More light overwhelmed him as he was led out of the box room and into the tiled dining area, where multiple panes of glass allowed sunlight to flood in and bounce off of uncomfortably clean countertops.
Instinctively, Ronnie’s heart twisted tightly within his rib cage, reminding him of the torture he had endured last time he had been inside that room. The raw scars covering what was left of his scalp tensed and stung.
Horrific images of being skinned alive flashed through his brain and made his blood run as cold as ice. The haunting trill of the girl’s scream echoed painfully through his ears as if he were reliving the moment for real.
“Afternoon.”
A voice dragged Ronnie from his unpleasant memories, causing him to pause in his spot. Swallowing back a thick lump of fear at the back of his throat, he stared bravely around the man in front of him and let his eyes fall over the eerily familiar wooden kitchen table in the centre of the room.
He recognised Steve, the sicko who had scalped him, then torn a kitchen knife through the flesh on his chest. Except, today, he was not wearing a crude butcher’s outfit, but instead a charcoal, pinstripe suit. Seated around him, also at the table, were two other men, one perhaps a little older than Ronnie and one who looked ancient with silvery tufts of hair poking out of his nostrils.
Three sets of eyes fixed on him, unmoving and intense. The gaze was so unnerving that for a moment, Ronnie was unsure who had spoken.
“Is he a foreign one?” the younger man asked Steve, wrinkling his nose in disapproval. “I want a British one.”
Steve smirked, his eyes gleaming as he looked across the room at Ronnie. “This one’s British all right. Born and bred in London.”
Of course, it wasn’t true, but Ronnie was too frightened to open his mouth. He did not like the way the other two suits at the table were staring at him with a cold, animal-like hunger glittering in their beady pupils. It made him shiver. He chanced a quick glance around the room and considered his chances of making a dash for it.
Four against one.
He didn’t like his odds.
“How much?”
Steve cleared his throat and smiled pleasantly at the older of the two men, “call it a complimentary sweetener, Mr. Walsh. As thanks for the business.”
The older man arched a bushy eyebrow, “how generous,” he said in a tone which Ronnie was certain was sarcastic.
“Do you have rooms?” the younger man said, the legs of his chair creaking against the tiles as he suddenly got up from his seat. Hands clasped behind him; he slowly began to circle and approach Ronnie.
“Sure,” replied Steve, tossing his hand carelessly and nodding towards his crony, who still hovered quietly beside Ronnie, guarding him. “Nick, please take Sir Walsh up to the loft…” he trailed off, then spoke directly to the younger suit, “take all the time you need.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
2019
The bright sky, or the slivers and patches of it that she could see through the canopy of branches above her head, were starting to bleed into a light, inky blue. Furiously, Stella blinked away hot tears that stung her eyeballs and blurred her vision; her cheeks flushed and raw from the dribbles of fluid saturating the skin.
She tugged her head downwards and forced herself to look around the darkening woodland clearing, where her naked body was hung up from a branch, wrists, and ankles tightly bound together. Around her, the teenage boys in their hooded jumpers sat around
, some of them swigging from cans of cheap beer, others smoking roll-up cigarettes. Among them, there was an awful atmosphere, pregnant with sadistic anticipation as their greedy eyes leered over her exposed flesh.
Neil was saying something with a stupid smirk on his face whilst the others around him laughed overenthusiastically, marking him clearly as their ring leader. He was the one in control.
“You’re not crying, are you, babe?” Neil asked, getting up from the ground and squeezing his beer can between his meaty fist. He walked up to her, the other pairs of beady eyes following closely behind him, latching greedily onto her quivering skeleton.
Stella didn’t speak. She wanted to preserve her energy, and she knew that crying and screaming were just a waste of her resources. Earlier on, when they’d roughly stripped her, she’d bleated, begged, and shrieked with every fibre of her being, and no fucker came to save her.
Unfortunate as it was, Stella had come to the daunting realisation that she was alone out there.
However, the young woman was not without hope.
She’d sharpened her brain until her senses were like razor blades, and everything that was happening around her was fresh and clear in her mind. As every inch of her had trembled and silent tears had fallen from her eyes, she’d noticed things that were going to work to her advantage.
Just to tear her clothes away from her body, then string her up over the branch of a tree, it had taken a group of ten of these scum bags around two hours.
They were, Stella knew for sure, total fucking idiots.
And not just that- they were drinking. Making themselves dumber, sloppier, and more ruthless. All Stella had to do; she kept reminding herself was to bide her time. Wait for an opening.
The fuckers would get what was coming to them.
She’d make damn sure of it.
“Oi! Skank!” Neil shouted, coming right up into her face so that his stagnant breath attacked her nostrils. He dropped his beer can, allowing the metal to clatter to the ground, then shoved his fist as hard as he could into Stella’s taut, flat abdomen. Involuntarily, the teenager hurled, her body curling inwards as she spluttered; and long, gloopy webs of spit drooled from her lips.
“FUCKING ANSWER ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU!”
Stella scrunched up her face. She resisted the urge to scream back.
OF COURSE I’M CRYING YOU STUPID CUNT. YOU’VE TIED ME UP NAKED IN A FOREST LIKE I’M A FUCKING SPIT ROAST.
But she had to play it clever. There would be time to take out her anger later on. For the moment, she had to be the damsel in distress that Neil was stupid enough to believe she was.
“Please… let me go…” she begged quietly.
At that Neil, smacked his hand hard over her bare arse, piercing her skin with his dirty nails so that tiny pricks of blood appeared on her buttocks. She winced.
“You need to learn a lesson, little missy,” Neil hissed, digging his nails in deeper and deeper into the flesh. “Nobody fucks with me. Man, woman, kid, nobody fucks with me. Get it?”
Whimpering, Stella silently nodded. She twisted her wrists in their restraints, the bones in her joints creaking and groaning in protest as her weight dangled from the outstretched branch. She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, squeezing more tears from their outer corners. But inside, beneath her skin, her rage bubbled and sizzled like molten lava about to erupt, hot and venomous as it pulsed through her veins like wildfire.
“Come on, you lot,” Neil said, his voice deepening as he glanced around expectantly at the other deviants around him. “Let’s get this party started. We gotta focus properly. Put your fags out…” he lunged out one arm to stop the boy beside him, who was obediently about to drop his cigarette onto the forest floor.
“Put your fags out… on her,” Neil corrected himself, his brow furrowing, eyes glittering nastily as he nodded towards Stella. In one swift movement, he snatched the shortened cigarette up away from the friend to his right, then stepped forward to press the tiny glowing circle of heat into the centre of Stella’s navel.
She screamed, the wild, animal-sounding shriek pouring from her lips like a nightmare into the darkening afternoon, but Neil persisted. He pressed the red-hot butt of the fag end harder into her flesh so that the burning ash sizzled her skin and left a harsh, ugly burn behind.
“Now!” he barked, brow furrowing as he let the roll-up tumble to the floor, and he snarled meanly around at the circle of uncertain cronies. Whilst some were hesitant, alarmed by the sinister reality of the situation, others were spurred on by the power trip of it all. A red-faced, sweaty teenager covered in fat rolls came forward next and placed the tip of his own burning cigarette butt into the side of Stella’s throat. A tall, skinny red-haired boy went next, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he probed the side of one of her breasts, a throaty giggle escaping him as he watched her writhe in agony.
More of them came forward in clusters. Some even lit fresh cigarettes just to mark her pristine skin; until the young woman’s bare body was covered in nasty fag burns, some of which festered and gleamed in their rawness.
“STOP!” she squealed, her slender figure bending and convulsing in her suffering. This got a few laughs.
“Shut up!” scoffed the red-haired boy, who then proceeded to throw a half-empty can of beer at her head. The weight of it smacked into the side of her face, forcing her head to roll; then splashes of acidic beer splattered down her body, congealing painfully in her wounds. Others began to follow suit, throwing bottles and cans at her. A few of the boys threw their bats and sticks. One even unzipped his trousers and took a piss all over her badly bruised and battered legs.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Stella bowed her face to the side, concealing it in the crook where her shoulder met the side of her neck. In one brief, fleeting moment, she caught a tiny whiff of her mother’s perfume, that sweet, familiar scent that had always brought her instant comfort, just lingering on her skin.
All of a sudden, the rough, gravelly bark of a dog tore through the air, startling Stella so that she froze rigid and stiff like a hanging corpse. Laughter from the despicable men that crowded her and the growls of the dog grew louder amongst the tinkle of a dog lead and the heavy patter of paws on the woodland floor.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
She felt like the entirety of her intestines would drop straight out of her arse, into a pile on the ground beneath her.
Panting desperately, she snapped her head to see where the source of the noise was coming from.
Another group of only about three or four of the tracksuits were coming towards her out of the gathering of trees around them, one of them holding a thick black dog lead.
The dog itself was huge.
It was a white, fierce-looking pit bull covered in dark brown patches; its little ears flapping about as it bounded into the clearing; its owner struggling along behind it as its sheer strength tugged on the leash.
From a red, glistening mouth shone snapping, hungry jaws; menacing snarls and yaps protruding from its gruff throat. Its small, dark eyes glittered, staring up at her with bloodthirst.
“Yo, Gav. You got any dog treats?” Neil asked, roughly shoving Stella’s hanging body as he passed her to meet the new arrivals.
“Shit Neil- this is insane…” Stella winced as she listened to the response and felt her stomach churn in disgust as she sensed the approval of the latest addition to this fucked-up posse of low-lives. “Sure, I’ve got dog treats. A few denta stix…”
For some reason, this caused a fresh round of uproarious laughter.
Spluttering, Stella gagged and retched; green, acidic bile tumbling up from her throat and dribbling down her chin.
Throwing back his head, Neil snatched up the foil packet of long, vertical dog treats. He turned to Stella’s body and smacked her around the face with the packet. “You see these, bitch? I’m putting one up your arse and one up your snatch. Thumper here fucking loves them…”
At
this, a bloodcurdling scream ripped through Stella’s throat. Her head fell involuntarily backwards as the lower half of her body twisted and turned. No longer was she thinking. She just knew she needed to keep moving. If she kept wriggling and writhing, they couldn’t hold her down. Maybe she could have a rogue shot at kicking Neil in his piece-of-shit face, knocking the mother fucker out.
But she was no longer in her right mind.
Chaotic, frantic images of warped delusions raced through her mind at the speed of light. She grew exhausted quickly; her energy zapped almost instantly by the severity of her wounds.
They grabbed her. Tonnes… what felt like hundreds of clammy, dirty, grabbing hands clutched at her, pierced her skin with their dirty, long nails, and steadied her.
Like a poor little piglet, she spun and squealed on the branch; no match for her leering captors…
BANG!
A deafening explosion suddenly broke out across the clearing, sending everyone apart from Stella collapsing onto the ground. The noise was so loud; so violent; that it shook the entire woodland, momentarily stunning every one of the aspiring drug dealers to the spot.
Sobbing louder than ever, Stella blinked, the gunshot ringing and vibrating like a death siren in her eardrums.
The girl blinked, peering through the blurry film of her tears.
A shriek of pure, unadulterated relief rang from the back of her throat.
Stepping forwards, a tall, dark man with icy cold eyes cocked the gun and held it up again with such purpose that everyone there remained shell-shocked on the ground.
Unable to look in his daughter’s direction, Ronnie Garnet focused on the quivering adolescents scattered around the clearing and let out a low, humourless chuckle. Behind him, his two sons quickly filled the area, also both wielding guns.
“Well,” said Ronnie gruffly, his eyes widening. “It seems you’ve made a fatal error here, boys.” He stepped forward and abruptly stomped as hard as he could on the skull of one of the young men’s heads.
An almighty crack of bone and flesh ripped through the air; as red muscle and fluid leaked from his orifices out onto the forest floor. Another who was lying nearby let out a small, frightened squeal.
