by Gavin Graham
The woman who begged for bondage & thrills
The symbolic befouling of a stray angel shall be the order of the night…
The Gods looked down upon the O’Hara residence, with ungodly expectations.
She’d come to the room like a woman in a trance.
Naked and hot.
The horns were out, the spirits were dancing, and ancient ghosts of the black magic taboo were present in the room.
The sex will be hard and deviant…it shall be concluded in blood…
She didn’t ask why he’d come back or how he’d gotten into the house. It didn’t matter, as her entire being was ultimately possessed, by the most evil and powerful of all sexual demons - one Johnny-Boy Moffat.
The spell is working…
She was desperate to be abused and rejecting her had merely peaked her arousal.
There she was, and a whorish charm sparkled in her eyes.
She stood before him in the candle-lit room and her body approved of his sordid activity. He had taken lace underwear garments and a pearl necklace, wrapping them around the thick shaft of his manhood as he masturbated like a frantic dog on heat, laid back on her bed, completely naked. She wasn’t sure if it was her underwear and jewellery, it didn’t appear to be, but she didn’t even care. She noticed that he’d brought along bondage straps and she gave herself willingly to be tied up and sexually tortured.
You stupid, stupid woman…
He would suck the soul from her body and drink her delicious juice. He would show her the glory and send her to the kingdom, maculating and discarding her rotten, empty shell as it lay dead in the romantic ambiance of the blood-spoiled candle-lit room.
She came to join him, upon the bed, surrendering herself with her legs spread and limbs akimbo.
“So, Missy, would you now like me to molest your putrid box?” he said, after tying her wrists to the bed post and kneeling between her legs like a devious, evil hyena.
“Yes, please, finger me…”
He took a solid stance on his knees and began to stimulate her with his touch. She was an animal harlot, out of control, like a woman possessed. Screaming and growling like Hell and she soon began to squirt, her vile juices streaming like a fountain into the air.
It was chaotic.
She’d soaked the sheets with her animal warmth and the killer smiled with delight. “I’m going to rape your loins now and smear your labia with Crowley’s dagger, so the guardians of the void will smell me on your spectre, and the world will know exactly what you are and why you were forced to leave this dimension. Got that, Missy?”
“Yes, rape me, just fucking rape me…” she growled and struggled in her cuffs, “…fuck me to death,” she spoke as he wanted her to speak; as a demon.
“I shall, my dear. I certainly shall.”
The darkness of night is delicious and inviting…
He was ready now to sully the dignity of her sex and the piousness of her womanhood, tarnishing all her worldly comforts. Daddy’s little girl was a bad little girl and the void was set to receive her.
The ash never lies…
He would steal her life-force in his titillating moment of orgasm, like the imp and the rapist and the monster that he was. The monster, that would continue to hunt women and desecrate their bodies, all across the land; forevermore.
It rained heavily on the pavement outside and, if you listened carefully, from an apartment window on the fifth floor you would hear the sound of a woman lost in sexual abandon.
Siobhan was loud and she swore like a trucker in bed; she was what The Swede referred to as a ‘screamer’. She always liked her men to be on-top and to dominate her sexually, driving into her. The duvet had been pushed down to the floor and she wailed like a banshee as DI McGhee pinned her butt to the mattress, focussed, grinding his teeth, like a Marine doing a marathon of push-ups. He was pushing hard with his lower-end and the woman who lay beneath was like his Drill Master, coaxing him to push more, with eagerness and need.
“More! More! Give it to me Jimmy…fuck me harder!” she was shouting and moaning like she wanted the whole world to know that she was being shagged senseless by the illustrious Jimmy McGhee. He was kissing and sucking on her neck and the more she felt his warm, wet tongue against the sensitive softness of her flesh, the more wild and vocal she got. She dug her nails into his sweat-lace back, and with each thrusting clench of his buttocks, the closer they both got to a combined climax.
Soon, they came together, in chaotic synergy. Thunder and lightning raged and crackled outside as the rain battered against the windows and a Paul Weller track played timidly in the background.
They panted and laughed, wildly, as the mist settled and he rolled over onto his back to lay on the bed beside her.
“Jesus Christ, you really are a good shag, you know that?”
McGhee laughed even louder. “Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself. Listen though, I don’t want the Boss finding out about this…”
“What do you take me for? Look, we are not an ‘item’, OK? I’m young, free and single, right?”
“Aye, right…” McGhee replied, but the thought of her being with any other man made him ignite inside with mixed emotions. “Fancy a whisky?”
“As long as its a single malt, no cheap stuff.”
McGhee chuckled as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and he bent down to pull on his underwear. Just then, his phone vibrated on the side-table. Both their eyes turned to the device and they shared a glance at one another.
They both thought the same thing - that there had been another murder…
McGreavy had a face that was distinctly noir, it told stories of pain and suffering, crime and murder.
He had jet-black hair and a Jewish nose that was almost like the shape of a harp, or a dark angel’s tainted wing. The bridge of it stood out, like the edge of a cliff, and the bone sloped downwards at a forty-five degree angle where his wide nostrils flared at the end, like an angry bull. He usually was angry, about one thing or another, the rest of the time he was just quiet and moody.
He was a bereaved man. Lost his only son, to drugs. Lost his wife, to depression and suicide.
He was a haunted man, who regularly held séance with a spirit of the dead, the one that refused to let him go.
He was an alcoholic, who lived for the drink, and saw self-destruction as a destiny more than a curse. At the Old Highland bar, he was like part of the furniture and could be found there most days when he was not on work-related business.
“The Godfather’s boys were looking for you earlier,” said Boaby the barman to the drunken copper.
“What did the McConnell boys want to talk to me fur’?” he was already slurring his words.
“Dunno, they just walked in and growled at the customers, and then they asked for you. I said you weren’t here and they just left, that was it.”
“Ah, well, if they want me they’ll fuckin’ find me. Dealing with gangsters is not as straight-forward as it used to be back in Arthur’s day,” he said, struck with nostalgia. “These youngsters are a different breed, too much greed and not enough honour, know what a’ mean?”
“Not really, Mac, but I’ll take your word for it,” said Boaby, with a smile that was almost patronising.
His phone vibrated on an old-school, lager-puddled, faux-mahogany bar and he looked down at the screen, it was a text from Siobhan: BOSS, THERE’S BEEN ANOTHER MURDER. He gulped down his half-full glass of Ale and downed the double whisky that had been sitting next to it in loyal partnership. “Right, Boaby, I’ve got to go. Just stick these on ma’ tab,” he steadied himself on his feet and put an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
As he alighted upon the pavement, an elderly lady drove past on a buggy, a wee sign post sticking up at the back - TRUMP NOT WELCOME IN SCOTLAND. He noticed that she was dressed from head-to-toe in waterproof gear and he wondered if stormy weather was set to come. “Afternoon Morag,” he said. “Expecting rain, are we?”
“Always be prepared Mac, always be prepared,” the old lady replied before disappearing around the corner, past the bookies and the Singh’s old Spar shop, the wake of her wisdom weighing heavily upon the littered pavement behind her. A flurry of wind had raised a newspaper as it danced up into the air like a butterfly. It was almost as if she’d been accompanied by a ghost; perhaps, she was.
Always be prepared…
The words stuck in his head as he lit the crumpled fag that hung pathetically from his intoxicated lips.
Chapter 15
The trials & tribulations of Police work
The horrors of life are best persevered with an Achilles heel in tow…
He resisted the temptation to vomit.
It had nothing to do with the dead body that lay on the bed before him. No, the corpse was still quite fresh. It was merely the sick feeling that an alcoholic gets when the uncontainable need for drink gets stuck down there in your gut. It takes the form of a unbearable void in the stomach, a feeling of emptiness that often gets confused with sickness. So much so, you can trick yourself into believing that it is sickness, and you vomit, more out of bodily confusion than anything else.
McGreavy knew exactly what it was - the emptiness of thirst, is what he called it.
It was at times like this though, when he saw first-hand the dark side of the human condition and was reminded of what horrendously despicable acts we, as men and women, are capable of inflicting on one another that his need for alcohol reached peak levels.
It was another bloody assault and seemed, at first glance, to be similar to the last crime scene. The woman appeared to have been raped and strangled, whilst she was tied up on the bed. A bath towel was strewn on the floor but she’d been dressed-up in thigh-high latex boots and laid back against the pillows with her hand behind her neck and her legs spread open. Reddish and blue marks were visible around the neckline and with her legs spread apart he saw slight traces of semen-slick at the insides of her thighs.
She wore sunglasses.
Red lipstick had been perfectly applied to her thin lips.
The lipstick had also been used to write the word - SLUT - on the upper-wall of her freshly-shaved vaginal area; it was barely visible amidst all the blood but visible nonetheless.
The stomach had been cut, sideways across the belly this time, and the liver had been pulled out from the innards. Again, it was neatly placed in a treacle-like pool of blood, on the bed beside her.
“Married?”
“Divorced. She was actively dating other guys…”
“When was she last seen?”
“She was having dinner with a guy at Tony Macaroni’s last night and she’d last been seen leaving the restaurant with him at around nine pm.”
“Right, talk to the neighbours, find out more about her. And, I want the ex-husband and the guy she had dinner with both brought in for questioning.”
“Right you are, Boss.”
The neighbour, Glenda Shaw, was visibly stunned by the news of Sandra’s murder.
“She was a different person after the divorce, for the better, she was free. Emotional freedom is a luxury that we take for granted Detective.”
McGhee nodded, patiently, letting her talk and doing his best to listen and understand.
“That husband of hers, he is a psycho, he used to make her life pure Hell, with physical and psychological abuse, now this has happened. I just can’t believe that he’d take it this far.”
“Had he been violent with her before?”
“Oh yes, but she never went to the Police, just kept brushing it under the rug. Men like that need to be behind bars, it is your job to ensure that, is it not?”
“Well yes, but maybe you could have gone to the Police yourself, no? If we don’t know about it then we can’t do much about it…”
“I suppose so,” the neighbour began to weep. “You’re right, I could have done something.”
“Do you think her ex-husband is capable of murder?”
“Who knows, these days, you just don’t know…”
“Was she seeing many other men?”
“Yes, she was always on Tinder, swiping left and right like nobody’s business. She certainly had a few wild flings. We could hear her every once and a while, you know, the sex noises and all that. I don’t think she had any kind of a sex-life with her ex, you see? So, she was making up for all that passion she’d missed out on.”
“Had anyone threatened her, that you know about?”
“Not directly, but she told me he’d been following her. I think she was scared, that’s why she told me, in case something like this happened.”
“OK, Miss Shaw,” McGhee passed her a business card, “if you think of anything else that could help us with the inquiry then feel free to call me, any time.”
“Of course, Detective, I’ll be glad to help in any way possible. I really hope you lock that psycho up and throw away the key, before he kills another woman…”
Chapter 16
The fruitless hunt for an elusive Casanova
It’s better to be smarter than you appear to be, than appearing to be smarter than you actually are…
Tony Macaroni’s.
“Police,” said the Inspector, in his usual charmless brogue. “We’d like a word with Miss Linda Chalmers, if she’s available?”
“Yes, she is, is this about that poor woman that was murdered?”
The Inspector nodded.
“Linda,” she caught the barmaid’s attention since she’d been chatting flirtatiously with a couple of ‘suits’ at the bar. “The Polis’ want a word, take the corner table and I’ll tend to the bar…”
“Did you see Mister Moffat leave with Miss O’Hara?”
“Yes.”
“And you say he soon re-appeared, shortly after, just like that? Did it not seem strange?”
“Yeah, it was just a few minutes and he came back here for a drink. Looked like he just sent her on her way and that was it…he said she wasn’t his type.”
“But you were his type.”
“Apparently so, he likes young full-bodied wines and young full-bodied women. She was a much older woman, God bless her soul. He probably likes women with a mind of their own, an intelligent woman.
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s an erudite man, well-travelled, he even speaks Russian…”
“Why would he be speaking Russian with you?”
“He was saying things in the heat-of-the moment, shall we say, dirty things. It turned me on, I was getting really into it…”
“I’m impressed beyond measure, now where did you and the Egg Head go?”
“He had this big fancy Merc parked-up in the Lilybank Gardens carpark, it had tinted windows so we had complete privacy.”
“And what exactly did he take you to his car for?”
“What do you think, Inspector? A wee kiss and a cuddle?”
“Did you perform oral sex on him?”
“I might have, nothing wrong with a bit of foreplay, is there? Even in the backseat of a fancy car…I don’t like to rush things…”
“Of course not, did he ejaculate?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be very good at the dirty deed if he didn’t, now would I? So, yes, he did. I tried to swallow it all down but he ended up getting some of it on my top and around my lips,” she callously caressed her mouth with a sensual fingertip, almost showing her tongue. She was bold as brass, a blatant ‘hussy’, and had probably gone off with a long string of men who’d sat for a drink at that bar. “I can tell you something Detective, it wasn’t so easy explaining that one to my boyfriend,” she continued to touch around her breast area, indicating where the sperm stains had occured.
“Charming. Have you washed the garment since?”
“No, why do you want to keep it?”
“Yes please, if you don’t mind…”
“For your private collection, is it? I bet this is turning you on, isn’t it, Inspect
or? When was the last time you had some action? Was it when the Nazis were invading Europe?”
“Less of the smart talk, Miss. Do you have any tattoos?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Yes, I have a small Playboy Bunny tattooed on my left breast. Anything else you want to know about my body Inspector? Would you like to do a more thorough inspection?”
“No sweetheart, you’re not my type, that will be all.”
Bill McDonald was a remarkably respectable looking man for a so-called psychopath, with slight hands and a calm, wise face. He almost came across like a Priest. He was the kind of man you might want to confess to, even if there was nothing to confess, he just seemed like one of those non-judgemental listeners. McGreavy was more interested, however, in what he had to confess. “Were you stalking your ex-wife Mister McDonald?” he went straight for the jugular.
“No,” the man seemed lost, in despair, genuinely.
“Sandra O’Hara had informed her neighbour that you’d been following her and that your car was mysteriously popping up all over the place. Wherever she went, you went. Is that true?”
“I had to be sure that she was safe, that’s all, there’s a lot of mental cases out there, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, indeed, we know all about them,” said the Inspector.
Siobhan smirked, knowingly. “You never know, Bill, we could be in the presence of one right now. What was your connection to Julia Connolly, did you meet her on Tinder before killing her?”
“Who? I’m not on Tinder, I don’t even have Facebook. I haven’t killed anybody.”
“Were you following your ex-wife on the day that she was killed?” they were coming at him from all angles, testing his reactions.
“Yes, I was,” he was rubbing his forehead frantically. “I saw her there with her latest lover. She was having dinner with him at that Italian pizza place, another pervert she’d met on-line probably.”
