Retribution

by Jay Nadal

  He couldn’t leave without taking his souvenir pair, stuffed into his back pocket now and even the illicit thought excited him.

  There was an even better treat in store for him today as he opened the laundry basket that was tucked into the corner. He sifted through her dirty linen. She must have some. There were blouses, no, a pair of jeans, no, jogging bottoms, no, no, no, several towels, you better have some for me. “Yes!” he shouted as the thin fabric of a pair of her knickers wrapped around his fingers. He stared at them for a few moments like a child too excited to even open their Christmas present, before drawing them to his face. He buried his nose into her most intimate clothing and inhaled deeply. Oh yes…yes…yes.

  His head spun wildly as his eyes rocked back in their sockets. His mind became a melting pot of emotions. Anger surged through his veins, swiftly replaced with a longing desire for her body. His own body responded immediately. He tucked one hand into the waistband of his jeans, thrusting deep inside his boxer shorts and began to masturbate. This is such a turn on…I want you, I want you now. He pressed on, moaning in desire and ecstasy as he climaxed. He clenched his teeth as veins pulsated in his neck, his eyes rolling up once again disappearing under his lids. His body jerked in satisfaction.

  He held her underwear in his hands one last time, inhaling deeply, the fragrance caressing every cell in his body.

  He needed her. He’d have her.

  21

  Matthew Edrington paused for a moment, his hand hovering just an inch or two away from the door. With dry sticky lips, his jangled nerves stopped him from catching his breath. He stared at the oak panelled door, in two minds as to whether to knock at all. He knew that once he walked through the door, there would be no turning back. He just wasn’t sure if he had the courage to follow through.

  He’d already attempted to knock once, pulling away as his hand twitched. With a deep breath, he finally knocked twice. He waited for what seemed an eternity, and when no response was forthcoming he knocked again, his knuckles smarting from the extra force. The noise echoed up and down the corridor. It was sharp and short like a cricket ball striking willow.

  “Enter,” came a firm, booming voice from behind the door that made Matthew jump.

  Matthew tentatively turned the handle and took half a step in, peering around the door.

  “Come in, Edrington…don’t just stand there,” continued Edward Chapman the housemaster for Stanmer House. “Take a seat.”

  He motioned to a metal-framed leather seat that sat by the side of his bureau desk. He swivelled around in his chair, smoothing out the creases in his grey corduroy trousers. He was a rotund man with a rosy face and double chin. He had an unusual-looking face, small eyes closely set together with a pointed, thin, Roman nose.

  Matthew took a seat and nervously wrung his hands in his lap, his jaws on the verge of chattering with nerves.

  Chapman placed his hands on his thighs as he leant back in his chair. “How can I help Edrington?”

  Matthew looked around the room. His nerves were paralysing him, threatening to engulf him in a dark whirlwind of fear and panic. He still had an opportunity to make his excuses and leave, his mind a mix of confusion and fear. Should I? Shouldn’t I? His stomach flipped, and he couldn’t tell if he was going to throw up or shit himself, he felt that bad. And all this time Chapman stared at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well?” A sense of annoyance in Chapman’s tone suggested frustration with Matthew’s silence.

  “Sir sir,” he stammered, his mouth as parched as the Atacama Desert, making it difficult to say anything. “Sir…I’m…being bullied…” There, he’d said it. There was no turning back now. He thought he’d feel a sense of relief for sharing his burdens, but it didn’t feel that way at all. He felt as if he’d just opened up a huge chasm in the side of Vesuvius and now all hell would break loose. The secret that he’d carried for such a long time was now exposed. He started to doubt whether this had been a good idea.

  Chapman raised a brow again and cocked his head to one side as he studied the boy for a few moments unsure as to how genuine the claim was.

  “Can you tell me exactly what you mean by being bullied?” he asked slowly, resting his hands on his thighs as he leant in towards Matthew.

  Matthew clenched his hands tighter as they glistened with sweat. He shifted nervously in the chair, every ounce of courage being drawn upon to reveal more of his treatment.

  “Some boys have been hitting me. They corner me in the corridors and push me around. Sometimes they punch me. They’ve attacked me in the dorm at night and done other things to me…” His gaze dropped to the floor, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

  “You do realise that allegations of this nature are not to be taken lightly?”

  Matthew nodded slowly but didn’t look up, a mixture of embarrassment and fear paralysing his thin, pale body.

  “Listen young Edrington, are you sure about this? There’s plenty of argy-bargy in every school up and down the country. A bit of tomfoolery comes with the territory I’m afraid. It’s part of the toughening up process. You know sometimes it can get a bit out of hand, but there’s no malice ever intended.”

  “But…sir…” Matthew fell silent, unable to find the right words to explain his plight.

  Chapman raised his palm to stop Matthew. “Here’s what I suggest. Why don’t you start by having a chat with the house prefects. They lead by example, and it’s their job to support boys like you in tough times. They have been chosen for their exemplary record, their leadership, confidence and initiative. And I hasten to add, their job is to create an atmosphere of friendly cooperation, peace, discipline and unity in the school. Prefects should serve as counsellors to junior students like yourself,” he said proudly as he took in a deep breath and puffed out his chest.

  “But, sir…”

  “Yes, I know lad,” he interrupted. “It can be a daunting thing to talk about, but you’ve done the right thing. The prefects are there to maintain the front line of discipline; we want the pupils to sort out their differences. If they can’t, then we step in as housemasters,” he said with an exaggerated shrug holding his hands out in front.

  “Yes…sir,” Matthew replied. His shoulders drooped as the dejection played heavily on his mind. Resignation washed over him.

  “Good man, now why don’t you go and find them. Have a little chat and see how you get on…hhm?”

  Matthew swallowed hard as he stood and made his way out. The fear rose in him, bile burning the back of his throat. How could he? He couldn’t turn to them. His prefects were Rollings, Ford and Hunter. Would anyone even believe him? Maybe the police would. Mr Saunders would.

  At first, he’d stood alone looking around. It was a room that brought back a multitude of memories. Back then, he’d visited it once a week for his guitar lessons as he was growing up. A wry smile broke across his face as he recalled his attempts at learning his chords, scales and progressions, much to the dissatisfaction of his teacher. Back then, opting in for music lessons meant an easy way out from attending other timetabled lessons.

  The room had seen better days, now just a former shell in comparison. Crumbling plaster lay scattered amongst the dusty, uneven concrete. Dampness hung in the air and dust gathered on the boarded windowsills. Old traditions die hard, he thought as he noticed the small candles dotted around the room, a sombre cloak of melancholy replacing the smile that filled his face.

  His moment of reflection was disturbed by the arrival of the two other figures. One stood holding the door frame for support, his face pale and hollow with prominent cheekbones. The effort to climb a few flights of steps and navigate empty, dark hallways clearly evident as his tightly cropped hair now beaded with tiny droplets of sweat. A walking stick helped with balance as one hand gripped the door frame architrave. Sharp, heavy intakes of breath were equally matched by long whistling exhales that seemed to bounce off the walls.

  The other figure fidgeted, shifting on th
e spot, undecided whether to leave his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket or jeans. He clearly felt uncomfortable meeting with the others. Their numbers were fast shrinking which increased the apprehensive churning he felt. His dry mouth screamed for a drink from the nearest pub.

  “We…we can’t go on like this,” said the first figure, as his breath slowed.

  A slight whistle and crackle in his breath indicated asthma and COPD. Years of a twenty-a-day smoking habit had left him with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He’d been warned about it on many occasions, but he’d never managed to give up his Marlboros. The deadly weed had finally claimed his health and his job, forcing him to retire early.

  The second figure nodded in agreement but was too wary to speak up. He was scared of himself and what rubbish might tumble out of his mouth. His head felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer, a thumping headache eating away inside of him. The culprits being a lack of sleep and dehydration. He couldn’t think straight, a dull fog clouding his thinking on a daily basis.

  “The other two brought it amongst themselves. They weren’t careful enough. For all we know, they may have blabbed to some fool and…well, who knows? I want you both to keep your mouths firmly closed and remain vigilant at all times…understood?”

  The two visitors nodded quickly in unison, both lacking backbone to challenge the man as they exchanged nervous glances between each other.

  “If anyone asks, you stick to the story. You didn’t know the others particularly well and you can’t explain why anyone would wish to harm them. Now return home and wait for further instructions and updates from me. Carry on as normal. Don’t do anything that might attract attention,” he ordered before falling silent and turning to face the fireplace, placing his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat.

  The figures stood there for a few moments exchanging awkward glances, unsure what to do in the darkness. The room had turned decidedly chilly following their brief encounter. They turned and left, one scurrying away, his rapid footsteps echoing in the corridor, the other, a slow steady tapping from the walking stick as it signalled his slow departure.

  22

  His drive home had been one filled with a swirling mass of confusion. His chest burnt, his lungs felt tight and saliva kept pooling in his mouth. In recent years, he’d noticed the COPD worsening. The reality dawned on him that in the near future he’d become reliant on an oxygen bottle in order to survive. The thought of dragging a bottle around on a trolley grated his nerves. He looked like a man twenty years his senior, already consigned to the pipe and slippers brigade. He walked with a slight hunch, deeply set lines prematurely aged his face and rarely smiled through his tobacco-stained teeth.

  Under his breath, he cursed his misfortune. It’s just my fucking luck; bad luck seems to follow me around like a bad smell.

  How could they be so blasé about this? People are dying, he argued to himself, thumping the steering wheel every few minutes. “What’s the point in keeping my mouth firmly closed and remaining vigilant at all times…are you having a laugh?” he shouted. “When will this end?” he mumbled through a raspy cough that rattled his chest.

  Slow, deep breaths helped. He needed to be careful of his hypertension. The last thing he needed was more health complications. On numerous occasions, the doctor’s advice had been to take it easy. It was advice he’d heeded by tending to his potted plants in his small greenhouse and chatting to the neighbours as he passed the hours. Many of them were retired and seemed to relish the opportunity to fill the massive voids of loneliness that now filled their lives.

  Turning into his road, he reflected on how much he enjoyed where he lived. For as far as the eye could see bungalows surrounded him. It was a safe neighbourhood, a place where he looked forward to seeing out the rest of his retirement. He’d deliberately chosen this property, a corner plot which naturally added generous dimensions to this property with an L-shaped front lawn that wrapped around two sides of his house. To the right was a small cul-de-sac, something he was grateful for. It meant less traffic noise to spoil the serene moments he enjoyed in his garden.

  He carefully turned into his driveway leaning over the steering wheel to get a better view as he navigated the narrow lane. The darkness of the night played tricks on his eyes. He crept slowly up the drive careful not to damage the assortment of plants and shrubs that provided a natural border.

  He remained in the car for a few moments, tiredness consuming him. Devoid of all energy, the prospect of walking just a few yards to his front door seemed like a Herculean task.

  A dark-clothed figure leaning up against a wall on the other side of the road observed his every movement. His patience had worn thin whilst waiting for the resident to come home. Incensed and enraged by the news he’d received today, he was reminded of history repeating itself once again. He’d promised to take care of it, and was now more determined than ever. The silly old fool is taking his time. He had other pressing things that required his attention. Waiting around in the dark would only attract attention if he stayed longer.

  His tenuous patience had been rewarded, when the car door opened and flooded the inside cabin with light, outlining his target. Beads of sweat chased each other down his back; his heart pounded like a drum…his next victim was in sight. He watched as the light extinguished, and a familiar thud echoed in the street as the car door slammed shut. The man shuffled slowly around to the front of his house, a methodical scraping noise punctured the silence as he dragged his feet, each step harder than the one before. His breathing laboured, a fast, shallow wheeze signalled the need for his medication.

  He’d chosen to walk to his front door via the pavement rather than risk walking across his lawn in case he tripped. A stone path bordered by white plastic chain-links that looped between short wooden posts offered a natural hazard for those a little unstable on their feet. Pushing open the small wrought-iron gate, it creaked eerily from its rusty hinges. He took the final few steps up to his white front door. His heavy laboured breathing had drowned out the light footsteps that had trailed him for the last few feet.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the dark figure deftly threw a length of thin white plastic tape around the man’s neck cutting into his skin. The man staggered backwards, his teeth tightly clenched, his eyes wide with fear. He pulled frantically at the tape that was fast blocking off his airway. He wanted to shout, but all he could manage was a faint hiss, his body unable to either support him or fight off the attacker who was now pulling him backwards down to the ground.

  He fell back hard on his elbows. The sound of bone cracking beneath him caused him to let out a muffled yell in pain…a deep throbbing pain that radiated up his arm and into his shoulder. His mind whirled. His frailness only added to his inability to fight back. His assailant had pushed him over onto his front, and knelt on his back, forcing the air out of his weak lungs. The plastic tape did its job. The veins throbbed in his neck as black spots appeared in his vision. Darkness took over and his life ebbed away. He gurgled, the mucus stuck in his throat finding no place to escape.

  The figure looked around to see if they’d attracted any attention. He’d done what he needed to do, and now stood over the lifeless body, waiting for the adrenaline rush to die down. What a pathetic, useless tosser. There’d been no resistance, no challenge, an anticlimax even. It was almost as if he’d accepted his fate or perhaps saw this as a blessing, an opportunity to put an end to his misery and his ongoing pain and debilitating illness.

  23

  Hangleton Valley Drive was the last place Scott anticipated being called out to for a suspicious death. Situated on the northern-west fringe of Brighton, it was skirted by the Benfield Valley Golf Course and the A27 which was conveniently hidden behind dense woodland, but nevertheless gave its location away by the low drone of traffic that thundered along the Shoreham bypass.

  A safe, quiet neighbourhood sprung to mind as he made his way along the wide road. It was the type of place tha
t families and downsizers moved to when they wanted a better balance between the quietness and buzz of Brighton. He figured it was a place for retirees who wanted a more laid-back, community feel.

  On either side of him, were clean, well-maintained, deep driveways proudly sporting well-tended lawns and shrubs. Bungalows stretched out in front of him as far as the eye could see. There was no evidence of loitering youths, litter or boy racers who annoyed residents. It was in marked contrast to some parts of the town that were plagued with this type of antisocial behaviour.

  High performance cars driven recklessly were the bane of society and one of the main topics that his uniformed colleagues had to deal with at local neighbourhood meetings. With ridiculously oversized chrome exhaust pipes, lowered suspensions, blacked-out windows and paint jobs that cost more than the car itself, they belted out the latest heavy drum and bass sounds from expensive in-car systems that shook windows as they passed at all times of the day and night.

  He took an instant shine to the area. It wasn’t a place he’d usually have cause to visit in the line of duty…until now, and that took the edge off the pleasant thoughts that ran through his mind. The area had a close-knit feel and he could imagine living around here himself one day which made him smile. Look at me, I’m already planning my retirement, picking my house and choosing the right lawnmower…just need to find out where the nearest lawn bowls club is. Scott shook his head in light-hearted disbelief.