Copyright©2016 by Sam West and Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

www.facebook.com/mattshawpublications

TWO MINDS

50 Shades of Fucked-Up

Sam West

and

Matt Shaw

A Word from Matt Shaw:

Earlier this year I reached out to a whole network of authors for help on a new project I was writing called The Devil’s Guests. Ninety percent of them said they would love to help and - before I knew it - I was working with a number of people I had wanted to work with, but never had the balls to directly approach before now. The project was underway.

The Devil’s Guests is a new format I am trying. Although I am working with (approximately) twelve authors now it is not an anthology. It is very much my own novel. The story itself follows a hotel manager who happens to be a serial killer, bumping off his guests in a gruesome fashion and very, very loosely based on the real-life serial killer Holmes. Now, whilst I was penning my notes for the work it came to me that I could get other authors involved by getting them to do guest chapters in which they give the back story to a character. The only rule they had to stick to was that the guest had to end up at the hotel where, eventually, I would be murdering them. The chapters came back and it is fair to say I was really impressed with the level of writing I was seeing. In fact, it put my own work to shame and I knew I had to up my game in order to not come across as a weak link in my own work. No pressure there then. Anyway, I slotted the guest chapters in where I wanted them and I carried on working… You’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with this current book. Well…

During the writing of my own sections in The Devil’s Guests I realised there was room to approach more authors. Again, people I had heard about but never worked with. This time, they weren’t to write about a character being introduced to the hotel - instead, they were to have the hotel manager violently murder one of the old staff-members who’d been working there (it will all become clear should you read the book). And that’s where Sam comes into play.

I emailed Sam with regards to writing a guest chapter and - eventually - he replied. He wasn’t as quick as the other authors and some feeble excuse was made as to why the reply had been slow but - whatever - I was thrilled Sam agreed to take part. I was more thrilled that, although one of the last to reply, Sam was also one of the first to get the work back to me and, as his reputation warned, it was grim and twisted. Job done. Or so I thought…

The nice thing about reaching out to authors I’d not worked with before is that it opened the door to yet more opportunities. David Moody asked me to pen a novella for his Year of the Zombie books, another author is in talks with me to write a book together next year (wait and see) and - then - Sam West sent me a proposal out of the blue too.

Sam had this idea to write a book through the view-point of two characters. This is something I’ve done before with Happy Ever After and I knew it could work well but it wasn’t as clear cut as that. Sam wanted a daily target of 500 words each. He would write 500 words through the viewpoint of one character and then it would go to 500 words through the eyes of my character, back to him, back to me, back to him… You get the gist. What’s more - the plot was very basic: a girl’s sister goes missing and the last person the girl saw her sister with was this strange man. She becomes infatuated with him, wanting to know who he was because - deep down - she knows he is the one responsible for her sister’s disappearance. That’s it. That was the plot - Sam would write through the woman’s point of view and I would write through the man’s point of view with Sam kicking things off. The rest of the book would be written as direct reactions to what the other person wrote. For example, if his character slapped me then he would have no idea how my character would react until he got my section back. If my character apologised for causing enough offence to get slapped in the first place, Sam would then react accordingly and - again - I wouldn’t know what that was until it came back to me. It could be forgiveness or it could be a further ‘Fuck you’. On a really basic level, writing this book was pretty similar to playing a messed up game of chess and - as a result - was an absolute blast to write.

I hope you enjoy the story. I believe our styles work well in complementing each other and - of course - it has the trademark levels of fucked-up you have come to expect from the pair of us.

And - if you’re another author reading this because you also happen to like our work - always think of the bigger picture when publishers or authors approach asking things of you. Their project might not be as interesting to you on a level other than a pay day but it might open the door to other projects which are more your thing! Had I not approached Sam (or even David Moody) for The Devil’s Guests then this book, and One of Us would never have come to light…

Enjoy the book!

Matt Shaw

A word from Sam West:

Matt Shaw ain’t right in the head. He’s a nice bloke and all, but he writes like a lunatic. Imagine if Ted Bundy had taken a degree in creative writing and had kept a diary... Well, that might come close to the depths that Matt’s mind is capable of sinking.

When I approached him with the barest bones of this story, I wasn’t expecting him to say yes. We’ve never really spoken before as I’m a miserable twat that likes to keep myself to myself. He’s a best-selling horror author and has collaborated with some other, mighty talented authors. I didn’t think he would be interested in working with me. I didn’t think he would bite.

But bite he did.

When I had the idea, I thought of him. Our writing styles are so eerily similar, I figured it would either work like a dream between us, or it was going to be an unmitigated disaster.

As it turned out, it was effortless. The book practically wrote itself, and this is largely due to his sheer talent. He breathed life into this damn thing. It is of us, yet it exists outside of us. I swear, this story is alive…

Two minds, one story. Me and Matt, we’re on the same page. Literally. I feel honored to have worked with him on this, his talent and work ethic are extraordinary.

But don’t tell him I said that. Tell him I think he’s a cunt.

A “PS” from Matt Shaw:

What an asshole.

Two Minds: An Extreme Horror Novel

PART ONE

I spot him across the crowded bar and my stomach lurches. It is him, there is no doubt about it. The man I have been obsessed with for the past three weeks is actually here. It defies belief, but there he is. Him. He is even wearing the same brown leather jacket that he had worn the first time I saw him.  It accentuates the width of his shoulders and is the same shade of golden-brown as his artfully disheveled hair.

Do it. Get over there. You can’t pass this up.

My heart hammers painfully against my ribs as I weave my way across the packed floor on jelly legs.

Who are you, mystery man? What were you to my sister?

I near him. He is sitting at the bar, pint in hand, chatting animatedly to the barmaid. She giggles, twirling a strand of short, blonde hair around her forefinger. It makes me feel a little queasy, does she not know how obvious she is being?

His head swivels and suddenly his gaze is on me. My heart kicks up a notch – his eyes are the deepest brown. Sad eyes. Watchful eyes. I smile, but it feels unnatural and tight on my face. Can he see how nervous I am I wonder.

I take a deep breath. This is it.

'Hello,' I say.

'Hi,' he replies, cocking one eyebrow.

He doesn’t say anything else, waiting for me to continue, and suddenly I feel a fool. I lick my dry lips.

'Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?' I ask in what I hope is a playful manner. 'Mine’s a G and T…..'

* * * * *

I smiled at her, unsure of how else to react. She was pretty enough for me to want to buy her a drink… Blonde hair down to just above her waist – tied back in a single pony-tail, brown eyes filled with mystery that made me want to get to know her more, good figure – maybe a size ten? Twelve at a push. Nice clothes from what I would guess to be a designer boutique… Definitely pretty enough for me to want to buy her a drink, it’s just – I usually like to approach the women I buy for. Some men like confident girls but there’s confidence and over-confidence. Besides which, I prefer their confidence to be a little more lacking. Not non-existent. No one likes a woman with zero confidence – a shell of a human. Just… Someone who is a little more, what’s the word, fragile. Enough confidence to get by on, in life, but not so much that they become a pain in the arse. Makes sense to me.

I turned to the barmaid. An over-confident girl with a little bob haircut and dazzling blue eyes. She was looking at me, obviously wanting to know how I was going to handle this approach – especially given the fact we were having quite a nice conversation. I smiled at her. Our time had come to an end. She was nice but, I’m curious about this woman. Besides… The bar’s getting busy and the barmaid needs to get to serving the thirsty punters.

‘One G and T then, please.’

The barmaid looked pissed off with me as she went to prepare the drink. I turned my attention back to my new found friend.

‘Just so you know, I think she really liked me so… Please don’t just take the drink and then go off back to your little group of friends or – worse yet – boyfriend.’ I laughed at the thought of the scenario playing out like that despite a small part of me actually believing it could go that way. What if it does? Do I chase her across the bar and snatch the drink back? Do I throw it in her face with a little fuck you? Or do I act like the bigger man and let her go before turning my attention back to the barmaid in a hope she still wants to chat?

‘£4.20,’ the barmaid said. Her tone short. The fun-loving look in her face all but gone. Guess that door is shut then. I reached for my wallet and gave her a fiver.

‘Keep the change.’

Not even a smile.

I took the drink from the bar – where she’d put it – and handed it to the stranger.

‘As requested, one G and T.’

She took it with a smile. Something about the smile puzzled me. Can’t work it out.

My hand trembles as I accept it, my fingers brushing his. I want to say thanks, but somehow that simple little word lodges in my throat. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm and I lower my gaze. I feel strange, disorientated. It is a first for me, just bowling up to a guy like this.

He must think I’m a god-damn hussy. I am aware of the pretty barmaid giving me daggers, but she seems insignificant right now. There is just me, and him.

He’s speaking to you, damn it! Answer him!

I wrench my gaze up to meet his, heart pounding, mouth dry. For a second there I worry I won’t be able to speak, that my lips will be permanently stuck together. They make a funny tearing sound that echoes in my head when I open my mouth, like ripping sellotape.

'I’m here with a couple of girlfriends,' I say. My voice had a silly squeak to it and I clear my throat. 'Over there, by the jukebox.'

I glance over at Jane and Zara – they don’t seem to have noticed my disappearing act. They should’ve done, it’s not like I’m a big drinker and had even wanted to come here tonight. Didn’t they think it was strange that I had just come out of the ladies and started talking to some random guy at the bar? Didn’t they know me at all?

When I turn around again he is watching me, his expression unreadable. My stomach lurches at the scrutiny, there’s just something so intense about him. I squirm under his gaze, at a loss of what to do, what to say.

The Waterboys came on the jukebox, a song I had put on.

….Is she conscious, of her beautiful mistake?

The lyrics drift over me, like they’re trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. It means nothing and everything. I feel light-headed and lean against the bar for support. He is so close, now. I catch a waft of his aftershave, something dark and mossy that makes me think of damp earth and makes me all the dizzier.

The urge to just blurt out everything overwhelms me. But what was I supposed to say?

Hi, so, my sister disappeared three weeks ago. The thing is, a week before she vanished off the face of the earth, I saw you. Me and Beth were to go shopping that day, and I pulled up outside her place nice and early. I saw you leaving her flat and she refused to tell me who you were. She was mad that I had seen you, we fell out, and that was the very last time we ever spoke….

Something stops me. Good sense, perhaps.

Who are you?

‘My name’s….’ Shit! I almost say Samantha! I don’t want him to know my name and I’m not sure why. 'Sally. What’s your name?'

* * * * *

Her confidence doesn’t seem to extend past the initial approach. She seems nervous. Why? Scared of rejection? A pretty girl like this? I’ve already accepted her by buying the drink. Surely that should have made her feel a little more at ease?

I extend my hand and she takes a hold of it. Her palm is sweaty. Not sure if that is down to nerves or the fact this place is hotter than Hell. ‘Pleased to meet you, Sally,’ I say as we shake hands. I purposefully don’t tell her my name as I ask the age-old question, ‘So - do you come here often?’ It’s an old line, for sure, but it helps to break the ice.

She looks thrown that I had ignored her direct question but answers mine regardless. ‘I don’t actually like it here,’ she says. As she does so, shee looks over her shoulder as though reminding herself what a dive this place is.

I smile both for the fact we’re drinking in an establishment we don’t like and that I had got away with not answering her question. I have the upper hand. Alpha.

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ I reply, also having a quick scan of the area.

There are people dealing drugs in the far corner so obvious that they must have struck a deal with the establishment. There are couples dirty dancing on a small, sticky dance-floor. People making out across the room in shitty little booths designed to offer a little more privacy and then - of course - there are the pissed-up men eyeballing anything in a skirt in the hope their drunken gaze will be enough to pull them. The place is a dive. It wouldn’t surprise me if couples are going at it, bareback, in the stinking cubicles. Diseases be damned so long as they get that climax they seek.

I decide to put her out of her misery. ‘My name is Jack.’ I shoot her another question, ‘So - thing is - if I hate it here… And you hate it here… Why exactly do we find ourselves drinking in this place?’ I know why I drink here - my first time through its grimy doors - but, a pretty girl like this… There are much classier establishments for her to drink in. Certainly with a better standard of clientele for her to approach.

* * * * *

Jack.

The name suits him, I think. Jack the lad. Jack, with his buckets of confidence and easy charm; charm I was immune to, of course.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

His question was a good one; why was I here? ‘My friends think it’s a happening joint, you know, so bad it’s good.’

He smirks. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’

I neglect to say that I am only here because my friends had forced me. Apparently, it is good for me to get out and get my mind off Beth. But Jack had put paid to that.

Who are you? Do you know where Beth is?

I find myself openly assessing him, as if the answer will be in the lines of his handsome face. My gaze lingers on his lips, and I look away, embarrassed.

Christ, I could murder a cigarette – my one true vice – and my fingers instinctively reach into my little handbag and curl around the packet. I see his gaze follow the trajectory of my hand and I snatch it back. If he thinks I’m going to disappear outside for a cigarette he might get back to chatting up that barmaid or any other of the mini-skirted slappers that adorn the place.

‘You look familiar, have I seen you before?’ I ask.

As soon as it’s out my mouth, I cringe. Me and him were on a roll; do you come here often, followed by have I seen you before… Thankfully, he smiles.

* * * * *

I couldn’t help but smile as soon as she finished her question. Not because it was as much as a cliche as do you come here often but because it was the next question I was going to ask her myself. There’s a comfortable familiarity about her which is becoming more apparent the longer we chat, a thought first stirred when she smiled.

‘Pretty sure I’d remember someone like you,’ I told her, trying my best not to sound like a creep on the prowl for his latest victim. Another notch for the already worn bedpost. ‘Guess I have one of those common faces,’ I say with a little wink.

I don’t tell her that I’m sure I’ve seen her before somewhere. I’m sure if I have, it will come to me - or both of us - soon. I just hope that, if it does, it’s not because she’s a friend of Heidi. Maybe one of her clients? I could have bumped into her - perhaps - when she came to her appointment? I lose track of the different women who swing by Heidi’s studio, tucked away in the corner of our home. Is that why she is familiar?

The last thing I need is for her to go running off to my wife telling her that she’d seen me here and - worse yet - how I had been actively flirting with both her and the barmaid. Like my life isn’t complicated enough already.

But that smile… I’m sure I have seen this woman before. Part of me is tempted to leave it there. Make an excuse up - something about needing to get up in the morning for work. Get home to Heidi before I find myself in yet more trouble. Another reason to see that damned couple’s therapist. No one is here to judge, we’re just here to talk and listen… Yet… That smile might be familiar but it’s also alluring and I find previously buried feelings stirring within me once more. I don’t want to go home. Especially not to Heidi. I want to stay here a while longer and get to know this woman. I want to know the woman hiding behind that beautiful, sweetly-seductive smile.

‘Is it just me or have they turned the music up?’ I ask, raising my voice as though trying to make a point. ‘Can barely hear myself think…’

* * * * *

‘What?’

I can’t hear him, the music is suddenly too loud. That bitch behind the bar that he was putting the make on probably cranked it up to stop us talking. I almost smile at that – I’m being stupid. I had put this song on too, and now I’m regretting it. Trent Reznor is blaring from the speakers, growling about how he wants to fuck her like an animal, how he wants to feel her from the inside…

My face heats up.

He’s not going to know I put it on, I don’t look the type…

He leans in closer, speaking directly in my ear; ‘I said the music’s too loud, I can’t hear myself think.’

The edges of his opened jacket graze the bare skin of my upper arm and my breath hitches in my chest. The soft whisper of his breath on my neck stirs me up, making my head spin and my heart thump.

He steps away from me and I look down at my sensibly-heeled shoes, my face heating up like a furnace. Did he feel that too, or is it just me? His cologne lingers in the empty space between us, a heady reminder of his nearness, a potent mix of damp earth and sex…

And moss covered gravestones.

I don’t know why I suddenly think that, it’s weird. I’m weird.

I raise my trembling hand to my lips, taking a big gulp of the G and T. It’s stronger than I had anticipated – it must be a double.

‘Are you married?’ I ask bluntly.

There’s no wedding ring, but then, what does that signify? Plenty of men don’t wear them. Was that why Beth had been so cagey about this guy? Was she having an affair?

* * * * *

Her direct question catches me off guard and makes me suspect more that I know her. This is a test. Heidi put her up to it, she must have done. But then - why would she? She knows I’m not happy but she doesn’t know about the other women. She couldn’t do. If she did - I’d have bigger problems to worry about. Unless - maybe - she just suspects I’m playing away from home? A possibility.

Usually the girls don’t ask. I end up telling them because I’m curious to know what sort of person they are. Are they in it for the fun? Do they baulk when they find out I am married and run the other way, seeking someone who isn’t attached? One question, so many reactions.

No sense lying.

‘Full disclosure,’ I tell her, speaking loudly over the music whilst leaning a little closer to her. ‘I’m married.’ I reach into my inside jacket pocket and pull out a gold band. I put it on the bar and slide it closer to where she stands. She looks at it, shocked. Before she says anything I give her a little of the backstory. I don’t have to but I find it interesting. Like, if they know I’m unhappy - are they more likely to hang around in the hope that something could happen or does it put them off completely. I mean, if I’m unhappy in this relationship and prowling the bar for women with my wedding ring hidden away in my pocket, would they then be worried that if we did get together… Could I do the same to them further down the line? Since I first cheated on my wife, I’d say it’s been about a fifty-fifty split. Some girls cut and run, some girls stick around and pretend to care when I tell them my woes. ‘It’s not a happy marriage,’ I tell her. I laugh. ‘Obviously. Truth be told, we’re actually in couple’s therapy at the moment in one last ditch attempt to put things right but - I’ll be honest - I think it’s just wasting money; pissing it down the drain, you know?’ I wet my dry mouth with a swig of my drink. ‘We’ve done a few sessions now and… I don’t know… We still argue, we still bicker over the silliest of things… We still find an excuse not to be in the same room. Not quite the happy marriage I envisioned when I proposed, you know? But… What can you do when the other party makes it pretty clear they don’t love you?’ I shrug. She isn’t saying anything. I can see her mentally processing what I had said so quickly change the subject. If she wants to talk about my marriage afterwards, she is more than welcome but… I’ve been honest. Now let’s see if she will be honest too - unless, of course, I’m way off base…

‘You know - from the moment you started talking to me I could have sworn I knew you. I mean, not know you but… Seen you before, you know? I actually thought you were either one of my wife’s friends or maybe one of her clients.’ And here’s the question. ‘Do you know Heidi?’

* * * * *

I am at a loss for words. I’m not speaking, just listening to what he has to say. And now he’s asking if I know his wife. And what does he mean, by clients? it makes her sound like a hooker.

He’s so god-damn arrogant, like he’s testing me or something, putting it all out there with the I’m so honest crap. He has put me on the spot and it isn’t fair; if I hang around now, he will undoubtedly think he has scored for the night. But then, what else is he supposed to think with the way I am throwing myself at him?

And you are hot for him, aren’t you? a little voice whispers in my head. You want him…

‘I don’t know your wife. And I guess I just have one of those faces, too,’ I say. I can hear the tremor in my voice, but can he?

I don’t think he’s buying it, there is doubt in his eyes.

It suddenly occurs to me that I hadn’t asked if he was here alone, or not. Obviously, he is. He is here on the prowl. And I have become the prey.

Is this how he met my sister? I wonder. Was she a one-night stand?  Or was it a full-blown affair?

How do I get him to talk?

Why, with the promise of sex, of course. My heart-rate kicks up a notch. How do I do this? Just throw myself at him? Plant one right on his lips? Whisper softly in his ear that I want to fuck him?

I won’t fuck him, of course, but he doesn’t have to know that.

An inner voice laughs at me. Sure you won’t.

You have to find out more.

In what I hope is a discreet manner, I reach behind the back of my head and shake out my long, blonde hair. I run my hands through it, teasing it over my breasts encased in the floral, knee-length dress that looks so prudish and out of place in this sleazy bar.

‘Have there been many women?’ I ask.

* * * * *

Is she testing how honest I am? A question with no right answer. I’m damned if I tell the truth and I’m damned if I lie. Too few women and she won’t believe me, especially given the fact we’re talking in a bar, I’m alone and I’ve removed my wedding ring. A high number and she’ll walk - no doubt worried I’m riddled with infections to go with my infidelity.

I smile, fake to hide the fact I’m feeling uncomfortable,  and tell her straight, ‘I can’t really answer that, can I?’ She looked at me, confused. I explain, ‘I give you a high number and you run a mile from me. I give you a low number and - given the circumstances here - there’s a danger that you’ll think I’m lying so as not to scare you off.’ I pause a moment. Her arms are folded. I’m losing her. ‘Okay - so… There’s been one woman that I got close to, other than my wife I mean. But you have to understand that I thought my marriage was over. I mean… I still do. The only time we really talk is in couples’ therapy….’ I shut my mouth. She doesn’t need to know all this. I’m just making myself sound pathetic. I sighed. ‘I’m not coming across very well am I? I think that in itself gives you an insight into the answer to your question. Might get to talk to women but by the time I’ve finished babbling…’  I laughed. New direction. ‘Fuck it - another drink? G and T again?’ I down the last of my drink and slam the empty glass down on the bar, loud enough to gain the bartender’s attention.

‘What can I get you?’ a barman appears. Not my barmaid. She’s serving at the other end of the bar. Given how I’m losing this girl, I can’t hide the fact I’m a little disappointed. Especially given the fact this guy seems like an asshole; no customer service skills.

‘Vodka for me. Make it a double.’ I turn to Sally. ‘For yourself?’

* * * * *

‘Please. Same again,’ I say, looking down at my empty glass. Where the hell did that go?

Shit, I’m losing his interest. I can see the way his face falls when that slag of a barmaid doesn’t serve him.

The penny drops that I’m throwing out mixed-signals, what the hell am I playing at? I have to tread carefully, I’m being too nosey, too personal. Rule 101 of the dating and mating game… don’t demand to know the number of conquests. It’s making me look needy and neurotic, I must be throwing up red flags in his mind. Small wonder he appears irritated and flustered.

I remind myself that I am nothing to him – just another potential notch on his already defaced bedpost. I panic that he will go scurrying back to that barmaid; I have to up my game.

But something he’s said is niggling at me, and I can’t shake it. He said there was a woman he had got close to. Is there any chance at all he’s referring to my sister?

If I ask more questions, I’ll scare him off. Or worse, he might twig I’m related to someone he used to fuck, then he’ll guess I have an agenda. I mean, I don’t look that dissimilar to my sister – she is short and brunette and I’m tall and blonde, but we share a lot of facial similarities. We both have the same, wide smile and petite nose.

Leave it, Samantha. For now…

I don’t profess to know much about the inner-workings of the male mind, but I know they like to be in control. Or at least, believe that they are. If I make a move on him, he’ll think me too forward. He has to think it’s his idea.

‘Your drink,’ he says, and I take it with a murmured thanks. I notice how long his fingers are, and for a fleeting moment, I fantasise about his hand sliding up my bare, inner thigh, gently nudging aside the fabric of my knickers…

The image is so strong it takes me by surprise, the sudden jolt of sexual attraction leaving me short of breath. Embarrassment mingles with the arousal, and I just hope he hasn’t noticed.

A slow song comes on the jukebox, something from the nineties I only half recognise. 

What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way…

Couples are smooching on the dance-floor, grinding drunkenly together. I watch them, momentarily fascinated by their lack of inhibitions.

‘Dance with me,’ I ask spontaneously.

Now I’m blushing so hard, my face feels like it’s on fire. What if he rejects me? I don’t think I could stand it…

* * * * *

I feel awkward. The last time I danced, I was standing in a school hall jumping up periodically, shaking my head to the side - having wetted my hair in the bathroom sink in preparation to “look cool”. The music playing: SNAP’S I got the power. Jump up in the air, shake head to side spraying surroundings with my “sweat”, drop down into push-ups, flip onto my back and spin on my back… Looking back I cringe but - at the time - I won a bag of sweets. Not sure it would have the same reaction in a place like this.

Lyrics in my head: It’s gettin’ kinda hectic, it’s gettin’ kinda hectic, it’s gettin’ kinda hectic…

Need to say ‘no’ but keep it friendly.

‘You know - dancing isn’t really my thing. It’s kind of like my Kryptonite and - anyway - I wanted to nip outside for a smoke. Filthy habit but… Don’t suppose you smoke or, at the very least, fancy joining me outside for a bit? Certainly easier to talk… Because, you know, I do want to keep talking to you. Not blowing you out… Just not a dancer…’

It’s funny: The things I’ve done with my life and I still get embarrassed about having to dance in public. It’s always bothered me, the lack of confidence to just let loose like the other people in places like this but… Just something I really struggle to overcome for some reason. More frustrating considering it would have been the perfect opportunity to pull her in close to me and feel her body press against mine. But then, maybe the lack of drive to dance is a way of my subconscious protecting me from potentially being spotted by someone who knows me, or - more specifically - my wife. Maybe I just think too much.

‘What do you say? Want to step out for a bit of fresh air?’ I reach into my pocket and pull out a packet of smokes so she can see that it wasn’t some lie just to try and get away from her. I smile, ‘Promise I won’t bundle you into the back of a white van…’ I instantly regret what I say as my brain continues to try and fill in the awkward pauses between us. But then, my awkwardness is good. Will continue proving to her that - actually - I’m pretty inept at this chatting up business. Will help her believe that there haven’t been many women. ‘What do you say?’ I ask again, getting us back on track.

* * * * *

The rejection stings, somewhat softened by the promise of a cigarette. I’m getting jittery, such is my need to light up.

But still. A dance would’ve been nice.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘You don’t really have a white van, do you?’

‘That would be telling,’ he says, laughing, extending his arm in a mock-gentlemanly fashion. ‘After you.’

I smile at him, but there’s a knot of apprehension in the pit of my stomach.

He’s a difficult one, this Jack, I still don’t have the measure of him. On one hand, he comes across as sweet and bumbling, like he doesn’t chat up women that often. But I know that’s blatantly untrue, because he pretty much admitted to me that he did. He’s here to pull, for Christ’s sake – if not me, then the barmaid.

And let’s not forget he fucked my sister.

He’s a charmer, and I will find out who, and what, he was to Beth. Like me, my sister worked in an office in the city. Her life was orderly, neat. Jack was the only anomaly in her well-structured life.

Why am I thinking about her in the past tense?

Had he done something to her? Had he hurt her?

The nasty thought slams into my mind. It’s not the first time I’ve had gut feeling about this guy, but it’s the first time the thought is something concrete, a feeling that I have now put into words.

Of course he didn’t, he’s just a good-looking playboy, just someone that Beth happened to meet…

I glance over my shoulder. He’s right behind me, trailing me through the packed bar. I’m painfully aware of his presence; it’s a physical thing, weighing down on me. As I walk, I reach into my handbag for my fags, in the process my fingers grazing the mini can of mace nestled next to the packet. It’s always in my handbag because after all, a girl can never be too careful, can she?

The exit looms ahead. I push open the door and now we’re outside in the shitty, concrete beer-garden. I shiver in the late autumn air, realizing I’ve left my jacket with my girlfriends. I wrap my arms around my chest; they are speckled with goosebumps. I stop without warning, and he slams into the back of me.

‘Sorry,’ we say at the same time.

I spin round. His face is cast into shadows, his eyes empty sockets in the gloom. This establishment really needs to fix their outside lamps…

I take a step back from him, churned up by his nearness. To make light of the physical effect he has on me, I jokingly scan the parked cars on the pavement beyond the beer-garden.

‘Well, I can’t see a white van. Where did you park it?’

* * * * *

‘It’s round the corner. I don’t drive it myself, I just text my friend when I have a victim and he comes screeching round the corner.’ I flash her a wink. ‘Easier that way.’ She doesn’t laugh. Fair to say she doesn’t get my humour. I notice the way she has wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm. Ever the gentleman, I remove my coat and hand it to her. ‘Here.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘You’re not. You’re shivering. Come on, take it. I mean, not like anyone can see how badly is clashes with your floral dress in this light, is it?’ I smile again.

‘True…’ She takes the jacket and wraps it around herself without actually putting it on.

I lied. The dim light offered from the bar on the other side of the windowed doors, and the moon above us… Just enough light to tell it clashes. Still, we’re here for a cigarette - not a fashion statement. I pat my black shirt down and realise that - by giving her the jacket I’ve also given her the cigarettes. Idiot.

‘For a second there,’ I say, ‘I was pretty smooth - what with giving you the jacket but… Yeah… Can you pass me the cigarettes. They’re in my inside pocket.

‘Sure.’

‘Tell you what - it’s nice to get away from that loud music. I definitely feel old coming to places like this. What happened to the nice bars where you could go for a quiet drink and a nice conversation with your friends?’ I make small talk as she fumbles in my pocket.

‘Probably can’t smoke these,’ she says as she holds up a packet of condoms.

I feel the heat in my cheeks spread; embarrassment. I’m grateful for the dim light. Not quite sure what to say but - after too long a pause - come out with, ‘No - they’ll probably smell a little funny.’

She doesn’t laugh. Can’t even tell - in this poor light - if she is smiling, or grimacing. I wonder though - does she know my embarrassment is nothing more than a honed skill like most of my bumbling antics?

Oh he’s sweet. Perfectly harmless.

I wait for her to respond so as to gauge her reaction to the sealed pack of six. Her reaction gives me the chance to see the likelihood as to whether she’ll be willing to break the wrapper open with me later on. If she is offended I have the condoms with me, chances are by sticking here with her - I’m flogging a dead horse. Or should that be - flogging myself? If she doesn’t bat an eyelid, I need more time to judge her. If she says something flirtatious, there’s a strong chance we’re going home together. Her place, of course. Can’t very well roll up to mine with my wife there. Pretty sure she doesn’t care about the marriage. If she did - she’d have already walked off when I gave her the full disclosure but then… This one… Nice as she is… Familiar as she is… She’s difficult to read.

Prompting a response from her, I take a step closer to her and take the packet from her hand. I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans.

* * * * *

My mouth is dry and my heart thumps so hard it hurts as he takes the small packet out of my hand.

‘Shall we?’ I ask, producing the correct packet this time.

As if I can’t feel the difference between a fag packet and a condom packet – I’ve been through enough of both in my time – I just wanted to see his reaction. He seems suitably embarrassed, and I’m disappointed. I wanted him to proposition me, to ask me outright.

Hey, baby, so what do you say...?

I close my eyes to dispel the lurid images. This man is bad for me.

He takes the cigarette packet out my hand, lighting two at the same time.

‘Hopefully these will taste better than the ones in the other packet,’ he says, handing me one. We smoke in silence for a moment as I attempt to get my treacherous body under control. If only he knew how fucking wet I was right now…

His leather jacket smells like him, and I pull it tighter around my body. I think of my coat, draped over the back of the chair where my friends are sitting. I guess I won’t be seeing that again tonight because I have no intention of going back inside.

And thinking of friends, why aren’t they chasing after me to see if I’m okay? They bloody well know I don’t normally talk to guys when I’m out. And I never approach them.

Aren’t they even a little bit worried about me?

Apparently not. My friends are always teasing me, nagging me to “let loose” and “live a little”. Some of them even think I’m a lesbian. I’m not, I’m just… Well, different, I guess.

I’ve pretty much given up on men and relationships, it only ever leads to disappointment. No guy has yet to satisfy me. I guess that’s why God invented the internet.

Jack is getting to me, and I can’t remember the last time a guy did that. Perhaps never. The type of thoughts I’m having – normal sexual thoughts I suppose you could call them – are confusing me.

My sister isn’t like me. And if this bastard has harmed a hair on her head, I swear to God I’ll rip out his still beating heart and shove it so hard up his fucking arse he’ll feel the final beat pulsing in his throat before he fucking dies.

I hope and pray that he hasn’t, because I can’t ignore my urges much longer.

‘It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?’ Jack says, still with the small talk.

‘Yes it is,’ I murmur. ‘Do you fancy taking a walk?’

* * * * *

I smile. She wasn’t repulsed by the fact I had the condoms. No clear sign that I’ll get to use one, or two depending on how adventurous she is, but… It’s better than having her act prudish and strop off.

To answer her question, ‘Sure. There’s a nice spot just beyond the car park.’

Across from the bar there’s a large car park. It has cheap parking for people not worried about having to do a short five minute walk to the main shops in the town centre but - just behind the car park there’s a gateway leading to a park. Go left and you reach a green where, in the summer months, kids play football or just run around. Go right and it takes you to a slightly wooded area with a path, illuminated by lamps, which runs alongside a pretty river.

I hold my arm out for Sally and she interlocks it with her own, after tossing the cigarette butt to the ground. Together - matching steps - we cross the road, neither one of us talking.

Out here, away from the sweaty atmosphere of the dank club, I catch a whiff of the perfume she wears; a pleasant, sweet smell not that I could name it if you asked.

‘You smell nice,’ I say.

‘Thank you.’

I’m guessing she doesn’t mind the fact I’m a married man, given the fact she is happy to walk with me - especially in such close proximity. I’m not sure how I feel about it. On the one hand, it’s good because tonight - I get to satisfy my urges again but on the other hand - there are moments she seemed sweet. Maybe even a little innocent. An innocence I’m going to have to steal from her. As I think of what I’m going to do to her I start to imagine her naked, lying amongst the dirt and leaves. I start to wonder what her breasts look like, the shape of the nipples and what her pussy looks like. What it tastes like. I feel a sickness stir in my stomach - not because I imagine her to taste bad, quite the opposite in fact… It’s just… That innocence I’ve seen this evening… Usually the women don’t have that in them. Usually they’re just sluts. Little whores out to get what they want without giving a fuck who they hurt in the process. They deserve the time we share together and, well, I’m not entirely sure Sally does.

We’re in the car park now. I stop and turn to her. She looks confused by the sudden action. I ask her outright, ‘I know we’ve only just started talking but - I really like you and, I won’t lie, I want to get to know you better. Us out here walking… Do you not mind that I’m married?’

Give her one last chance. How the evening ends will depend on how she answers this one question…

* * * * *

‘Yeah, I mind that you’re married. I mind a lot.’

Before he has a chance to formulate a reply, I entwine my fingers in his hair, tugging his mouth down onto mine. He’s only taller than me by a few inches, but I like that. He’s not so tall he doesn’t have to stoop to kiss me, and I’m not so short I get a cricked neck.

A perfect fit.

Our lips press together, firm and unyielding. He neither pushes me away nor pulls me in, he doesn’t have time. After a few seconds I break off the kiss, taking a small step back from him. My head is swimming and my heart thumps so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The impression of his mouth lingers on mine – a promise of things to come.

He looks flustered. He opens his mouth to say something, but I press a finger gently over his lips, silencing him.

‘Don’t speak. You’ll ruin it. Tell me, Jack, have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?’

I laugh and twirl out of reach, heading for the park-gate on the edge of the carpark. I am giddy with euphoria, I feel dreamlike and strange, just like I had the first time I saw him. Except now the feeling is so much stronger.

No turning back now.

‘Sally? What are you doing?’ he calls from behind me.

‘Are you coming?’ I call to him as I walk backwards. I reach into his jacket pocket and dangle some keys from my forefinger. ‘You might be needing these.’

I turn on my heel and push open the gate, turning right, into the trees…

* * * * *

She minds that I’m married and yet she kissed me. True colours shining through. The girl is trouble, even if she did manage to quote the great Jack Nicholson from the movie Batman. In the film, Michael Keaton - or Bruce Wayne, if you prefer - was confused when The Joker asked the question of him. The Joker explained that it was something he asked of all his prey as he liked the sound of it. And - then - The Joker shot him. But that’s by the by. I’m standing here wondering if I am to be the victim? I smile to myself at the possibility. I know I should go home but I’m intrigued. I want to see how far she is willing to go. I want to see how damaged she is. And - more to the point - I want to see her face when she realises I am the Devil.

I walk after her with a grin on my face. No doubt she thinks that I think she is being cute, what with the kiss and then the playful running away - leading me to the fields and woodlands. The grin isn’t for her. The grin is for what is to come. The grin is for what I’m going to do to her. The grin is for what I’ve done to the other women, the little whores who are happy to go with a married man. The slags who pretend they’re up for a bit of fun and - then - when they don’t get what they want… The little bitches who threaten to run off and tell the wife, ready to ruin lives. Cunts.

‘Ready or not? Here I am,’ I playfully call out as I cross the gate.

The concrete beneath my feet turned to dirt and stones.

I can’t wait to kiss her. I can’t wait to hold her. I can’t wait to force her to the floor and to hear her screams as I rip her clothes off. What’s the matter, whore? Is this not what you want? I lick my lips in anticipation. Her true colours are starting to shine through and mine… Mine are bubbling close to the surface. The bumbling idiot, stuttering like a fool - getting embarrassed easily… That mask is off now.

She’s still walking backwards, playfully gesturing for me to keep chasing as she heads off towards the tree-line. I wonder, are the woods deep enough to have her body just vanish when I’m done with it?

‘Little tease!’ I call out.

Little tease or not, I’m gaining. Not that I want to catch up with her just yet. Not until we’re in the woods. Not until we can’t be seen by anyone else. I reach into my back pocket and pull the condom packet out. It’s uncomfortable, digging in back there. Casually, I let it drop to the long grass now underfoot. She doesn’t notice.

‘You want me - you come get me!’ she called out.

Oh, I’m coming.

* * * * *

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I run, darting behind a tree. I lean against the trunk, my breath coming in short gasps. I drop to the ground, and hidden by the long grass I crawl through it, heading for the next nearest tree.

I stand up, hiding behind the trunk, not caring that the dress of my skirt is rucked up and torn, that my legs are scraped and bleeding from stinging nettles and stones and branches.

I watch him approach the tree I had previously been hiding behind. He darts suddenly around the trunk, lunging for me, but of course, I’m not there.

I giggle, and his head snaps round in my direction. I pull myself back behind the trunk. Had I been quick enough?

Did I want to be?

He looks different by the light of the moon. Menacing. His shirt is inky black in the darkness, his face no more than a grinning skull, devoid of detail, devoid of humanity. He is approaching my tree and I can’t breathe; I listen intently to the leaves and twigs crunching underfoot.

The footsteps stop. He’s so close, if I reach around the trunk, I know I would touch him…

I giggle again, and lunge blindly off into the woods.

Catch me, Jack. Do your worst.

              * * * * *             

I like the chase as much as I like the act itself. I find it gets my blood pumping; adrenaline flowing. I know she’s hiding behind the tree, this playful little tart. I don’t go straight for the kill though, so to speak. Instead, I creep to her from the other side.

‘Boo!’

She jumps and giggles as she turns her head to face me. Just as I’d hoped, she had been looking in the other direction - expecting me to appear there instead. Before she can recover her senses and calm her pulse down, I grabbed her and pulled her towards me. Our bodies press together and I make no effort to hide the fact I’m hard for her - pressing my erection against her. She’ll feel it and she’ll most likely imagine it’s because I’m thinking about fucking her but… The erection isn’t bulging because of that. It’s the thought of what else I’m going to do to her.

‘Got you!’ I smile.

Don’t show the monster yet.

‘What are you going to do now?’ she asks.

I instantly remember the other women. My hands wrapped around their necks, choking the life from them as their eyes bulge and their fingers claw at me… My cock still deep inside of their sopping cunts. The more they fight me, the more the interior walls of the vagina spasm and force the orgasm from me. All these dirty bitches who deserve to die for the lives they’re prepared to ruin. These dirty cunts. I picture Sally on the woodland ground, broken… Her pussy bloody from the rough penetration, her eyes fixed to the black skies of the cloudless night. The shallow hole, next to her, ready to be filled.

‘This.’

I kiss her on the mouth passionately. My left hand resting gently on the side of her face, my right hand working its way down her back to her pert arse. A gentle squeeze. A wicked thought, will I fuck that too?

* * * * *

I squirm in his grip, lost in the moment. The strangest thought occurs to me; for the first time in my life, could I actually be feeling normal desire?

No. Impossible. What I’m feeling is something else, something more, something deeper and richer, something that makes up the building-blocks of who, and what, I am.

His mouth is hot and wet on mine, his hands are everywhere inside the lining of his jacket I wear, squeezing, moulding, exploring the contours of my body.

He handles me roughly, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I gasp against his mouth, arching my back when he grabs my arse, pushing my breasts against his chest.

This is it. This is him, I’m sure of it. This is the guy who is going to take me all the way.

His hands are everywhere and I moan into his mouth. His cock is rock hard, straining hotly against the fabric of his jeans and pushing against me. It’s driving me crazy, the feel of him, I think I might burst. He kisses my neck, cupping a breast with those long fingers and tugs the front of my dress roughly down. My eyelids flutter when his head descends to my hard nipple, his tongue flickering over the tight bud.

‘Please,’ I gasp in desperation. ‘Hurt me.’

For a second, the world seems to stop turning, and Jack is still. He still holds me close, but he raises his head to look at me.

‘What?’

I think of Beth, and a tear slips down my cheek. I hope he hasn’t hurt her, because like I said, she’s not like me. She wouldn’t have liked it. But I have to know what happened to her, I can’t live not knowing. If Jack has killed her, I will be sad. But at the same time, nothing on this earth will stop me from getting what I want from him. Through the tears, I manage the smallest smile. As if I could hurt Jack. As if I could hurt anyone. My fighting spirit, the brief thought of exacting revenge on him, is laughable now.

‘I said hurt me,’ I repeat once more. ‘Kill me.’

* * * * *

I block out what she said and turn my attention - my mouth - back to her erect nipple. A flick of the tongue and she sighs with pleasure. With want. Her words echo through my mind once more.

Kill me.

She wants to die? What is it with this girl? What is going on in that damaged head? She wants to die? Will that change when I actually start to hurt her? I flick her nipple with my tongue again before I suddenly clamp down on it with teeth clenched. She screams in my ear and my cock throbs with desire. Desire to hurt her.

I look up with her nipple ripped from her breast and positioned between my teeth. Her eyes are fixed on mine. Tears streaming down her cheeks and yet - somehow - lust in the eyes.

I move up and kiss her, slipping the nipple into her mouth. She swallows it down as some blood dribbles from my chin down onto her breasts.

‘You like the pain?’ I ask.

‘Kill me,’ she purred.

I move my left hand from her arse round to the front of her body. I slip it up under her floral dress and feel for her knickers. Two fingers brush the cotton gusset. Damp. Inviting. I work my hand down the front of her panties, past the neatly trimmed bush, over her clit and along her slit. She’s soaking. Given the pain I have caused her, I can’t help but frown at the discovery. And then I slip two fingers up inside of her, rougher than strictly necessary.

‘Do it!’ she ordered me.

My mind is going in a million directions. How can I do this? How can I hurt her if it is what she wants? The whole point of what I do… I get off on the fact they don’t like it. They don’t want it. I’m ridding the world of the dirty little sluts who are happy to destroy lives and yet… Don’t think about it. She sensed something was wrong. She’s playing a game.

I withdraw my fingers. She gasps.

‘Hurt me! Hurt me! Hurt me!’ she sighed and moaned over and over.

I put my hands around her throat and - as I had done so many times before - started to squeeze. Her face went red. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth gasped for air… and - then - smiled? Despite my crushing hands, she nods. I squeeze harder. Her eyes roll to the back of her head as the consciousness slips from her.

Hurt me! Kill me!

Usually I keep the pressure on but… I release my grip and her body slumps to the dirt covered ground beneath us. I don’t want to kill someone who wants to die. I’m not a saviour. I’m not an Angel of Mercy. It’s not who I am… I know who I am.

I don’t know who she is.

But I am curious.

* * * * *

My eyelids flutter open, and I groan. I hurt all over, especially my left breast. The ceiling is spinning; I can’t focus, can’t think. I try to piece together the fragments of memory. It feels important, somehow.

I was at a bar last night, with Zara and Jane…

I am lying on my back, and it suddenly occurs to me that I am not lying in my nice, comfortable bed, but on a cold, hard floor.

Then the whole steaming issue comes slamming home. Jack’s face flares in my mind. He is grinning at me, my nipple clamped between his teeth…

I gasp and go to sit up, but I can’t move my arms and I flop back down again, banging the back of my head as I do so.

Being more careful this time, I manage to pull myself upright into a sitting position. My heart slams painfully hard in my chest as I look down at myself. My wrists and ankles are bound with electrical tape…

And I am naked, except for the carefully applied bandage on my left breast, stuck to the place where my nipple used to be.

Why did he dress the wound?

And why am I still alive? He was supposed to kill me.

I don’t know how I feel about that, not yet.

Where am I?

I am in what appears to be a basement. Windowless. Concrete. Empty. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling – the only light in the barren space. There is a concrete staircase without a banister leading up to a door.

My gaze latches onto the door. There is a faint rim of light around the edges, suggesting that I am not alone in this building.

‘Hello?’ I call out.

The single word cuts my throat. I need water, it hurts to swallow.

The line of light at the foot of the door is now cast into shadows.

Someone’s there.

I hear movement. A key turning in a lock.

And now, the door is opening…

* * * * *

She was fine for me to hurt her. She wanted me to do it. I wonder, though… How would she feel about someone else hurting her?

‘Just go down the stairs,’ I tell the homeless man.

Will rape for food.

‘I’m not sure…’ He looks concerned.

‘All the food you can eat and the money. It’s all yours once you’ve done what I ask.’

‘I thought we were going to be moving furniture or something,’ he tells me. ‘What’s down there?’

‘Going down those stairs, you’re one step closer to finding out and - with that in mind - one step closer to a good meal and a pocketful of cash.’ The old man stinks of shit and piss. He probably hasn’t changed the clothes he is wearing for a number of months, at the very least. God only knows the state of his skin under the heavily stained fragments of cloth. I watch as he nervously peers down the stairs towards the cellar below. ‘Might even throw in a shower for you too,’ I tell him. It’s all lies, of course. Tonight, he is going to die.

The man smiles nervously at me. His teeth - what few he has - are stained a mixture of brown and yellow. His breath is rank. His tongue, furry. ‘Down here?’ he asked again.

I nod. ‘Down.’

He puts a wrinkled hand on the railing and takes his first step, followed by his second. I close in behind him, pushing him further down the stairs without actually having to touch him.

‘Hello? Who’s there?’ Sally called out from the dimly lit room and the homeless man turned to me - obvious concern on his face.

‘Go on,’ I urge him, ignoring Sally’s calling.

At the bottom of the stairs, I look at the old man’s face. His eyes are wide open, as is his mouth. His eyes are fixed to the naked girl lying before him. He turned to me. Shocked. ‘What is this?’

‘Please help me,’ she said.

‘This is what I need you to help me with. You see, my lady friend here needs to be satisfied. She hasn’t been with a real man for some time, you see. Certainly not a real man, like yourself.’

‘I don’t understand…’ He turned back to her, obviously attracted to the sight of a naked, scared woman before him - struggling against her restraints.

‘I can’t get out…’ she said.

‘How long has it been since you’ve been with a woman?’

He didn’t answer. He just stuttered and stumbled over his words.

‘You want that wash? You want those clean clothes? The food? The money? All yours after you’ve shown her how a real man fucks.’ I reassure him, ‘Don’t you worry about me - I’ll leave the two of you to it. I have an errand to run but - when I get back - I want her to have been proper fucked. You do that, I’ll get you everything I promised.’ I can see in his face that he is confused. It is clear that one part of him wants to do as I ask but another part struggles with the idea of having sex with a bound woman.

‘What if I don’t want to?’ he asked.

‘Please…’ she moaned, frustrated that we’re ignoring her.

I smile. ‘Of course you want to. Look at that neat little pussy. Can you imagine how tight that will feel clenched around your cock? I bet it feels great…’

He looked at me, awkward. ‘I don’t have any… you know.’

I guess, ‘Protection?’ His lack of answer, putting me right, tells me that I am on the right track. ‘You don’t need anything. She’s clean and - I promise - she loves the feeling of cum dribbling out of her cunt.’ He still doesn’t look sure. ‘You’re worried about the restraints?’ I ask.

‘Well - it’s a little unusual. I’ve never been asked…’

‘I’ll level with you but - know this - I’m not happy about it… This is a role-play. This is one of her fantasy scenarios and - right now - you’re making me break character which I’m not too thrilled about. It ruins the vibe. But, trust me, no matter what she tells you - she wants this. I mean, if she didn’t… Why else would I invite you here to help me with this? The first thing you’d do - when you get out of here - is run to the police so, what exactly would this accomplish?’

He shrugged, ‘You could kill me.’

Another smile. ‘I could, yes.’ I laugh. ‘Do I look like a murderer? Seriously? Do I have one of those faces?’ I give him a wink. ‘I’m not sure how I am supposed to feel about that.’

‘So… I have sex with her… With no rubber… You give me the food, shower and money?’

‘That’s it exactly.’ I lean in close to him and whisper in his ear, ‘And remember - the more she screams for you to get off, leave her alone - whatever - it’s all part of the game. Your job is to just carry on and finish. Okay?’

He nodded.

‘That’s good. Well - I’ll leave you too it and, for your peace of mind, don’t stress when you hear the door lock. It’s all about creating the right atmosphere.’ I pat him on the back and smile at him again. ‘Thank you for doing this, I appreciate it. And - so does she.’ I walk back up the stairs before stopping and turning back to him. He is looking at me, still confused. ‘I’ll be back later. When you’re done - you can undo all of the tape if you want, you know - let her out. She’ll break character by then and probably have a good laugh with you but, please, get the job done first… And thank you.’ Another wink. I turn away from the scene and leave the room through the same door we entered from.

I lock the door.

* * * * *

What is this shit?

‘Please,’ I call to Jack, but he is ignoring me.

I struggle against my restraints, sickened by the sight of the smelly tramp that Jack has practically pushed down the stairs. I pull and tug my wrists, keeping my forearms pressed to my breasts for modesty’s sake, and pain radiates out from where my nipple used to be. I gnaw at the tape with my teeth, but it isn’t budging.

I pull my hair over my breasts and keep my thighs tightly clamped together, trying to hide my nudity.

He was just ignoring me, talking to the tramp like I’m fucking invisible. I can’t believe what I was hearing, what Jack was saying. His words and my nudity, it is all so humiliating.

He’s asking the tramp to rape me?

The tramp stinks, I can smell him from here, and my stomach rolls. With a final thank you, Jack shut me in with the stinking wretch of a human-being.

The bastard barely even looked at me the entire time he was down here.

Then it hits me that this is a game, that this is Jack’s idea of foreplay.

My stomach clenches in arousal and my pussy is instantly wet – not because of the tramp, he repulses me – but because Jack sent the tramp.

The homeless man seems unsure of himself. He just stands there, staring at me. But I don’t like the look in his eyes in his grimy face. No, I don’t like it one bit.

‘I’ll try not to hurt you, miss. But I have to, please understand.’

Why are tramps always so polite, I wonder bitterly.

He takes a step towards me, and I glare at him. As much as it turns me on that Jack has sent this person to me as some kind of fucked-up gift, I absolutely, do not want to be raped by this stinking arsehole. My nose wrinkles as he nears – Dior’s Hypnotic Poison that I wear has long faded and cannot compete with the stench of piss and shit. His blue eyes are bright in his dirty face, his beard straggly and dark, but Christ, it might’ve started life as blonde for all I knew. To my horror, my gaze follows the movement of his filthy hand, and it’s unbuckling the belt of his equally filthy trousers.

His erect cock pops out of his fly, and I almost vomit. It is disgusting, and I close my eyes in a moment of lightheadedness.

Oh Jesus, no.

When I open them again, he’s having a good old wank right next to me. His shit-smeared foreskin drags back and forth, revealing a head that is caked with yellow smegma; some of it is dark, hard and crusty, the rest is lighter and glistening. Fresher…

If you can call fucking cock cheese fresh…

‘Don’t do this,’ I say in the calmest, most authoritative voice I can muster. ‘That man kidnapped me, this isn’t some fucked-up sex game, this is real. Please untie me, I can get you your money.’

The man grunts and licks his lips. Even from here I can smell his breath – or perhaps it is the stench of his genitals. Either way, the fetid odour he emits is making me dizzy.

‘He said you would say that.’ His breath is coming faster now, his hand movement more erratic. ‘You know what, pretty lady, it’s been a while since anyone put my willy in their mouth. And you’ve sure got a pretty mouth, I bet you suck real good.’

‘Fuck off,’ I say. ‘If you put your willy anywhere near my face, I swear to God, I’ll bite the fucking thing off.’

That seems to stop him in his tracks – I see the doubt flashing across his eyes.

‘Fine,’ he says. I actually think the twat has got the hump with me. ‘Get on all fours, pretty lady, I’m going to stick it in your pretty little fanny.’

Willy? Fanny? How old was he? Twelve?

‘Fuck off,’ I say again.

The tramp suddenly lunges for me, fisting my hair and tugging hard.

‘Hey!’ I protest, but there’s no escaping his grip, no matter how much I wriggle.

He pulls me onto my side and my head smacks against the ground. The room spins as he gropes me, his dirty hands everywhere. His arm snakes around my waist, and I find myself being hoisted upwards with my arse in the air. He pushes down on the back of my head, mashing the side of my face into the concrete. My knees are roughly shoved apart and I lose my balance; if it weren’t for the disgusting bastard holding me up I would’ve flattened like a deckchair.

As I find my balance on my elbows, something hard probes the crack of my exposed arse.

My mind reels. Oh, Jesus Christ, no…

‘So fucking wet, so fucking tight,’ the tramp grunts, shoving inside of me. ‘Your husband is one lucky fucking bastard.’

His shit-caked balls slap against the back of my thighs with each hard thrust, and I cry out.

But in my head, it’s not this stinking bastard fucking me, it’s Jack. I see Jack’s face, sheened in blood, my nipple clamped between his teeth. I am swallowing my own nipple, and it slips down the back of my throat like the most delicious oyster…

‘Oh,’ I cry out as an orgasm crashes over me.

The tramp is coming at the same time, humping me with all the finesse of a horny dog.

The whole sorry, sordid thing is over in less than two minutes.

‘Will you untie me, now?’ I ask the tramp who is slumped over my back.

He grunts something incomprehensible, his weight pressing down on me. I can feel his come leaking out of me, and the full, dirty realisation of what I have done smacks me full in the face.

I start to cry.

* * * * *

I idly toy with the knife blade as I stare at the picture of Heidi sitting on the bedside cabinet, next to the bed we used to share. The picture is one from yesteryear. Our wedding. She was wearing an ivory dress that clung to her hourglass figure. It was plain to look at yet - when she wore it - it looked stunning. She was a pretty woman that’s for sure. On the outside at least. On the inside, festering over the years, she had turned into one hell of a cunt. Even so, I know that was mostly to do with me. Even before what happened to… Well, even before, I knew I hadn’t been an easy person to live with. My moods fluctuate, I work long hours - often late into the night. Hardly husband material so… She was a cunt because I made her one.

I smile to myself as I continue staring at the picture, thinking back to days gone by. I smile because she would have most likely been fine with me saying I wanted to leave her. She would have been thankful. She could have been living some place else with another man, or maybe enjoying some peace and quiet dwelling in a little flat alone but… It wasn’t until my personality changed for the worse still, after Beth, that she finally decided enough was enough and left of her own accord. Beth.

A pang of regret pushes through the hatred I feel for women like her.

I remember that night with Beth, a girl I had been seeing behind Heidi’s back. I remember the argument. Beth had wanted to tell Heidi about us. She didn’t want to be the other woman anymore. She wanted to be the only woman and yet, when we had first got together, I told her I was married. I told her that I wasn’t in the position to just leave my wife. I stood to lose too much and - at the start - she understood. She was fine with that. Of course, she changed. She didn’t care about what I had to lose so long as we were together. Homeless and penniless so long as we had each other. She went to leave, threatening me that she was going round my house right there and then to tell Heidi everything. I reached out, grabbing at the back end of her coat… She fell…

A thought.

Something I had said ruined the flow of my thoughts. What was it? What was the triggered thought trying to break through the reminiscing? I was thinking about Heidi, thinking about how I turned her into a cunt. How I ruined the once nice girl. Then I got to thinking about Beth and how we were having fun but then she wanted more… Told her I stood to lose too… There it is… Homeless and penniless. Homeless. The homeless man.

I look at the clock next to the photo-frame. Thirty minutes I’ve been up here, waiting for him to get his business done and dusted. He must be done by now. Only one way to find out.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw the silver wedding band I’d earlier collected from my jacket pocket. I set it to one side, next to the photo of Heidi - my useful little prop for when I’m on the prowl for more home wreckers and then I stand up, knife still in other hand and I head off across the landing, down the stairs, through the hallway and into the kitchen. The cellar door is just in front of me. I walk over and press my ear against the door unsure of what I will hear from the other side.

No moaning.

No grunting.

All is quiet.

I turn the key which had been left in the door and open the door.

‘Everything good down there?’ I call down. I frown when there is no response and - then - I step onto the first step. ‘So… Guessing you asked him to let you out then?’ I say.

Sally is standing in the middle of the room. The homeless man is lying on the floor motionless.

‘I’m guessing he didn’t just keel over from a heart-attack? Did you kill him?’ I ask.

Sally doesn’t respond.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her, ‘I’m not upset. Who will miss a homeless man? And, if you’re worried, I’m not even angry with you.’ I hold the knife up so that she can see it. ‘You have saved me a job if I’m going to be honest with you.’

She still doesn’t respond and - for a split second - I wonder if I have broken her. Well - if I have - isn’t that what she wanted from me?

‘Did he at least get to fuck you?’ When she doesn’t respond again, I start down the stairs. I hold the knife out, blade aimed towards her, and ask direct, ‘Are we going to have a problem?’

* * * * *

A problem?

I stand there staring at him, tramp-cum leaking down my inner thighs, one arm wrapped around my breasts, the other hand flat against my groin.

I don’t even know where to start, this is just all so fucked up. I was supposed to die in a blaze of sexual agony.

‘What do you want me to say?’ I ask. ‘You were supposed to kill me. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Kill people? Kill women? Why am I still alive? Where am I? What is this, Jack?’

He stands there, openly assessing me. ‘Did the tramp fuck you? Did you kill him?’

Despite everything, I’m angry at him. For the moment at least, I forget to be scared, even if he is holding a knife. I may be a masochist, but I enjoy pain during sex, not out of it. It feels so different, when I am aroused. But now, with my aching breast, battered body and being so dehydrated I can hardly see straight, I am pissed off.

‘Yes, Jack, the homeless man raped me. He fucked me like a dog, then he slumped on top of me and had a fucking heart-attack. Why do you look so surprised? He’s been living on the streets for God knows how many years, he can’t have been in the best of health.’ I shake my head sadly. ‘Of course I didn’t kill him. I’m not like you. I’m the polar opposite of you.’ You live to inflict pain, I live to receive it, I silently added.

We were two sides of the same coin, his yin to my yang. But surely he got that, for why else would I still be alive?

‘Then who untied you?’ he asked.

‘I untied me. I bit through the tape round my wrists.’

He is silent, as if deciding whether I am being truthful or not. With a shiver, I eye the knife which is pointing at me.

‘Where am I, Jack? What do you want with me? Please, I need water, I’m so thirsty.’

* * * * *

‘If you move, I’ll kill you.’ I pause waiting for her to acknowledge my words. Then, I turn back up the stairs and out of the cellar. I do not close the door behind me and hear her shout up.

‘I’m hungry too…’

She’s out of luck. It’s not water I am getting and neither is it food. It’s the electrical tape. I can’t have her moving around freely down there. Not sure what her game is. Can’t work her out…

I open one of the many kitchen drawers and pull out the electrical tape from where I’d dumped it earlier. A drawer filled with crap that doesn’t seem to have a proper home of its own. I put the knife in my back pocket and headed back for the cellar with the tape in hand.

‘Thank you… Thank you…’ she said over and over again as I walked down the stairs. Poor deluded whore. She thinks I have water for her.

‘Catch.’ I toss her the tape and she catches it with both hands. She looks at it. ‘Wrap your ankles,’ I tell her.

She hesitates. I won’t tell her again. She realises this isn’t an option and she sits back down on the hard floor. She wraps the tape around her ankles and tears it from the roll.

I nod. ‘Good.’ Looks nice and tight. ‘Put the tape down and put your wrists together…’

‘Please… I’m thirsty.’

‘Tape first. Then drink.’

She put the tape down. I walked over to it and picked it up. Without another word, I wrapped her wrists together tightly.

‘I’m going to put some tape over your mouth,’ I warn her. ‘You may have the water first, okay?’

She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

I smile too. I put my hand through the electrical tape roll and wear it like an over-sized bracelet. Then, still smiling, I pull my flaccid cock out of my trousers and grip the tip tightly.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You were thirsty. Open your mouth.’

‘What?’

‘Open your mouth…’ I release my grip and let the golden stream flow, splashing over her breasts and her face. ‘… Drink up, bitch.’

She gags and shakes her head from side to side as I piss all over her. The relief I feel is fucking beautiful and I sigh. She isn’t the only one who is dehydrated. My urine is dark yellow and stinks like sugar puff. She isn’t the only one who is thirsty. Dehydrated badly. Still, least I can get a nice drink in a minute. As the last of the waste trickles out, I give my dick a shake over her head. Don’t want to waste a single drop. As I put my cock away, back in my pants, I laugh as the whore lets some of the urine dribble from her mouth. Not one for swallowing then.

I tut. ‘I thought you were thirsty?’

She was weeping. At least I think that is tears running down her cheeks. Could very well be piss.

‘Why are you doing this?’

I pull the tape from my wrist and tear a piece off. She struggles momentarily but I place the tape over her mouth, sticking her lips together. She won’t be chewing through the tape this time and… Just in case she thinks she can rip the tape away with her fingers…

I toss the tape to one side and pull the knife from my back pocket.

I put it up against her neck and smile. She looks me directly in the eye - a look of… What is that?… In her eyes. She wants me to cut her. Well - no - it won’t be like this. At least, not yet. Maybe later but - not yet.

‘It won’t be that easy,’ I tell her. ‘You want me to hurt you? I’m going to hurt you.’

I crouch down on the floor and grab her left thumb with one hand. With the other hand, I put the serrated blade of the knife against her thumb.

I warn her, ‘This is going to really, really hurt.’

I start hacking and sawing backwards and forwards. She screams through the tape and writhes around on the floor but I hold her there with a strong grip of her finger. The teeth of the blade chew through the bone like a saw through a wooden branch. Crunching, splintering. As I saw, I pull on the finger until…

The thumb comes off.

One down. One to go. And then… Eight fingers.

I push her severed thumb up her nose. She only has the one nostril to breathe through now. I hope it isn’t blocked. I take a hold of the second thumb and pause a moment.

‘You know, I’m really glad you came over to me tonight. The way the evening was going… I thought I was going to go home alone. I mean, I know you were worried about the bartender but - yeah - she was nothing more than a prick-tease. A little slag designed to flirt to get people fooled into thinking they have a chance. They stand there longer talking… They spend more money. They buy more and more drinks, the tips get bigger as the customers get drunker.’ I shake my head. ‘Sorry, not sure why I told you that. Now. Where were we?’

* * * * *

I’m not angry at him anymore, I’m in too much pain for that. It consumes me, washing through me, cleansing me. I am crying with terror and bliss.

Hazily, I imagine him fucking me. We got so close in amongst the trees, but somehow, it didn’t happen. Maybe I shouldn’t have told me to hurt me so soon, maybe then, he would have taken me on the leaf-strewn ground, and I would have died in the ecstasy that I so seek. I imagine my own naked, battered corpse, the reflection of the moon shining in my lifeless eyes…

I meet his gaze, bathed in his urine. It drips from the end of my nose, rhythmically splashing on my piss-sheened breasts. Blood mingles with piss, pumping out of my left hand where my thumb used to be. Silently, the dark red river oozes over my bound hands, taking with it my very life-force…

If only he would fuck me as I die, then it would be so perfect. This foreplay is nice and my fear is my aphrodisiac, but I want him to do everything to me. He has the knife pressed to my other thumb… will I lose that too?

I don’t mind the urine, I don’t mind the pain, but the thumb up my nose is a little undignified. Like I’m trying to dispel a lodged booger I start snorting like a pig. It works like a charm, for the digit hits him square on the cheek. It leaves a little red mark, and I giggle through the tears.

‘I know,’ I say, solemn once more. It comes out incomprehensible, so I push at the tape covering my mouth with my tongue. This action frees up my lips enough to get those two, simple words across.

‘I know.’

Apparently, he wants to know what I know, for he rips off the tape covering my mouth with no care for the skin he takes with it. I can taste my own blood on my lips. I sigh, and daintily dab at the blood with the tip of my tongue.

‘You know? What do you know?’

‘You killed my sister. I wish you hadn’t. She was an angel, Jack, I loved her so much. But it wasn’t your fault, I forgive you. It’s who you are. If only you had met me instead…’ I feel my voice getting fainter, my brain slowing. ‘I just had to know. And I had to know you…’

I’m fading, and I don’t want to. I think the blood-loss is beginning to get to me.

He looks at me, and it’s like he’s actually seeing me properly for the first time. I love him looking at me like that, it makes my heart beat, just for him.

‘Oh Jack. Use me. Fuck me. Take me over the edge… I want you so much. All of you. I belong to you.’

I’m fading, damn it. I don’t want to blink out, not yet. There is so much more we have to experience together, but if he keeps hacking bits off me like this, I shall be dying of exsanguination before I’m ready.

* * * * *

Standing in the club, she had looked familiar. Something about her. I either knew her from passing by someplace or she is the spitting image of someone that I’d known. It hits me hard. Beth.

The smile.

The same fucking smile.

‘Fuck you!’ I hiss, suddenly angry and simmering with a barely controlled rage. ‘Fuck you!’ I say again, louder this time as the anger boils over. I drop the knife to the floor and slap the whore in the face. It’s a hard hit which jerks her head in the direction of the swing and leaves a red mark clear on her cheek. ‘Fuck you!’ I hit her again. Another slap to the same spot. The little cunt. Accusing me. I didn’t kill her sister. Or rather, I didn’t mean to kill her sister. I loved her but she ruined it all by threatening to tell Heidi. She went to leave the house, saying she was going to mine. I grabbed at her to stop her. She fell. Her head hit the side of a small table before she slumped on the floor. I had just stood there, frozen to the spot and waiting for her to get up. Hoping she’d get up. She never did. ‘Fuck you! I didn’t kill her!’ I hit the bitch again. My palm was no longer open. My fist was clenched into a tight ball of hatred. Or is it guilt? The top of her nose splits open with a loud crack and her lip splits, pissing blood in the process. Before I get more carried away, I back away from her. I trip over the body of the homeless man and land on my backside. All control lost.

The anger goes.

The hate goes.

The guilt comes.

She’s lying on the floor, barely conscious. Her left eye is shut and struggling to re-open. Her nose and mouth both streaming red. She’s making a whimpering noise. Words, I think, not that I can hear them clearly. I think she is saying she forgives me over and over.

I don’t want her forgiveness.

I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

I take in a deep breath. ‘Beth. That’s your sister, isn’t it?’ I ask. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. We were planning a life together. Did you know that? Did she talk to you about me? Of course she had. She loved me.’ I pause a moment and mutter to myself, ‘I loved her.’ I can’t look at Sally anymore. ‘I had never killed anyone before that night. She was saying she didn’t want to be the other woman anymore. She wanted to be with me. She wanted me to stay with her, or her stay with me. She didn’t want me leaving to go home to my wife. Said she was going to tell Heidi about us if I didn’t tell her myself. I told her I couldn’t. Not yet anyway. I stood to lose too much but she didn’t care. She wanted to be with me and wasn’t bothered if we were flat out broke. When she went to leave her house, I reached out to stop her. I caught a hold of her arm and she fell. Hit her head on the side of a coffee table. I can still hear the noise her skull made as it connected with the metal edge of that table… The loud crack. Then I heard nothing but my own racing heartbeat as I looked down at her body. She just lay there, staring up at me. Unblinking.’ I pause a moment as I play back the images for the night. ‘Waited until it was dark and then I moved her. I took her up to the woods, drove as far as I could down an old dirt-track and…’ I stop. I don’t want to say the words and yet I can’t get the smell of burning flesh from my mind. A casual glance down to my fingernails and I notice they’re dirty again too - another reminder of that night when I had buried the charred remains. I say again, ‘I hadn’t killed anyone before that night. Hadn’t even been in trouble with the police but… I couldn’t go to prison…’

I look up and the girl is staring at me with her good eye. She isn’t saying anything and nor is she making an effort to lift her head from the concrete floor. She’s just lying there, looking at me, judging me…

‘I didn’t kill my wife. I know you don’t believe me but I never laid a finger on her. The really tragic thing was that she left me without even knowing I had been having an affair. My moods changed after what happened to Beth and…’

I feel the guilt slowly go.

I feel the hate creep back in.

‘Whores like you…’

I feel the anger rise once more.

‘… Your sister was a fucking cunt. If she had kept her mouth shut and not threatened to get involved with my wife… She’d still be alive today. We’d still be together today but… She deserved to die. She knew it would cause me problems, telling my wife, yet she didn’t care. She was a selfish fucking bitch. Little cunt. All you women - happy to fuck about with a married man… You all deserve to die for being happy to ruin another person’s life. You’re fucking poison…’

I get up from the floor and crawled my way back to where she lay.

‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ I ask as I fumble with my trousers once more. ‘You didn’t want to know about your sister. You just wanted this…’ I free my dick and roughly stroke it hard. ‘You’re just like the rest of the whores, just out for a good time - fuck everyone else… Fuck the people you hurt… Well… Fuck you…’ I push inside of her when I am fully erect. She gasps. ‘The same cock that’s been in your sister’s tight fucking cunt. The same cock that’s been in your sister’s puckered asshole - a little coating of shit when I pulled out… The same cock that’s been in your sister’s mouth… The cum firing down her throat… This what you wanted? This because you want me or because you want to feel close to your sister again, you dirty fucking cunt.’ I push in harder - she gasps again - and I hold it there. Her dry cunt only feeling wet because of the old man’s cum. ‘You want me to hurt you. I hurt you. You want me to fuck you. I fuck you. You want to be close to your sister? I can send you to your sister.’

I continue to fuck her hard as I stare down at her battered face.

‘You feel tighter than your sister.’

* * * * *

Poor Jack. My poor, darling Jack. So much anger. So much hatred. My head is a screaming ball of agony from where he had hit me; blood is pooling in my mouth, bubbling in my nose and slipping down the back of my throat. My left eye has closed over and my right eye can’t focus. The back of my head aches pitifully from where it crashed into the concrete floor.

I can’t breathe, his weight is crushing down on me, and he’s fucking me, just as I had begged him to.

But this isn’t how I wanted it, this hurts. It’s not my body he’s hurting, but my very soul. He hates me, and that breaks my heart. He doesn’t get it. He took my sister from me, the only person I’ve ever truly loved. I can’t live without her.

And he is the only one that can give me what I want; what I need.

But not like this.

I’m not like the other women, I want to say, but I can’t, I’m in too much pain. Each hard thrust roughly jerks my body over the concrete, scraping the skin off  my back and buttocks. My ankles are still tied and the weight of his shins mashes them into the ground, sending shooting sparks of agony up my legs.

My thoughts are clouded, my desire muted. The world is devoid of colour; everything is in drab, shades of grey because Jack hates me.

With a final grunt, Jack comes. For a second he stays there on top of me, crushing me, his hot cum mingling with that of the tramp’s.

‘Fucking whore,’ he mutters, climbing off me and shoving his flaccid cock back in his jeans. He kicks me in the ribs for good measure and I gasp, curling myself up into the fetal position.

Is this how I will die, I wonder. Will I be kicked to death like a dog?

I am aware of him, standing over me, but I don’t look at him. I don’t want to see the hatred in his eyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his foot swinging for my temple. Agony explodes in my head, and then there is just darkness.

* * * * *

Upstairs in the bathroom I wash the stink of pussy from my cock with an old flannel. Warm soapy water and everything is fresh again which is more than can be said for her as my cum mixed with the homeless man’s both on the inside and outside of her body, where it leaked out onto the floor. I trust that she is clean. She doesn’t look the sort to go fucking around and the homeless man… Well that was a mistake. Should have wrapped myself before sticking it in her it’s just… The rage had taken over and I hadn’t been thinking straight. I just presumed a homeless man would be clean given the fact there is a lack of opportunity to fuck people when living on the streets. When you reek that bad, no one wants to get close but… For all I know he could be injecting. Too late to worry about it now and - to be honest - it’s the last thing on my mind.

I throw the sopping flannel into the bathtub to the side of me and turn to the mirror. My reflection stares back, unblinking. Usually, after I’ve put someone through Hell, I find that I look alive. More than that, I feel alive too. Not this time though. I look tired and feel empty. On the plus side, just as it usually is after an evening like this, the anger has all but gone.

Hurting people makes me feel better. It releases the building anger for a while. The anger then gradually rises within me to the point of boiling over again and I have to go out and hurt someone else… No one was ever asked me to hurt them before now and… I sigh as thoughts continue to twist and turn in my mind. Beth and her sister, Sally… One girl is dead and the other… What? She wanted me to kill her so she could be with her sister? Even if she didn’t want to actually die, she still wanted me to hurt her. She wanted to experience what her sister had felt before she died? I can’t pretend to understand but then - do I really need to? There’s something about this girl which draws me close to her. I could have killed her back in the park… Raped and killed just like the others but… I hadn’t. A little voice in my mind told me to keep her alive. Take her from the park back to my home…

Look after her and hurt her when I feel the need to rid myself of some anger. Keep her as a pet and unleash the fury as and when it builds to an uncomfortable level. It would save hurting anyone else, if I just hurt her. But then - what if I like hurting other people?

Can’t get away with it forever. So far you’ve been lucky. It’s only a matter of time before you’re discovered. Do you want to spend the rest of our life in prison?

I always expected to go to jail. I expected to die behind bars. An infamous serial killer but… Could this woman be a way out of that ending? And… A pet… Is she a pet? When I first saw her she reminded me of her sister. If they’re similar… would feelings grow for her as they had for Beth? Two birds, one stone - so to speak. Someone to hurt, to take away my own anger and…

But it’s not just my anger. I do it because I’m stopping these whores from ruining the lives of other men…

I slump down on the edge of the bath. I feel frustrated. I know I can’t carry on with what I am doing and yet… I want to. I have to. Sally could be a way out from that lifestyle though, couldn’t she? A fucked up happy ending for me?

I stand and open the medicine cabinet. There are various pills lined up, along with plasters and bandages. Whatever my tormented mind thinks, I won’t have a choice with how I live the rest of my life if I don’t fix her up. No reason why I can’t keep her alive whilst I try and decide what to do. And - if I choose for her to die - I can go down that road later.

For now though: Heal and feed.

I grab supplies and walk from the room.

* * * * *

‘Sally? Wake up, Sally. Drink this.’

Who’s Sally, is my first, conscious thought.

I open my eyes, and Jack is towering over me, a bucket in each hand. He squats down next to my head and peers down at me.

Jack. My Jack.

I smile. It hurts to smile, ripping open my split-lip afresh. I can see two of him.

‘Here,’ he says, gently pulling me into a sitting position and supporting my lolling head against his chest. A bottle of water is pressed to my ruined mouth, and he tilts it.

Cold water spills down my chin but I quickly get the idea, and I swallow. The first swallow induces a coughing fit as my damaged throat constricts, and he patiently waits for it to subside, holding me close. I’m away now, gulping down the water. I can feel it hitting my stomach and fanning outwards, giving back life to my shrivelled, internal organs.

My fill of water drunk, he rips off the tape that still binds my hands and feet. He reaches into one of the yellow buckets and produces a sponge, and a soap. Silently, he lathers up the sponge with the soap and proceeds to mop me down. He starts with my face, dabbing at my wounds. Next comes my hair; he takes care to thoroughly work in the soap, then wrings out the sponge in the bucket. He moves down my body, gently mopping my breasts. The bandage on my left breast becomes saturated, and drops off. He ignores it and moves downwards, ridding me of the blood, filth and piss that clings to every inch of my body.

My nudity no longer embarrasses me, I guess I’m just used to it by now. I belong to him, my body belongs to him.

I have long since voided my bladder and my own urine mingles with his. As romantic as this notion is to me, I am not sorry to be clean again.

I wince in pain when he takes hold of my hand and presses the sponge to the open wound. It is still oozing blood and the sponge quickly turns pink.

He spreads my thighs and presses the sponge against my pussy, washing away the combination of semen. This action sends a tingle of excitement coursing through me, and I moan softly.

Through my one good eye, I watch him work. He frowns slightly as if deep in thought, intent on the job at hand. When I am as clean as I am ever going to get considering I am being mopped down in a bucket of sudsy, red-tinged water, he produces a towel from the other bucket and tenderly pats me dry. The towel too, quickly turns pink.

‘My name’s not Sally,’ I tell him. ‘My name is Samantha. Samantha Brown.’

He stops patting, and looks at me, his expression unreadable. ‘Why did you lie?’

‘Because I didn’t want you to know I was Beth’s sister and she might have mentioned to you she had a sister called Samantha. I needed to know who you were, and I didn’t think for a second you would talk to me if you knew who I really was.’

I stop. It hurts to talk. My throat is tender and bruised from where he strangled me in the park and my mouth splits open anew every time I move my lips. I feel like crap, I really do, but with Jack touching me like this, I don’t care. My pain joins us together.

He holds the towel over my missing thumb, trying to stem the flow of blood. After that, he chucks the towel to one side and it lands on the stinking tramp. Absently, I wonder how long it will take for him to really start to stink. I can’t even begin to think what he will smell like when decomposition sets in too…

‘Why do you want me to hurt you? Why do you want to die?’

I wrench my gaze away from the tramp, back to Jack. How can I even begin to explain this to him?

If anyone will understand, it will be him.

So I try.

‘My sister was all the family I had left, she was everything to me. I don’t want to live without her. And I’m not like other women, Jack.’ I sigh. ‘My daddy didn’t rape me. My mummy didn’t lock me in the cupboard under the stairs. My uncle never told me I was his special little princess and it was to be our special little secret… Nothing like that. I guess I’m just wired up differently from other people. Pain is my pleasure. To me, they are one and the same.’

He frowns, as if he’s not quite there, yet. ‘But why?’

‘Loneliness, perhaps? Our parents died when I was sixteen and Beth was nineteen. They were good parents, on the face of it, but they were distant emotionally. Not neglectful, just not there. I’m sorry, I know that won’t make any sense to you.’ I close my eyes, trying to organise my muddled thoughts as he bandages up my thumb: ‘It’s just who I am. I don’t know if my upbringing made me like this, or if I was like this already. Both, perhaps. Pain fills the emptiness inside. I feel so empty, Jack. Pain fills me up, makes me whole again. I’ve got to the stage where I don’t want to live with the emptiness anymore.’

I fall silent, and Jack doesn’t reply. I watch him tend to my wounds with antiseptic lotion and bandages.

‘Take these,’ he says when he is done, producing a pill pouch from the bucket and handing me it. ‘It’s morphine based. Only two in the packet, don’t want you overdosing now, do we?’

The irony of that statement is not lost on me, and I smile sadly.

He gets to his feet, all business. From the bucket, he produces a shop-bought sandwich in a cellophane wrapper and another bottle of water which he places on the ground next to me.

‘Eat, drink, take the pills,’ he says, heading for the stairs, also leaving the bucket filled with filthy water behind.

My toilet, I guess.

‘When will you kill me?’ I call after his departing back.

He stops in his tracks.

Is he going to turn round, I wonder.

I don’t know if I want to die anymore. I still want to die, of course, but I don’t know if I’m ready to leave Jack.

My beautiful, angel of death.

Oh God, I am so fucked up.

* * * * *

‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,’ I instruct her. I head on up the stairs and out of the cellar, closing the door behind me. I’ll worry about the homeless man tomorrow when I get rid of the other body. I lock the door shut on the off-chance she tries to make a run for it during the night - not that I think she will.

She has confused me. Put my head in a spin and I don’t know why. It’s late but not too late to try and restore some balance in my world. I have enough time for a shower of my own before she arrives. Wash off some of the day. Wash away some of the confusion and then get my head thinking straight again.

End of Part One

PART TWO

I open the front door and smile broadly at the lady standing on the other side of it. She smiles when she sees me, no doubt relieved to see someone closer to her own age and with all their own teeth. Unless - of course - I am stereotyping the average John.

‘You must be Ruby,’ I say.

A fake name, I presume. I’m not entirely sure why they give out fake names. It’s not as though they give surnames to go with them. Well some of them do although I’m pretty sure one of the surnames I saw was also fake. Vikki Blows. Could be a coincidence but I suspect otherwise.

Clutching her handbag, also slung over her shoulder, and chewing gum with an open mouth she nods. ‘And you must be Lee.’

Why should I give a real name if they don’t?

She steps in over the threshold and I close the door behind her. As she walks past I get a strong sniff of her scent; some cheap body spray sold in the majority of supermarkets. Upmarket price and yet no upmarket perfume. Had I been looking to get intimate with her, I may have been a little disappointed.

‘May I take your coat?’ I ask.

She is wearing a black leather jacket over a red dress which stops just above the knees. Red “Killer” heels to match.

‘Thank you,’ she says as she slips the jacket off.

I take it from her and hang it on a peg that’s attached to the wall close to the front door. My own jacket’s over the bannisters instead.

‘May I get you a drink?’ I ask next.

She is looking around, trying to get a lay of the land, when she suddenly says, ‘Do you mind if we get the paperwork out of the way?’

‘No. Of course not.’

I reach into my pocket and pull out a bundle of notes. It doesn’t dent the wallet as I hand it over as I know - by the end of the night - I’ll be taking the cash right back again. Thinking back, I’ve lost track of the number of times this money has been handed to someone only to then be taken back. Always sitting in my wallet in case of emergencies, such as this, where I feel the need to blow off some steam.

She takes the money and counts it out slowly before dropping it into her bag. I wait for her to finish and then ask again, ‘Did you want a drink?’

Satisfied with her payment, she walks over to me and puts her hands around my shoulders. She pulls me close to her, our faces inches apart.

‘Wouldn’t you rather show me upstairs?’ she replies.

Minty fresh breath. The only positive for the gum that still circles in her mouth.

‘Sure.’

She wants to get down to business and that’s fine with me. The small talk is a necessity with some of the ladies but - in situations like these - I’m all for skipping over to the main event.

Ruby turns from me and takes my hand in the process. She leads me towards the stairs, looking back and smiling. I stop her suddenly.

‘Just one thing,’ I say.

‘What’s that, honey?’

‘I’m married.’ I hold my left hand up and show her that I’m wearing a ring.

She shrugs. ‘I won’t say anything if you don’t.’ She flashes me a wink and starts pulling me towards the stairs once more. I smile and follow. She deserves this.

I had booked the girl from the adult entertainment site Adultwork. It didn't take long to find her given the fact I had added numerous women to my Hot List. It was a list intended for a man to add the whores he fancied fucking but - I used it slightly differently. I added the girls who looked like they were filthy bitches with drug issues, not high class escorts in it as a lucrative business plan but, rather, in it for quick, easy cash to go towards their next fix. Girls like Ruby.

‘First on the left,’ I tell her when she gets to the top of the stairs. She follows my instructions and goes into my bedroom. There is a plastic PVC bed sheet stretched across the mattress. Twenty-nine ninety-nine from a sex toy site and - supposedly - the ultimate accessory for those who indulge in the fetish of watersports.

‘Kinky,’ she says as I step into the room behind her. I smile. ‘You know, if you want me to piss on you - it’s extra.’ She suddenly laughs. ‘Although,’ she says, ‘I might need that drink.’

‘It’s not for piss,’ I tell her as I push the door shut.

‘No? Then what’s it for? Oils? Maybe a little hardsports?’

‘It’s for the blood.’

Women like this, needing their next fix, might become desperate. They might come back to an outcall session, such as this one, and knock on the door. The man might answer. The whore would demand more money or threaten to tell the wife what he had done to her - and in the marital bed.

‘Blood? I think there has been a misunderstanding. I know I offer period play but… I’m sorry, honey, wrong time of the…’ Before she can finish her sentence, I grab her by the throat with both hands. Her eyes immediately bulge as I start to throttle her whilst pushing her back towards the bed. When we reach the bed, she falls backwards onto it and I land on top - still crushing the life out of her.

Hurt me. Please.

Samantha’s words play through in my head unexpectedly. The girl, struggling for air before me, no longer looks like the woman I welcomed into my home. She looks like Sam…

Hurt me. Please.

I close my eyes and try to block the image from my mind. Block her voice.

Please hurt me.

‘Shut up!’ I say out loud. ‘Shut the fuck up!’

I open my eyes. Ruby is back and Samantha is gone but - gone with her - so is the moment and the desire to hurt this woman. I release my grip and the whores gasps for the air now available to her. I climb off her and back up against the wall.

‘Go home,’ I tell her.

‘You’re fucking dead,’ she hisses.

‘Go home!’ I shout this time.

So does she, ‘You’re fucking dead! You have no idea who you’re fucking with, do you? I’m the number one earner… You’re fucking dead!’

I step forward with my fist clenched. She backs away immediately and turns to the door, suddenly in a hurry to get out of here. I don’t follow. I slide down the wall until I am sitting on the floor. Thoughts of Samantha are going through my head as the front door slams downstairs.

What the fuck is going on in my head?

I feel as though an old part of my life is mixing with the new part. The old desire to be loved by someone… The need for my Happy Ever After… And the new part of my life… The want to hurt people before they hurt others. Until now - certainly since Beth - I thought the old part was lost to me forever but now, with this woman, as fucked up as she is, I feel as though it could be in the realms of possibility after all. With her, I could potentially have my cake and eat it.

I get up from the floor and head downstairs and back towards the cellar. Without a second thought, I turn the key and pull the door open - stepping down onto the stairs leading the way to where Samantha lay.

When I reach the bottom, I notice she is out for the count. She has made some effort to eat some of the food and drink some of the fluids I left for her. I’m guessing the pills I gave her helped lull her to a sleep as comfortably as possible. I want to wake her. I want to ask what she wants from me. I want to find out more about her and what makes her tick. I want to know if - as fucked up as it is - there is some kind of future for us… She provides the love I crave and I provide the pain she craves.

I don’t wake her though. She’s hurting badly and she needs to sleep. I can talk to her when she wakes. She isn’t going anywhere and, I sit on the bottom step, neither am I.

* * * * *

When I wake up, the first thing I see is him. I smile. He is asleep, curled up awkwardly on the bottom step with his head resting against the wall.

Sleep has drained the anxiety from his face, smoothing out the small crease between his eyebrows and relaxing the tension in his mouth. He looks like a little kid; so innocent, so pure, and my heart twists painfully.

Will I look so serene when I am dead, I wonder. Will Jack kiss the cold skin of my unfurrowed brow, and whisper goodbye? Will he tell me that he loves me?

I get to wondering what has made him so angry. What has happened to him to turn his heart into a fiery ball of hatred? That hatred will end up destroying him. I know I can help him; I know I can take away his anger. I can absorb it into my own body so that his anger becomes my pain.

I ache all over from my wounds and from where I have been lying on the concrete, yet there is a buzzing kind of numbness that permeates my body and fogs my brain.

The drugs.

When the morphine wears off, I know I am going to be hurting. A lot.

I sit up to get the blood flowing again, groaning softly. My face feels swollen and my left eye has closed over completely. The pain is there, scratching below the numbed surface, waiting for the drugs to die…

I think my shifting around must have woken him for he’s looking over at me through heavy-lidded eyes. He lifts his head off the wall, wincing in pain and rubbing his neck.

‘Hi,’ I say.

* * * * *

She looks at me with a broken face and a pang of guilt washes over me. It’s a feeling I am not accustomed to and it makes me feel uncomfortable. I stand and stretch. Various parts of my body click into place from where they’d got warped in the night. The smell of the homeless man hits my nostrils and I cough.

‘I’ll get rid of him today,’ I say.

I sit back down on the bottom step. I’m not sure what to say. I have so many questions for her that they’ve become a muddled mess in my mind. I go to open my mouth and nothing comes out. She is looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I wonder - does she want an apology? I can’t offer that. Despite the guilt I feel, I’m not sorry. What I did to her - that’s who I am. That is the monster I have become even though, deep down, it’s not what I ever wanted. Not for her or for anyone else I had hurt.

‘I want you to know, I never intentionally hurt Beth,’ I tell her eventually. I know you have no reason to believe me but what happened to her was an accident. I loved your sister just as, once upon a time, I loved my wife. I only became… I only became this after what happened to your sister. The guilt of what happened, my wife leaving… Twisted me not that I hate who I have become. I do what I do because I have to. I have to look out for people in a similar position to what I was in… Eliminate the temptation from the lives of married men before they find themselves losing everything too.’ I pause a moment as I think back to my life before all of this. ‘Not what I wanted though. I wanted to live happily ever after believe it or not - either fixing things with my wife or moving on to a new life with your sister…’ I resist the tears. ‘I see you, I hear what you say to me and I wonder - as fucked up as our lives are… Is there a future, of sorts, for us? You seem to crave the darker side of me, the one I can’t shake, and I find myself drawn to the vulnerable side of you.’ I pause a moment as I let my words sink in. ‘You are an enigma to me though and you distract my thoughts.’ I ask her direct, ‘What do you want from me?’

‘Pinch me,’ she says.

‘What?’

* * * * *

‘Pinch me,’ I say again.

I need him. I want him. His touch is all I live for now.

Live.

The word sticks in my head. When I met Jack, I sensed the darkness in him and all I wanted was for him to kill me, for this beautiful man to give me my beautiful death. But now? Now I’m not so sure.

Live.

Me and Jack… Is it possible? Could we really be together? An alien feeling stirs inside of me: Hope.

He joins me on the ground, propped up on one elbow. I lay on my back, staring up at him. His fingertips lightly trail over my breast, circling the fresh bandage that covers the spot where my nipple used to be. I sigh, remembering all too vividly the moment he bit it off. I remember the taste of my own flesh and blood, and I shiver.

I can sense the threat of violence behind his tender touch, and I tremble beneath him… Not in fear, but in longing. Or perhaps both. They are one and the same in my mind… Fear and lust...  Pain and pleasure… Me and Jack…

Ever so lightly, his hand trails lower, over the contours of my ribcage, down my flat belly. His long fingers come to rest just above my groin and I stare at his hand, transfixed. It is deadly still, like a crocodile at the shore of a lake. I hold my breath, heart hammering…

He pinches, hard. I gasp. Pain flares, like a wasp sting and I let out a little sigh of pleasure.

‘You like that?’ he murmurs.

‘Yes,’ I sigh. ‘Do it harder.’

His hand cups my hipbone, then his fingers pinch together, hard enough to make me moan aloud.

‘Jack,’ I sigh, instinctively reaching for the crotch of his jeans. He is hard, and I can hear the way his breath hitches at my touch. I tug at the buttons, my fingers curling around his stiff shaft.

He stares down at me, his brown eyes blazing black with need; his need to hurt me.

My gasps of pleasure turn to moans when he attacks my body with a vengeance, pinching me all over with a singular viciousness that leaves me breathless. My skin is alive; every nerve-ending singing in a delicious pain.

‘Harder,’ I sigh, for the drugs still cocoon me in their numbing embrace.

‘You like that, huh? You like that?’ he pants whilst I wank him.

‘Yes.’ My breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, my skin is on fire with desperate need. ‘Hurt me, Jack, fill me up with pain.’

He pinches my one remaining nipple so hard my body jerks and my back arches. For a second, I think it might come away in his fingertips, and my pussy is wet and aching, my insides coiled tight with desire.

He senses my need and he cups my pussy, a finger jabbing inside of me. He pinches my clit between thumb and forefinger and suddenly I am careering over the edge, coming hard. At the same time, his cock pulses in my palm, then hot wetness spills over my hand in hard jets.

‘Jesus,’ he says, flopping on his back.

I lay there trying to get my breathing under control. My body thrums with pain; my skin is blazing with one hundred tiny bruises, one hundred damaged nerve-endings…

I find I am shivering hot, then cold.

Is this what love feels like, I wonder, closing my eyes. I am so tired suddenly, I feel so strange.

* * * * *

I lie on the floor. Her on one side, breathing hard with her skin flushed from both the orgasm and the pinching. The other side of me is the cold corpse of the homeless man. His eyes watch us as he judges who we are. But who are we? I struggle enough with knowing the real person I am but… Whatever I think I feel for this girl… I still don’t understand her.

I roll onto my side so that my back is to the tramp. He is no longer part of the picture. It is just her and me. She looks at me and smiles. For what feels like the first time in as long as I can remember - I smile back. Not a fake smile, a real one.

‘I don’t understand you,’ I tell her.

She frowns, no doubt unsure of what I mean.

She is a pretty girl. She seems smart. I don’t understand the fascination with being hurt. I don’t understand why she would want to feel pain. What does she get out of it? Is it done in an effort to feel alive in a life in which she otherwise feels dead?

‘Why do you want to be hurt? I know I keep asking but I just don’t understand it and I think,’ I hesitate a moment, ‘I think I need to know… I mean, I think my motives - my drive… I think that’s obvious but you’re an enigma and I want to understand…’

She is looking at me in such a way I think I am the first person to ever ask this. More than that, I’m one of the only people to keep pushing for an answer. I know she is struggling to understand all this but - there must be a simpler way to explain it so that I can get it.

I continue, ‘I want to understand you.’

For this to work for the both of us, I need to understand.

* * * * *

Jack is looking at me with such intensity, such a desire to know, to understand me, that I feel my heart swell in my chest.

‘Let’s take you,’ I say. ‘You say you kill to rid the world of whores, to protect other marriages from the home-wreckers, but it doesn’t explain why you derive such pleasure from the act of murder.  You are a sadist, Jack. Dress it up any way you want, but you live to inflict pain. You enjoy it, it’s part of who you are.’

He frowns. ‘But that’s different. Those whores deserve to die, those fucking bitches out to destroy lives, they’ve got it coming.’

‘But it’s not just that, is it?’ I ask. ‘You say killing them makes you feel better, that it cleanses you of your anger, but it’s the killing that feels so good. Hurting women, killing women, it satisfies your urges, your bloodlust. I’m not so different from you, I’m just looking at it from the other side. You give pain, and I receive it.’

My words trail away. I don’t feel so good. Jack’s face is blurring and it looks as if the ceiling is closing in around his head. I am shivering uncontrollably now, my teeth clattering together. I bring my knees up to my chest, curling into myself.  My skin is slick with sweat and I can’t decide if I am boiling hot or freezing cold.

His voice drifts to me on a tide of nausea. ‘Why do you want to be hurt? I want to understand, Samantha, I really do.’

It takes a big effort on my part to get the words out, but I do it, for him. I would do anything for him:

‘I am empty inside. All throughout my childhood, I felt as if a big part of me was missing, the part that should’ve been filled with love. Do you know how damaging indifference can be? My parents never cared about me or Beth. They sent us away to boarding school, I barely saw them as a teenager and then they died in a car accident when I was sixteen. I didn’t feel anything when they died. Nothing. They didn’t love me, so why should I care? They were like strangers to me. As a kid I used to cut myself, and then in my early twenties, I started to experiment with sex. With pain and sex. For the first time, I actually felt something. It filled up the emptiness…’

My head is spinning now, and I close my eyes. Maybe it’s just that the drugs that have worn off, but it feels more than that. I’m burning up, my face is like a furnace but I’m shivering so hard my legs jerk in the circle of my arms. Dimly, I am aware of Jack’s hand on my hip.

‘It’s ironic, isn’t it,’ I whisper so softly I’m not sure that he hears me. ‘Pain is the one thing that that makes me feel alive, but it is also the one thing that will end up killing me. When I met you, I thought I wanted you to end me, I thought I was ready. I didn’t think I could live with the emptiness anymore, and I didn’t want to live without my sister. But now that I’ve met you, I think that perhaps we can give each other what we both need, what we both crave. I want to stay here, with you. I want you to love me in the way only you can. I want to be filled with pain, with love…’

My body unexpectedly jerks on the floor and I cry out. I feel so dizzy now, so groggy.

‘Did you hear that?’ Jack asks.

‘Hear what?’ I say.

I realise I am slurring my words, and I make a huge effort to pull myself together.

Then I hear it too; a dull thud, coming from above.

‘I’ll be back,’ he says, scrambling to his feet.

‘Wait… Something’s wrong… I can feel it…’ I gasp, but I don’t think he hears me.

I find myself staring over at the body of the dead tramp. I am sure he is looking at me accusingly, judging me.

And I am sure he is smiling…

You don’t deserve Jack’s love, he silently tells me.

‘I love you, Jack,’ I say, but he is gone.

I stare at the tramp, shivering uncontrollably, and the tramp stares back.

* * * * *

As I make out voices from within the house, I close the cellar door. Turning to the old lock, I twist the key before hiding it in the back of one of the kitchen drawers. Done, I turn to the kitchen door - leading to the hallway - and freeze. A man is standing there, a few feet from me, with a baseball bat in his hands. He isn’t dressed for a game; black suit trousers, a white shirt and a black waist jacket. His hair slicked back and gold hanging from his neck, over his shirt. I don’t say anything and neither does he. We just stand there, looking at one another until - eventually - I speak.

‘I don’t know you,’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen you before and I still haven’t. Get out of my house and no one needs to get hurt.’

He answers me with a smile. I do not smile back.

‘There is no money in this house.’

A casual glance to the side. A knife block. Knives sticking from the top. Out of reach. Could I get to them before he swings the bat. Doubtful.

‘Ey! Yo! In here!’

Commotion from upstairs. Feet coming down the stairs. Voices muttering. Male and female.

‘That’s the cunt.’

My heart skips a beat as I recognise the girl. The whore. The one who got away. She doesn’t step in front of the man with the bat, she stays safely behind him along with another man of similar stocky build. The second man is also holding a bat in his hand. He too is smiling. Teeth of gold. My attention turns back to the first man as he takes a step closer.

‘This bitch… She tells me… You put hands on her.’

‘She’s a whore. I paid for a service.’ I try to sound calm.

‘No, no, no… See… She sucks and fucks but… You don’t get to put hands on her. She doesn’t offer that. Anything that leaves marks… Bad for business. You hear me?’

‘He fucking throttled me.’

The man snaps back to the whore, ‘Shut up, bitch!’ He looks back to me. There’s a look in his eyes that I recognise. A look… He wants to hurt someone.

‘And then I let her go,’ I point out.

‘So you don’t deny this?’ He puts the bat over his shoulder in a casual stance. ‘You don’t deny putting hands on my woman?’

‘I let her go.’

‘You get a kick out of hurting women?’

To tell the truth, or not?

‘Sick fuck. You some kind of fucking monster? Get a kick out of smacking up the ladies?’

‘I let her go.’ I keep saying it hoping that he’ll see that - despite what she says - I didn’t actually hurt her. I did let her go. I let her go back to her whore life, I let her go back to her whore pimp… I shouldn’t have let her go. ‘I shouldn’t have let her go,’ I say.

‘What’s that?’

‘I was going to kill her. I changed my mind.’

‘Fuck you say to me?’

‘I told you! Fucking do him!’ the whore shouts.

‘I picked her out of all the other whores on the site because I thought - here’s a cunt who deserves to die. A little slag who fucks a man, takes the money and then comes back later to ruin his life anyway.’ I laugh. ‘Look at me. I was right. She took my money and now she has come back with you to - what - rough me up a little?’ I look between the two men. ‘Really takes two of you?’

‘Oh, no, man… Just me.’

He swings the bat straight into my stomach. The force of the blow knocks the wind from me and I drop to the floor gasping for breath. Gasping and… I laugh. Laughing?

‘Fuck you laughing for?’

‘Hurt me,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Fucking hurt me, you pussy.’

The bat rises and comes crashing down again. I gasp for breath as it connects to my gut again. The pain is unbearable and yet - satisfying. I deserve this. I’m reaping what I sow and - when the air returns to my lungs again - I start laughing for a second time.

‘He’s still laughing! Fuck him up!’

‘Do it,’ I wheeze. ‘Hurt me. Please. Do it.’

He puts the bat against my face. The wooden tip touching the tip of my nose. I smile.

‘I get it,’ I say. ‘I understand her.’

‘You’re fucking crazy, motherfucker!’

He raises the bat. I close my eyes.

I hear the whore, ‘Kill this cunt!’

And, I brace myself with a smile as - in the darkness - I see Samantha smiling back, standing side by side with her sister. To think, just as I thought I had finally found……………………………………………………………………..

Black.

* * * * *

The fever racks my aching body, and I convulse on the ground. Sickness clenches in my guts like an iron fist, and I retch up the sandwich from earlier. There is blood in my vomit, and weakly I cry out. I raise my trembling hand to wipe the bitter residue from my lips, and I see that the bandage has come loose. The green gunge and pus that is oozing out from the place where my thumb used to be makes me retch all over again. All I bring up this time is stomach acid and blood. My hand smells worse than the dead tramp.

Blood poisoning, I think as the room darkens.

Dimly, I am aware of the commotion above me. A heavy thud. Shouting.

Jack.

It’s getting so dark down here. I wish Jack was with me. I hope he’s okay. I close my eyes, bracing myself for the inevitable. Jack’s face burns bright in my mind; he is smiling at me, and I smile back.

How ironic. I wanted him to kill me, but now I’m not ready to go. Only now, on the brink of death, do I have a reason to live.

His face is the last thing I see as I slip into…………………………..

Black.

THE END

With thanks to:

Jarod Barbee, Helen Helton, Michelle Clevenger, Rebecca Thompson, Jennifer Crawford, Kelly Rickard, Grant Oxford, Debra Bergevin, Janet Brennan, Scott Hunter, Colleen Cassidy, Baylie Poller, Sammi Brierley, Christine Feldon, Frank Meyers, Daryl Duncan, Gilly Adam, Jennifer Pelfrey, Stacy Latini, Sophie Hall, Chad Ferguson, Patty Jamison, Yvette Grimes, Mason Sabre, Michael Fowler, Hollyanne Trombley, Kay La, Michelle Bersani, Lollie Martin, Becki Ryan, Jennifer Risley, Anna Garcia-Centner, Martin Payne, Chrille Andersson, Alysia Mercieca, Angela McBride, Kim Tomsett, Paul James, Andrea Stevenson, Debbie Dale, Jennifer Eversole, Andy Astle, Cece Romano, Suzanne Elliot, Nicola Kidd, Hayley Marcham, Leah Cruz, Sanitarium Magazine, Alicia Green, Joan MacLeod, Paula Limbaugh, Hannah Carleton Millar

Your continued support means the world to me.

Thank you.

www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

www.facebook.com/mattshawpublications

Love Matt Shaw? Seen his Fan Club?

Early access to books, free short stories, signed books posted direct to your door and MORE!

https://www.patreon.com/TheMattShaw?ty=h