Kill or Die

by Ann Evans

  She drew back, almost as if she were drawing back into her skin. “Let us go. Please. I swear we won’t say anything…” her voice broke. “You have my word.”

  Her voice was beginning to remind him of Nash’s—whining, whinging, but there, the resemblance ended. She was good looking, slim, although he couldn’t really tell, since she had a coat on. He was quite looking forward to finding out.

  “Well, let’s you and me go and talk about that, shall we? I’d suggest you leave the kid here. Grown up stuff isn’t for the likes of kiddies, is it?” He saw the colour drain from her pale face, and she swore at him.

  He held the door open, addressing the child clinging to her mother. “Ignore Mummy's little outburst.” Then, to her, he said, “You really oughtn't to swear in front of little ones. It's not nice. Now, are you coming, or shall I take the kid? It's your choice.”

  For a minute, she didn’t move. She stood there, white-faced, while the kid clung onto her, crying again. He folded his arms, patiently. Then, as he was about to reach for the kid, she prised herself free.

  “Mummy, don’t go!” the kid yelled.

  “It’s all right, I won’t be long. I want you to think nice thoughts, until I get back,” she told her, kissing the top of her head. She walked with her nose in the air past him and out of the door, like some prissy martyr.

  He followed her, fastening the rope to the door handles after him. The kid started to bawl again.

  Vincent turned to face her on the dismal passageway. There was terror in her eyes. It elated him, thrilled him. He couldn’t wait. “Downstairs, gorgeous.”

  She didn’t argue, but walked stiffly down the rickety staircase to the floor below. He directed her along to his room, kicking the door shut after them.

  She was trembling. Her whole body was literally shaking, and her skin was like chalk. She stood, not screaming, not clawing him, not trying to get away. It was as if she was accepting her fate, like some sacrificial lamb.

  He stood facing her, looking down at her, but she avoided his eyes. He gripped the zipper of her coat, and pulled it down slowly, all the time watching her face. He dragged the coat off her, and threw it in the corner. She was wearing a blue fluffy sweater, jeans, and ankle boots. She looked good—definitely shaggable. He squeezed her breast, expecting her to lash out at him. But, she remained still, except for her trembling. “You don't have to look so terrified. If you relaxed a bit, you might even enjoy yourself.”

  She remained mute, head turned aside. It was beginning to irritate him. She was like a fucking statue. Why the hell hadn't she begged for mercy? Why wasn't she pleading with him to be gentle? Well, he'd get a reaction out of her, one way or the other. This was Vincent Webb screwing her, for Christ sakes. The cow ought to be grateful.

  CHAPTER 12

  Julia had lost track of how long the ordeal lasted. She knew she’d made it worse for herself by not showing any reaction. So he'd taken his anger and frustrations out on her brutally. When he finally drew away from her, her left eye refused to open, her head throbbed, and her ribs felt broken. But, she could stand, and she got dizzily to her feet. She could still hold up her head, although she avoided looking at him, the defiance she'd felt at first now shrivelled to nothing. But, she could still think.

  She dragged her clothes back into place, wiped the blood from her mouth. Every movement hurt. He watched her with loathing, then snarled at her to stay put, while he went to the bathroom. She hadn’t expected to be left alone, but the second he was out of the room, she moved swiftly. Despite the pain, and the disgusting feeling of violation, she dipped into the pockets of his trench coat. When her fingers touched her car keys, she clutched at them swiftly, hiding them down her pants. She was putting her coat on, when he returned.

  He got into the rest of his clothes, and Julia held her breath, in case he felt in his pockets for the keys. He only checked for his knife, then sneered, “And how was it for you, darling?”

  She wanted to scream, and fly at him with fists and nails, but there was no fight left in her. Besides, she was no match for him, and she would come off worse. She swallowed back the feelings of repulsion and hatred, and said nothing. He grabbed her arm, and shoved her through the doorway, frog-marching her back upstairs. She prayed to God she wasn’t too frightful a sight for Lucy.

  When she reached the top floor, the horror of what she had gone through was instantly forgotten. The rope fastening the door was loose, and it stood ajar. Finding the strength from somewhere, she flung Vincent’s hand off, and ran the last few steps into the room.

  “Lucy!”

  Two faces turned to look at her. Lucy’s, thank God, still alive, kneeling on the bare floorboards. But, next to her, crouched Nash.

  Julia swiftly took in the scene, thankful to see he wasn't touching her, wasn’t harming her. She swept her daughter up into her arms, gasping at the pain in her ribs, but not releasing the hold she had on her child. Lucy’s arms clung tightly around her neck. Tears of relief scalded her cheeks.

  “Your face, Mummy…”

  “It’s alright, Lucy, love, it’s alright.” Julia's lips were pressed into Lucy’s hair, breathing in her scent. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “You're a horrible man!” Lucy shrieked, her voice high pitched and distraught.

  “Don't, sweetheart,” Julia breathed, afraid Vincent would vent his anger on her daughter next. She inched away from them, and noticed for the first time, as the dull grey light from the passageway filled their cramped confines, what an absolute pigsty and death trap they had spent the night in.

  Black mould covered the walls. The window was boarded up from the outside, although a crack in the wood allowed a streak of watery sunlight in. The glass itself was splintered into sharp jagged shards. And, to her horror, she saw the floorboards beneath the window were non-existent, she could see straight down to the floor below, and another hole in the ceiling allowed her to look into what was probably an attic. She silently thanked God neither she nor Lucy had fallen through in the night as they’d shuffled about, needing somewhere to relieve themselves, and somewhere else to lie down.

  They'd slept fitfully, after feeling about and finding a box full of old bedding. Fumbling in the darkness, she had made a makeshift bed for them on the floor; it was better than hard floorboards for Lucy. They’d cuddled close, with Lucy’s blanket over the pair of them, and she'd tried not to think of their comfortable beds back home, where they were safe.

  “Did we disturb you, Nash?” Vincent asked so politely Julia wanted to scream.

  Nash struggled to his feet. He looked a mess. His arm must have bled again during the night, as the bandages were dark red. His eyes were sunken, and his lips almost white—like a dying man. Julia placed Lucy carefully down, holding her hand tightly, as she turned her glittering eyes to Vincent, “This man is ill, can’t you see that? Are you so totally callous you’d let him rot?”

  Vincent grinned, and slid an arm around the thinner man’s shoulders. “Nash’s okay, he doesn’t look his best first thing in the mornings, do you, mate?”

  Nash attempted a smile. It was pathetic. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he slurred, wiping his good arm across his mouth.

  Julia saw the glint of malice in the bigger man’s face, and despised him totally. It was obvious to her he didn’t care if his accomplice lived or died. So why couldn’t Nash see that for himself?

  And where did that leave her and Lucy? She had to keep on. Perhaps she could drive a wedge between them, split them apart, and alienate Vincent. Get Nash on their side.

  “Listen to me,” Julia said, forcing herself to look into Nash's face. “He wouldn’t give a damn, if you dropped dead on the floor. Surely you can see that for yourself. If he cared one jot about you, he’d have let you go to hospital. I think he wants you dead…”

  “Shut it!” Vincent snapped, taking a step towards her

  She held her ground, pleading with Nash. “Think about i
t. With you gone, there would be one less to point the finger at him over whatever you’ve done.”

  “I’m warning you,” Vincent hissed, his pale eyes narrowing into slits.

  Aware she was riling him, Julia kept on, driving home her point. “I don’t care what you’ve done, but if there was money involved, he won’t have to share it with you if you die, will he?”

  “I said shut it!” Vincent snarled, slapping the side of her head with the flat of his hand, sending her staggering back into the wall. Lucy screamed. He turned to Nash. “Now! Do it now!”

  The injured man took a faltering step nearer to her, and icy cold fear clutched Julia’s heart. They meant to kill them. She could see it in their faces. The intention was so tangible, she could taste it in her dry mouth. Shielding her daughter, she searched frantically around for some kind of defence, some kind of weapon. There was nothing within reach. A broken chair, cardboard boxes filled with old clothes and books. There was nothing she could use to defend herself, or her daughter.

  Her thoughts flew to Ian, hating him, loving him. Hating herself for dragging Lucy from the safety of her bed, and inflicting this terror on her.

  Both men were staring at them. The bigger one, scarlet with fury, the other one, grey and sickly. For a moment, no one moved. Then, Nash shook his head slowly from side-to-side, swore softly, and dragged himself out of the room.

  Vincent remained glaring, his breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. But, now, there was uncertainty in his face. As if he'd expected his accomplice to have acted, followed his orders, instead of walking away.

  Julia saw the dilemma in his bleak eyes, and prepared herself to fight as savagely as she could. Her thoughts raced, she knew where to kick him for the maximum effect. If she could put him out of action, for a few seconds, it might be long enough to get her and Lucy away.

  But, rather than attack, he moved back, towards the door, he stood to one side, so they could get past. Finally, he rasped, “Move!”

  “Mummy…” Lucy wailed, clinging to her waist.

  “And shut that kid up, or I will!”

  Julia hugged her, trying not to cry out from the pain in her ribs. She pressed her lips against Lucy's forehead. “Please, darling, please don’t cry.”

  But, the child wouldn’t be silenced. Sobbing hysterically, she wailed, “I want my daddy… I want my daddy…”

  Tears streaming down her own cheeks now, Julia cradled her child against her breast, stifling Lucy’s sobs with her body.

  Grabbing her elbow, Vincent shoved her roughly towards the stairs. “I said, move it!”

  The floorboards groaned, and Julia felt the entire staircase sway beneath them, almost on the verge of collapse, as they stumbled down the stairs. Somehow, they reached the comparative safety of the downstairs hallway, without the stairs smashing down with them. In the kitchen, Nash was slumped down at the table, a kettle of water was coming to the boil on the paraffin stove.

  She longed to sit down herself. She hurt so much from where he had savagely punched her, and violated her. She could still smell him; she felt so dirty and defiled, she could have scrubbed her skin off. She tried to block out her thoughts, tried not to dwell on the horror of his attack, but it was impossible. She could still feel his vileness inside her, his hands molesting her, the pain. She wanted to be sick, and she wanted to lash out at him. She clung onto her anger, glad of it, feeling it giving her strength. She wasn't going to be beaten. Lucy needed her, and she needed to be alert, ready to make her move when an opportunity arose.

  Daylight streaked in through the grime of the kitchen window. She thought of Ian, and her eyes fluttered shut. Had he rung her sister? Were the police out looking for them? Oh, Ian please…

  “Breakfast would be nice, don’t you think?” Vincent suggested, the blazing fury, of moments ago, miraculously gone.

  Julia stared at him in disbelief. He could rape, beat, and terrorise a woman, and then, eat? He was a psychopath. A maniac. She knew now for sure there would be no reasoning with him.

  “What do you fancy, Nash, a couple of fried eggs? I’m sure our beautiful guest would be only too happy to cook for us.”

  The thought of food worsened her nausea, but Lucy had to be hungry. Back home, she was always ravenous at breakfast time. Back home…

  The desolation and hopelessness of their situation hit her suddenly, and her knees buckled. Only the sudden tightening of Lucy’s arms stopped her from collapsing. She had to be strong for her daughter’s sake. She forced a smile at Lucy. It hurt when she smiled. “I bet you’re hungry, sweetheart,” she said, trying to sound normal for Lucy's sake. “Sit down, love, and I’ll cook some eggs.”

  “No!” the child screamed, clinging on to her fiercely.

  “It’s alright, I promise,” she said, looking Vincent straight in the eye. “I’m sure the man isn’t going to hurt us. He wants to eat, and he wants me to cook. I can't do that if he hurts me again, can I?”

  Vincent’s lip curled, but it was he who turned away first. Nash began plucking at his bandages.

  Irritated, Vincent dragged out a chair, and straddled it. “Cut the crap, and get on with it. There’s eggs and coffee.”

  She poured her daughter a mug of milk, and herself a mug of water. They both drank quickly, before anyone decided to knock them out of their hands. Then, Julia began untying the knots in Nash’s sling. “I’m dressing his arm first.” To Nash, she said, “You’ve lost more blood during the night.”

  “You’re telling me,” Nash slurred. “It’s been killing me, couldn’t sleep.”

  Julia could sense Vincent’s anger at Nash’s needs being catered for before his. It pleased her.

  She set Lucy to work sorting out the lengths of ripped shirt for bandages. Her voice lowered to a whisper, she murmured, “Did Nash touch you or hurt you, darling while I was gone?”

  The child shook her head. “No, we were only talking.”

  “What about?”

  “His little baby brother - he drowned in the bath…”

  “I thought I told you it’s rude to whisper?” Vincent's voice rasped out.

  Julia’s eyes narrowed towards him, but she bit back her response. There was no point in risking another beating. She moved to Nash, and unwound the stained rags from his arm. Her stomach churned at the sight. His flesh was raw and angry, the wound festering.

  He groaned, and ran his good hand through his blood-stiffened hair. “Fuck me! Look at the state of it!”

  “Haven’t you any antiseptic?” Julia demanded, looking at Vincent. “Anything? Alcohol, even? This is getting infected. He needs antibiotics. He'll get blood poisoning.”

  “Lordy, Lordy! Listen to her. Anybody would think she had the hots for you, Nash.”

  “It’s called humanity. Obviously, you wouldn’t know.”

  “It doesn’t look like that, from where I’m sitting,” Vincent sneered. “Here, Nash, looks like you don’t have to go to California to get the birds. You've got one right here.”

  Nash tried to smile, and failed miserably.

  “You just don’t care, do you?” Julia said, trembling with anger and disgust for the man.

  Vincent's lips parted into one of his dazzling smiles, but this one didn't make the grade. “Course I care about my old mate. Now, get a move on and finish him, then make our breakfast, like a good girl.”

  Julia turned her back on him, despising him. She whispered to Nash, as she began to clean up the wound with a piece of rag and boiled water. “Watch him. He wants you out of the way.”

  “If I have to tell you once more about whispering…” Vincent warned. “So, what’s she telling you Nash? Not trying to seduce you, is she?”

  The wretch of a man tried to laugh. The attempt was pathetic. Stomach churning, Julia tried to clean the wound, trying not to heave at the sight of the puss-oozing flesh. He couldn’t keep still. The pain was making his knees jerk, and his other hand bang
down on the table time and again. Somehow, she tried to keep her voice steady, tried not to gag. “I’m sorry. I’m being as gentle as I can.”

  To her surprise, Lucy inched closer, and rested her hand lightly on Nash’s agitated one, stopping him from thumping it against the table.

  “Try thinking nice thoughts, till it’s over,” Lucy said, managing to give him a tiny smile.

  So proud of her daughter, Julia’s eyes filled with tears. She cleared her throat. “Did... did you say you were going to California?”

  “Yeah, for me face,” he mumbled, not quite so agitated now. “Gonna see a plastic surgeon. See if he can fix me face up. Hurts like hell.” A trail of saliva dribbled from the bottom corner of his mouth. He didn’t notice. “People don’t like looking at it much, neither.”

  “How did it happen?” Julia asked, swabbing his injured arm, wondering rather about this recent injury. What had they done that resulted in his arm being ripped apart like this? Although deep down in her heart, she guessed they'd robbed Benjamin Stanton. It was Bessie she'd heard barking. Her eyes fluttered shut in despair. Benjamin wouldn't have stood a chance against these two – and poor Bess...

  Now, in daylight, she could see the injury better. There were puncture marks, bites. Bessie had put up a good fight.

  Vincent uncomfortably fiddled with his mobile phone. “Spare us the gory details, Nash, mate. We haven’t had our breakfast yet.”

  Nash winced, as Julia began bandaging him again. “Someone knifed me in a fight.”

  “It’s a wonder you weren’t killed,” she remarked, deliberately sounding concerned, trying to continue to drive a wedge between these two. She tried desperately not to imagine the scene that must have taken place in Benjamin's house. She forced herself to concentrate. “That cut must have gone very deep.”

  “Don’t worry. He didn’t get away with it,” Nash uttered.

  “No, I imagine he didn’t,” Julia murmured, well able to envision the revenge he would vent on anybody who crossed him. Never in her life had she met anyone as callous as this pair.