Kill or Die

by Ann Evans

  Nash sucked in his saliva. “Nor the butcher, who was supposed to fix me up.”

  “Nash, shut it. I haven’t eaten yet,” Vincent ordered, fumbling with the coffee jar now, scattering grains on the draining board.

  Julia glanced sideways at him. He looked uneasy, like he'd heard this story before, and it disturbed him. Deliberately, she pressed for more information, even though she knew she wasn’t going to like what she heard. But, if it destroyed the other one’s concentration, then all the better. “So, what happened to him?”

  The twisted mouth curled into a sneer. “Got him, didn’t I, and his missus.”

  “You killed them?” Julia quietly asked, repulsed, but trying not to show it.

  He spoke more quietly, more to himself than to her. “There’s more ways of getting your own back than killing people.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You wanted revenge on the man who saved your life?”

  “Look at the mess he made of me,” Nash argued indignantly.

  “I can imagine how you must have looked before. You probably owe your life to that surgeon. What kind of monster are you?”

  Nash grunted. “It was his own fault. He could have done a better job on me. He didn't give a stuff about me, and stitched me together any old how. Bet he did a better job on his missus, after I’d seen to her. Well, not that he was in any fit state to fix anybody up.” He stared straight into Julia's eyes for a moment. She saw the void where compassion should have lain, and she shuddered violently.

  “You maimed her?”

  He shrugged. “Followed her one night, didn’t I? Had myself a Stanley knife…”

  “Nash, will you pack it in,” Vincent snarled, slamming his hand down on the table.

  Julia didn't want to know either; the callous cold-bloodedness terrified her. Yet, she needed to understand what he was capable of. Besides, Vincent was getting agitated again, and that put him at a disadvantage in her eyes. “Lucy, put your hands over your ears, and don’t listen, darling. Hum a nice song to yourself.” Then, looking back at Nash, she asked, “What did you do?”

  “Took her apart, didn’t I, after I’d had my wicked way.”

  Julia's eyes closed, wanting to block out the images forming, as Nash went on in all its gory detail.

  “For fuck’s sake, shut it!” Vincent growled, banging his chair around. “I want to eat, not spew up.”

  Ignoring Vincent’s outburst, Julia forced herself to keep digging for more information. “What about the surgeon, did you take him apart, too?”

  “Him? Nah. I smacked his fingers a little bit. Made sure he didn’t get to use them on nobody else in a hurry.”

  “But, you're still going to put your trust in the hands of another plastic surgeon,” said Julia. “And what will you do, if you're not satisfied with the finished result, maim him, too, and his wife?”

  “Nah, I'll be paying for this job, and I'll be getting meself a top-notch surgeon. And it won’t be long now. Gonna have me good looks back soon.”

  Julia said no more, disgusted by what she’d heard, aware they were as bad as one another. They were both violent rapists. They were killers already, and she had no doubt they would think nothing of murdering her and Lucy to protect themselves. There would be no reasoning with them, no pleading for mercy. She was going to have to outwit them, or fight their way out of here, somehow.

  She finished tending Nash's arm, making sure the sling was secured tightly, immobilising his arm again. “I’ll get rid of these old bandages, and make breakfast.”

  “Nice try, beautiful,” said Vincent, getting up swiftly, and barring her way. “And where were you planning on depositing them? Outside in the trash, so you could do a runner?”

  Her voice was harsh. “And leave my daughter with you two?”

  The perfected smile faded, and he shrugged. “Some would.”

  “Not me!”

  Vincent’s lip curled, and he patted Nash’s shoulder. “We must talk, Nash. After breakfast, I think.” Julia caught the look the two men exchanged, and her blood ran cold. Time was running out.

  Taking the frying pan, Julia scraped the old fat they must have used yesterday, and washed the pan out. She hesitated, before adding a blob of margarine. The pan was heavy, if she could get a good enough swing, she might be able to stun one of them. Only, what of the other man? And which one to hit first? The clear choice would be Vincent, and it would be a pleasure to feel the cast iron smack into his skull.

  She sensed him behind her, and she swung round, more in fright than anything. He caught her wrist, twisting it.

  “And what were you thinking of doing?” he mused. “Why, Nash, I think your little lady friend was going to try and batter us with a frying pan.”

  Nash said nothing, a grunt, as if he'd talked himself out, his energy spent. Julia almost pitied him. He was in a frightful state. No, it wouldn’t have been him she attacked first, had she got the chance. Despite all she’d heard of Nash’s horrendous deeds, she still felt Vincent was the more dangerous of the two.

  “I was about to cook your eggs,” she answered flatly, wrenching her arm free of his grasp. He grinned, and her fingers itched to let fly at him.

  “Don’t let me stop you, then,” he said, swinging his chair next to Nash, and sitting down. The pair whispered together, as she cooked.

  She did the best she could with the food, taking special care with her daughter’s egg and bread, although food was the last thing on her mind. She didn’t know if there would be another meal. And she needed her strength, if she was to get her and Lucy out of this mess.

  The kettle re-boiled, as they were eating. “A splash of milk in mine,” Vincent said, his mouth full of runny egg. “Black for Nash - like his heart,” he added, giving the injured man a playful punch on his good arm.

  Julia made the coffee, and set them down, as Nash reached across for some bread, his arm catching his mug, spilling the scalding liquid right into Vincent’s lap. He sprang up, screaming.

  Reacting swiftly, and automatically, Julia moved. Grabbing Lucy’s arm, she dragged the startled child to the back door, while Vincent was screaming, and tugging at his jeans. She yanked back the bolt with every ounce of strength she possessed and turned the door handle. It opened easily, and for a second, she lost her balance. As cold, damp November air blew into her face, she rallied swiftly and ran, slamming the door after them.

  At first. she was dragging Lucy, until the child also tasted freedom. and raced along beside her, and then, ahead of her, pulling Julia frantically.

  Behind them, she heard the back-door opening, and Vincent raging. Shooting a glance over her shoulder, she saw him stumble after her. Blindly, she and Lucy ran around the side of the house, feet slithering on a path smothered in wet, dead leaves. She fumbled for the car keys tucked down her pants, as she ran.

  They reached the car and skidded around to the driver’s side. Instantly, she rammed the key into the door lock and turned it. She pulled the handle. Nothing moved. Desperately, she turned the key again and heard the lock click. The door opened, and she propelled Lucy inside, falling in after her, as Vincent lurched towards them.

  Lucy screamed, as he barged against the side of the car, but Julia was quicker, slamming the door, and pressing the central locking button, keeping him on the other side. His face pressed hard against the side window, contorted with pain and fury. Fumbling with the ignition key, she managed to get it in, and turn it. Nash was almost upon them, too, lurching towards them like a wounded animal.

  “Please, please…” she breathed, her hand shaking, as she turned the key, her heartbeat pounding in her skull.

  The engine turned over with a whining sound. Vincent banged the window with his fists, put his shoulder against the window, yanked at the handle, kicked the door furiously. The starter motor continued to turn over—whirring, whining.

  “Start! Start you blasted car!” Julia screamed. “S
tart, please God start!”

  “Mummy, make the car go,” Lucy pleaded.

  “It’s damp. It hates the damp…” She knew it. She should have guessed. It was always difficult to make it start in the damp. “Oh God…”

  The crash came so suddenly, Julia could only gasp. The side window caved in, and amid the cascade of brick and splintering glass, a hand reached through, and banged the central locking button.

  Lucy began to scream.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ian had never been drunk at ten in the morning before in his life, but then again, his wife and daughter had never left him before. Amazing, really, when he thought how he'd treated her these last few months. It was a wonder she’d put up with him for this long.

  Three-quarters of a bottle of scotch had done nothing for his mood, apart from making him throw up in the bathroom fifteen minutes ago. It certainly hadn’t miraculously come up with any answers as to what he could say to her.

  Pushing a half empty glass away in disgust, he got unsteadily to his feet. Not heading to the toilet this time, but to wherever he'd left his mobile. The room spiralled, and he grabbed the arm of the chair to steady himself. Phone her, he told himself. He had to ring her. Bleary-eyed, he found his mobile, and scrolled his list of contacts. Swaying and blinking, the names and numbers swam in front of his eyes.

  Leaning against the wall, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, unshaven, and pissed out of his skull. How the hell could he apologise to Julia in this state? He needed a shower, and time to sober up.

  As he staggered back to the sofa, he told himself this was the best option. Sleep it off, shower and freshen up, then, call her.

  She’d curled herself up into a ball, lying across the kid, shielding her from his fists that pummelled into her kidneys, but there was no moving her. She’d latched herself onto her car seat. He wasn’t going to waste any more energy, and his cock was burning like hell from the scald. He went around to the passenger side, hauled the door open, and dragged the screaming kid out. That was easier. And it moved the bitch. She was out in a flash, kicking and punching him. He used the kid as a shield, swinging her around, so that one of the woman’s punches hit the kid in the leg.

  They were both shrieking like banshees. He had to get them indoors, before someone heard them. The kid was as light as a feather, and with her arms pinned to her sides, as he carried her back into the house, she was no trouble. The fucking woman was, though. A couple of backhanders sent her reeling, but she was straight back, trying to get around to the front of him, pawing at his coat. He knew what she was after. But, if she thought he was stupid enough to let her get her hands on his Bowie, she was an idiot.

  “Nash! Get your arse up here!”

  For once, Nash looked like he’d got a bit of life back in him. He followed them up the two flights, not doing a fucking thing to stop the woman, though. In the bedroom, he threw the kid into the corner, onto their makeshift bed. Another back-hander sent the woman flying in that direction, too. They fell into a heap of arms and legs.

  Vincent turned to Nash, Bowie knife drawn. “Now! Do it now, or I do it myself, nice and slowly.”

  Nash’s half-dead eyes seemed to glitter, like he relished the idea. This was the Nash he knew—violent, black-hearted.

  “Out my way!” Nash uttered, drawing the lump of metal from his inside pocket.

  Vincent drew back, feeling sick suddenly. He didn’t want to watch this. Gore wasn’t his thing. The deed needed to be done, though, and quick. “Get on with it,” he uttered, stepping outside the door, and slamming it shut on the three of them.

  They were both shrieking now—shrieking and begging. Then, he heard a thud, a sickening sound, and the kid went silent. The woman shrieked all the more. Then, another thud, and she was silent. Two more thuds, then a third, and a forth.

  Vincent could picture the scene in his head. He didn’t actually want to see it with his eyes. Eventually, he inched open the door, and saw Nash throw the kid’s blanket over the two bodies, the woman lying on top of the kid, like she’d done in the car, arse up in the air.

  When Nash looked at him, there was a bleak emptiness in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped, as if it had taken every last drop of energy from him.

  “Well done, my old mate,” Vincent said, smiling, and slapping him on the back. “Thought for a minute earlier, they’d got to you, found a soft spot in that old black heart of yours.”

  “Maybe they did,” Nash muttered, slurring, wiping the cosh on a corner of the blanket, before slipping it back inside his jacket. “But, they ain’t gonna stop my plans.” He met Vincent’s eyes. “Nothin’s gonna get in me way of getting off to California. Now, we gonna get that fucking car started, and get out of here, or what?”

  Vincent smiled. This Nash he liked – well, like wasn’t really the appropriate word, but it was better than loathing.

  He closed the bedroom door, and followed Nash downstairs. “Steady how you go, matey. Bloody stairs are a death trap.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was well after mid-day when Ian finally came to properly. Nevertheless, his hand trembled, as he dialled Julia’s mobile. He sat on the edge of their bed, clean-shaven now, his hair slicked back and curly from his shower. He looked vaguely human again, minus the shadows under his eyes, and the almost permanently guilty expression he wore. He practised what he would say, as he listened to the phone ringing out. But, there was another sound now, the familiar catchy sound of his wife’s mobile’s ring tones coming from downstairs.

  “Julia?” She'd come home. She'd come quietly in while he was in the shower. Relief washed over him, only to be followed by a tightening of his stomach at the thought of facing the music. But, the desire to see her again outweighed his worries. Coming home meant she was ready to forgive him, didn't it? He ran down the stairs, desperate to see her and Lucy.

  Her mobile was ringing in the lounge, and he dashed in, aware his heart was banging ridiculously quickly against his ribcage. “Julia...”

  She wasn't in the living room at all. Nor was she in the kitchen, or the study. The rooms were exactly as he'd left them. The phone had stopped ringing.

  “Julia? Where are you? Julia? Lucy?”

  He redialled, waited a second, and then, heard the same ringtones. They were definitely coming from here, in the lounge. With a sinking heart, he traced the sound to the sofa. Sliding his hand down between the cushions, he fished out his wife’s mobile.

  For long, bleak moments, he stared at the screen, and his own face that came up with the words: Ian calling.

  He recalled she'd taken that photo of him last spring, the morning of Lucy's eighth birthday. He'd cooked pancakes for the three of them, and Julia had kissed some drops of syrup off his lips.

  He pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets to keep from weeping, waiting for the sensation to fade, and then, scrolling down to his sister-in-law’s number, he dialled that.

  He caught his breath, as the phone was almost immediately snatched up at the other end.

  “Julia, is that you?”

  “No, it’s Steph… Ian? You okay? You sound slightly inebriated.” There was amusement in her voice.

  He wasn’t aware he was frowning. He wasn’t even conscious of the shiver that ran down his spine. All that registered was the fact his wife’s younger sister was reacting normally toward him. She wasn’t calling him all the two-timing bastards under the sun. Julia couldn’t have told her.

  “Ian, speak to me. Are you sloshed?”

  “What?”

  “Are you drunk?”

  Why hadn’t Julia told her? Embarrassment he guessed. “Steph, can I speak to Julia, please?”

  There was a brief silence, before she answered with another chuckle. “My, you are sloshed. Julia isn't here. What made you think she would be with me?”

  The last effects of the scotch lifted. He sobered instantly. “Well, because she said she was going over to
your place…”

  “Oh, she’s probably popped into town to do a bit of retail therapy first. I’ll get her to ring you when she shows up, shall I?”

  “Yes... no,” he babbled, his head starting to throb. “I don't mean she’s left here for your place, I mean… Oh dammit, nothing, forget it.”

  “Are you alright, Ian? You sound a teeny bit confused. Heavy night last night, was it?”

  He pressed his knuckles against his temple. Where the devil was she, then? But, for the time being, he wasn't in any mood to start explaining the situation to his sister-in-law. “Yeah, something like that. Don’t worry, Steph. I must have got it wrong. If she happens to turn up, get her to call me, please.”

  “Course I will. And I’ll tell her to buy a big bottle of headache tablets on the way home for your hangover.”

  She was expecting him to laugh, and he did his best not to disappoint her. He hung up as soon as he could, and sank down onto the sofa, both mobiles in his hands.

  Where the hell was she?

  He made more coffee. Waiting for the water to boil, he re-read Lucy’s note to him. She seemed pretty certain that they were heading to Steph's, which meant either Julia had changed her mind at the last minute, or she'd lied to Lucy about where they were going, so that he couldn’t follow. His eyes closed. God, what a complete idiot he was to have let the two people, whom he loved most in the world, slip out of his life. And all for a woman who would have happily stabbed him in the back with a pair of scissors.

  He pulled the plaster from his arm. It was bad enough being stabbed in the wrist. What if she’d stabbed him in his neck, or the groin? The image in his mind of her lunging at him, her face all screwed up in anger, sent a chill down his spine. He hadn't thought she was that unbalanced, or as desperate to keep a hold on him. She’d clearly read more into their affair than he had realised. She might have thought it could turn into something permanent. It wasn't what he'd intended but it’s possible that’s what she'd hoped for.