The Penance List

by S C Cunningham

  Chapter Fifty

  With his arm firmly around her shoulder, he steered her down the corridor to the den. As they passed the front door Tara half wondered if she should do a runner, but chided herself for having an over active imagination, she’d seen too many murder mysteries.

  David pushed her on, giggling about Seb always being late. She carried on, glass in hand, politely feigning interest in his bloody pictures… come on Seb, where the hell are you?

  He opened the door of the den and gently ushered her into the dimly lit room, quickly closing the door behind them. A little too quickly for her liking, she heard a double click sound and turned to look at the door… was that a lock turning? She couldn’t see.

  He pushed her into the middle of the room, reached up and pulled the chord of a spotlight that hung overhead. A bright light hit the wall facing them, a montage of blurred shapes jumped to life.

  It took a moment to focus; she blinked, adjusting to the glare. The wall was a jumbled mass of black-and-white photographs, scattered manically, across the wall. For some reason she had expected ‘order’ in his work, he was so immaculate in his appearance, the chaos surprised her.

  At first glance, she thought she was viewing a collection of police crime scene photos. She looked at David quizzically; he was smiling proudly at her. Was this some kind of law enforcement project?

  Now she had been watching too much crime TV. She stepped closer to the wall, concentrating on individual pictures, one by one, touching them as she went. Her eyes began to dart backwards and forwards, not believing what she saw.

  The first pictures she focused on were of an elderly, smartly dressed man, lying on a bed of autumn leaves in a forest, he seemed to be in pain. There were various close-ups of areas of his body haphazardly pinned across each other.

  She moved in closer still. His pale face and watery eyes were distorted in agony, saliva dribbled from the side of his mouth. His hands were scratched and bloodied, his broken nails black with dirt, his fingers strained as if clawing at something. Red gashes tore into the soles of his feet.

  One picture showed him lying on his back, his tie placed neatly over his right shoulder, his starched white shirt opened to the last button at the collar, exposing sparse grey hair on aging sallow skin, a collection of marks formed the shape of a heart on his chest… were they cigarette burns?

  Another shot showed the man lying on his stomach, the bottom of his suit jacket had been lifted neatly up, exposing his buttocks. His trousers had been cut open in line with the crack of his bottom cheeks and pinned back, sullied white underpants also cut, revealing pinky yellow saggy flesh. Dark stains ringed his anus, blood trickled down from the opening, slicing cuts snaked across exposed skin.

  As she moved along the wall the pictures got worse, she could no longer look. He’d been tortured and then dissected; she couldn’t work out at which point he had died. His torso had been cut from neck to groin and pinned back; his eyes had been pierced with something. He lay in a pool of blood.

  Tara cupped her mouth as bile rose to her throat. What the fuck was this, he was mad. She was standing next to a madman, shut in a room with him. She looked up into his face. He was watching her intently, waiting for her reaction.

  “Well, what do you think Tara, good, eh…?”

  He smugly toasted the wall with his glass and knocked back a slug of wine.

  “Jesus, David, what the hell is this? Did you do this? Who is he?”

  She suddenly felt faint, she was going to be sick, she turned to the door.

  “Tara, you don’t believe they are real, do you? Wow, that’s great, that means they are very good… hell no, they were for a shoot, that guy is a model, he’s acting… brilliant isn’t he, eh, fantastic makeup, so life-like,” he sniggered. “And you fell for it, brilliant stuff.”

  His laugh unnerved her, even if they were fake, the pictures were sick. How can he be proud of them? It was time she got out of here.

  She wasn’t going to wait for Seb any longer, enough was enough.

  “Sorry, I’ve gotta go, David, I can’t wait for Seb any longer.”

  She turned to the door, the airless room closing in on her.

  “Err… before you go, dear, take a look at this wall, it’s not half so… err… nasty.”

  He reached up and pulled the chord of another spotlight, which lit up the wall to their left. It had been in darkness, she hadn’t noticed it. Still feeling giddy, she turned to see what he was talking about, a second mass of black-and-white shots leapt to life.

  She recognized them immediately as the same style of pictures given to the papers, grainy, soft focus, stills of a film.

  Her wine glass dropped to the floor.

  There were hundreds of photographs, all of her. Walking in the street, in the local coffee shop, coming out of her office, jumping into a taxi, in her flat, cooking in the kitchen, on the sofa watching TV, chatting on the phone, at her computer. Nothing was sacred, there were shots of her naked in her bathroom, bathing, showering, plucking her eyebrows, shaving her legs, on the toilet wiping her ass.

  Then there were the shots of her in the bedroom, these must have been his favourites, they had been blown up to a larger size print. She was sleeping, having sex, her face contorted in ecstasy as her lovers satisfied her. She recognised the bodies of Ed and Franco strewn across her in various poses, but there was one body she didn’t recognise.

  She stepped closer to the wall, searching for more pictures of the same body. Her hand went to her mouth in horror, she let out a small cry, it was David. David was fucking her, in her bed, in her flat. How could this be, she hadn’t met him before?… and he was gay. She let out a nervous laugh; it was another trick, super imposed with computer wizardry…. fuck him, how dare he, the bastard got off on this shit.

  She turned on him.

  “You bastard, it was you taking pictures in the apartment upstairs, you sent them to the papers, who the fuck do you think you are?”

  Before he had a chance to reply, her fists rained down on him in a torrent of fury. He hadn’t expected this.

  She beat his face and chest as hard as she could, shunting her knee up hard between his legs, jamming it into his groin. He doubled up in pain; as his face went down, she used her knee again to kick up into his jaw, forcing his head upwards, throwing him backwards, he staggered and fell.

  Shocked at her sudden rush of power, she stood watching him fall… what the fuck do I do now? She ran to the door, tugging at it, it was locked…. shit…where’s the key?

  “Give me the key, you bastard… before I fucking kill you.”

  She stood over him, screaming like a woman possessed. He lay groaning on the floor, curled up in the foetal position, nursing the agonizing pain in his genitals.

  She fell to her knees and scrambled through his pockets, all the while screaming at him to give her the key. There was no key, she needed a code number.

  Then it started, it came from nowhere, she felt woozy, heavy, out of focus. Her body began to lose its strength, something was wrong. She knew she had to keep going, to get out of there, but she couldn’t move, she had no control, what the hell was going on? She lost consciousness and dropped to the floor in a heap beside David.

  About bloody time, he thought. They lay side by side in silence as he gathered his thoughts and waited for the pain in his balls to subside. Her knee kick to the jaw had sent a tooth through the edge of his tongue, he tasted the iron of blood in his mouth… shit, she was a fighter. He turned to look at her, he’d planned the dosage almost perfectly, a few minutes earlier would have been better; he would make it stronger next time.

  He was going to have fun with this little vixen.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Seb arrived at the drinks reception late, revellers were beginning to leave. It had begun to rain. He ran, head down, from the warm taxi up the grand steps of the Buckingham Hotel.

  Soaked, bored, paparazzi huddled in groups at the entrance, waiting to s
nap celebrities. A flurry of flashes followed him as he ran past security. He was considered an upcoming celebrity, and was enjoying every minute of it. Although the Sporjakk campaign had hit a bump, no one was in any doubt that his photographs were great…anyway, hey, what the hell, it was all publicity after all.

  He’d been having so much fun with ‘Dirty David’ recently that he didn’t care about the campaign… now those pictures would cause a stir; luckily they’ll never see the light of day… he smiled.

  Joining the throng of ‘beautiful’ people in the majestic ballroom, he noticed Franco’s shaggy head of hair across the sea of faces… great, he’s come. He’d been enjoying Franco’s company more and more recently. If he were honest, he had a small crush on the guy, but it was harmless. Seb knew Franco’s tastes and respected them. They could still hang out together. Franco was cool, intelligent, and warm-hearted. He suspected that Franco enjoyed being with him to be closer to Tara, but he would never admit it, not even to himself…. shit, the dreaded Maria is with him.

  As he got nearer, Maria’s immaculately coiffured head bobbed into view; she was standing with a few ‘faces’. They were being entertained by the mind-blowing magician, David Redfearn. Seb had seen him perform a few times; he was popular on the celeb circuit. From what he could see David was doing the incredible champagne bottle out of the balloon trick; it would keep Maria amused for a minute, while he stole Franco away.

  Franco, looking pissed off, stood on his own, aside from the group; he was grateful to see Seb and opened his arms wide as he arrived.

  “Hey Irish, how’s it going?”

  This narked Maria. Franco only seemed to be happy in Seb’s company these days.

  “’ello, mate,” Seb beamed at him, giving him a big macho back-slapping hug. “Let’s go get a drink, I’m parched… come on wit ya.”

  With an arm around Franco’s shoulders, he manoeuvred him neatly away to the bar area, waving a dismissive “Hiya, Maria” in her direction. She winced with displeasure, but good old David Redfearn pulled her back into participating in the trick, she couldn’t follow them.

  “Howya doin, mate? Still with her royal highness I see… you can do better than that, boy, and you know it,” Seb always got straight to the point, it was one of the reasons Franco enjoyed his company.

  “Yeah, I know, but I can’t be bothered to find someone else, and I don’t want to be on my own right now; it’s easier, I just feel numb, Seb,” he looked around the room as if searching for Tara, “the only thing that’s going well is the footy, thank God for that.”

  Seb knew. Franco was being trashed on the front pages of the papers, for the Sporjakk saga and sainted on the back, for his performance on the pitch. He had the determination from hell to get the ball in the back of the net. His numerous goals were in reply to the barrage of insults he received from opposing fans. He had the last laugh; they were unwittingly improving his game.

  His immersion into work was a form of running away, but it was doing him no harm professionally. The Club had taken the line to ignore the front pages and back him all the way. Maria, on the other hand, was beginning to get good press; she’d been seen as a saint to stand by him, to forgive him for his indiscretion with the Sporjakk Girl.

  “Never mind, mate, whatever gets you through. Listen, I had a call from the agency in the taxi. Apparently, Tara has come up with a brill idea, putting a positive spin on the Sporjakk baloney, turning it round to make us all heroes again. Don’t worry me old son, you’ll have the ‘readers wives’ chasing after ya in no time. I’ll catch up with her and see what she’s cooking up, the girls a fighter, I’ll give her that.”

  Franco flinched at the sound of her name. He hadn’t seen her since they checked out the spy apartment. He’d stayed with her until she calmed down, stroking her face, hushing her like a baby. He’d wanted to jump on the bed beside her, hold her, but it would not have been a good idea with the state she was in. When the police came, he’d given his statement and sneaked out quietly, leaving a policewoman to take care of her.

  “That would be good, I’m fed up with the verbal I’m getting, and feel shitty about the effect on the Charity. I’ll never be asked to do a Charity gig again, that’s for sure, unless it is for shagaholics anonymous,” they laughed.

  “You know, matey, you should get back with Tara, you two were good together.”

  Seb, hearing a distant phone ring in the crowd, remembered to turn off his cell phone; it was crass to take calls at parties. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He had a text message, speak of the Devil, it was from Tara.

  ‘ok, am on my way Tx’

  What the hell did that mean? It had been sent to him half an hour ago, he hadn’t heard it. Silly mare, she’s sent it to the wrong person, he’d better let her know. He went to type a reply message; his last sent message was still in the message box… he didn’t recognize it as his own.

  ‘need to meet asap re sporjakk 7pm at…’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Helen and Josie fell out of the hotel room, giggling. They ran down the corridor to the lift, Josie’s mink trailing behind her as she scrambled to put on a shoe. Helen, naked beneath her coat, desperately trying to button up. Collapsing into the privacy of the lift, the doors closing behind them, they screamed with excitement at each other.

  “Oh my God Josie, oh, sorry… Josephine. What the hell was that? Jeff will never be the same,” Helen’s hands covered her giggling mouth.

  “NEVER am I gonna bring you out wiv me again…Venus. We stayed for four hours, we only got paid for one hour, you’re gonna bankrupt me… you’re not supposed to enjoy it quite so much!” Josie reorganized her dishevelled appearance in the mirror, realigning her stocking tops, amazed they hadn’t laddered with all the action.

  In her haste to leave she’d stuffed her panties into her purse. Pulling them out, she awkwardly balanced on one stiletto heel then the other, stepping into them, managing not to topple. She dragged the black lace up her legs and wriggled it into position.

  Helen watched, anxious the doors wouldn’t open before her friend had finished. She’d left her nightdress behind in the rush to get out before Jeff asked for more. Her coat thankfully covered her state of undress; no one would suspect her naked beneath it.

  The doors opened onto the hotel’s buzzing reception area. A glamorous elderly American couple, the man in a smart cowboy hat, and a young porter were waiting patiently for the lift, their luggage trolley stacked high with matching tartan luggage.

  They stood aside to let Helen and Josie step out, cool, calm, and collected, not a whiff of suspicion re the chaos moments earlier. Helen, desperately trying keep up with Josie striding through the lobby, looked back over her shoulder to see the young porter pick something up off the lift floor just as the doors were closing, the elderly couple were peering over his shoulder.

  She recognised it as the pack of three bright yellow banana flavoured condoms, magnum sized, ribbed for maximum arousal, Josie had in her purse. They must have dropped out… well, we certainly hadn’t needed those, poor Jeff didn’t get a look in. Venus had kept Josephine all to herself!

  The young porter flushed a deep red and quickly stuffed the condoms into his waistcoat pocket. The American lady twinkled at her cheeky eighty year old husband, as he wound the boy up, doffing his hat.

  “S’okay son, you keep ‘em, the wife’s not keen on banana, and that ribbin’ plays havoc with her dentures”.

  Exiting the hotel’s revolving door, Josie hailed a black cab and the girls piled in the back with relief.

  “Let’s go back to my place Josie, and have a nightcap, I can’t go to sleep now, I’m too hyped up, please, please…,” Helen begged.

  “Ok, ok, but not for long, I’m knackered and need a shower,” fearing she was making a second mistake of the night.

  Josie redirected the taxi driver. They sat back in the cab, the soothing chug of the engine calming them. London looked magical at night, t
he streets, buildings, and monuments dressed in gold yellow lights. They didn’t talk, just enjoyed being near each other, silently watching the view, as the city rushed past dirty cab windows. Helen had never felt so happy, so complete, was she in love with a woman?

  Her flat was the top floor of a large period block, overlooking Hyde Park. The views were spectacular. A large terrace ran along the length of the floor, accessed through French windows off three bedrooms, a dining room, and living room. It was a second living area, with comfortable sun beds, sofas, tables, and chairs and a host of overflowing plant and tree pots. Through the summer, what little summer they had, she lived on the terrace; it was the main room of the home. The two sun beds lounged snugly at one end, private, perfect for nude sunbathing. She would sometimes sleep there all night, watching the stars and waking up to the sound of birds. It was high enough to lose the city noise, Knightsbridge traffic reduced to a soft hum.

  The girls made their way up the large central staircase. An old-fashioned gated lift ran down its centre but they decided to run, Josie said it was good for their thighs. Shoes in hand, they chased each other to the top, the plush red carpet feeling good under aching stiletto tired feet.

  “Beat you… you lazy old dog,” yelped Helen as she fell onto her front door, panting and sweating. Fumbling for her key, she opened the door; a wheezing Josie leaned against the wall behind her.

  “Not so much of the ‘old’ thank you, God I’m so effing unfit,” she panted. “I need to get back to the gym, but it’s bloody boring runnin’ up steps and ridin’ bikes that go nowhere. If you did this staircase run every day, you’d be fit as a butcher’s dog… not in a fur coat though, darlin’ s’not a good idea.”

  Josie rested her head back against the wall, stared up at the ceiling, and giggled as her mink slid off her shoulders to the ground, for the second time that night.

  “Oops, there it goes again,” she laughed, remembering Jeff’s face.

  Helen looked back at her as she punched in the code for the alarm... God, she’s beautiful. A gushing sensation rushed through her body… shit, what’s happening, where were all these feelings coming from, had they been there all along, just staring her in the face?