He slammed the door shut after him… that boy is definitely next on the list!
Chapter Sixty-Six
Running down the Brompton Court Road, relieved to be out of the flat in one piece, Seb felt a pang of guilt for leaving Tara, if indeed she was there. Reaching the coffee shop, he peered in the window searching for Michael, no sign of him. He scoured the street for the Mercedes… where the hell is he?
His phone buzzed impatiently in his pocket; he had a text message.
‘change of plan, am at Franco’s apartment, meet here asap. Michael x’
He thought the kiss a bit cheeky. Michael’s way of taking the piss no doubt. He would deal with him later; meanwhile, he needed to sort Tara out.
No sooner had he replied ‘on my way’, the phone rang… jeez, it doesn’t rain but it pours, what the hell did we ever do before phones? he wondered.
“HELLO,” he shouted into the receiver, not recognizing the number, hoping it wasn’t work; he was skiving off that day; the traffic made it difficult to hear.
“HELLO,” he repeated louder.
“Seb, it’s Helen, I need to get hold of Tara; do you know where she is?”
Helen had decided to come clean with Tara about her jealousy and the stalking. Josie had persuaded her to apologize before the police got involved, but they couldn’t find her.
“No, I’m still trying to find her myself,” hesitantly he added. “Look, Helen, I think she’s in trouble, maybe you’d better meet me, you could help. What are you doing now? I’m meeting Michael at Franco’s apartment… it could be serious.”
“Who’s Michael? Why, what’s happened? Where is sh…”
“Look, I haven’t got time to talk now. I’m trying to catch a cab. It’s the Penthouse, 14 Argyle Place West; it would be good if you could come… I’ll tell you all then, ok?”
“Tell me what? Your frightening me, is she ok?”
“Just get there, Helen…”
He was getting irritated, and no cabs with their lights on… bugger, where the feck was a cab when you needed one?
She heard the impatience in his voice.
“Ok, 14 Argyle Place West,” she repeated. “It’s just around the corner; we’ll be there in a minute,” she agreed.
“Wowa… wait a minute,” she was about to hang up. “Who the hell’s we? This is not a feckin’ garden party, you know.”
“Josie, I’m with Josie, a good friend of Tara’s. We’ll be there in a minute,” she hung up before he could protest further.
Jeysus, now the prostitute is coming as well. This was turning into a carnival; it was only supposed to be him and Michael, now Franco, Helen, and Josie.
“Oh feckin hell,” he shouted into the street, Helen was David’s sister.
“Shyte!” he’d forgotten.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Day three, David’s apartment, Chelsea, London.
Standing over the mattress, he took a leisurely sip of wine and stared down at her beautiful naked body, pinned out, star shaped, waiting his attention. The delicious vulnerability made his cock hard. He smiled; she was ready to be cut.
She’d been screaming, he’d silenced her with a punch. Whilst she slept through it, he checked the bindings and realigned the spotlights around the bed, their harsh light burnt directly onto her skin, blanching it ethereal white.
He gently stroked the length of her body with a wet cloth, bathing away pools of red wine and the musky sweat of their sex. Her body glistened, she was beautiful, tears welled his eyes.
He painstakingly applied makeup to her sleeping face; the finishing touch, a slash of whore-red lipstick dragged across her mouth. He stroked the blonde fringe from her forehead and fanned her soft tresses out onto the plastic sheet, gently combing through the tangles, trying not to pull on her scalp. The long blonde hair formed a golden halo around his angel’s head.
The preparation complete, he took a deep breath and fist-whipped her face. Knuckles smashed backwards and forwards until a snap of bone cracked the air; she gave a low moan. Red welts crept across her skin, lipstick smudged her cheeks. It was time to wake up, time for penance; he’d waited two decades. Tears trickled his cheeks.
He waited patiently as she regained consciousness.
She woke to the heat of the spotlights burning her skin; their harsh light piercing her eyelids. Why was it so hot? She tried to move away from the source, but her heavy limbs barely moved. What was happening? Her mouth parched, her throat locked tight, a searing pain ran through her jaw as she tried to swallow… what the fuck!
She rocked her head backwards and forwards, groaning with the waves of pain, trying to clear her mind. Where was she? Memories began to tumble back into place… fuck! where is he? She could hear his agitated breathing, sniffing… is he crying?
She squinted through the harsh light, her darting eyes anxiously trying to find him, the bedside table glistened with his tray of tools.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
She could hear the dull throb of traffic; she was still in his apartment, which meant people were nearby. Wincing with pain, she tentatively opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and yelled hard, praying someone would hear her.
From nowhere, a heavy torrent of liquid crashed down filling her open mouth, she slammed it shut. She could hear him laughing out loud, as more liquid slammed hard onto her face. She turned her head backwards and forwards to escape the flow; he laughed some more, enjoying her spirit, following her mouth with the bottle. She thrashed her limbs against the mattress to loosen the bindings but they were locked fast. He laughed again. She was suffocating, drowning, and he was loving it, he wasn’t going to stop! Stinging tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, watering the wine to pink rivulets that ran down her cheeks. She stilled the screaming inside her head and started to pray… please God let me live.
As quickly as it started, the torrent stopped. She spluttered, snorted and gulped for precious air. Her breathing calmed as the panic subsided, then silence… what now?
Anger boiled inside her, he was playing with her. She spat at his crotch, took a deep breath and screamed again, stronger, louder, the effects of the alcohol numbing the pain in her jaw.
Another torrent of liquid hit, heavier than before, he held the bottle higher over her face. She snapped her mouth tight shut and shook her head from side to side, trying to escape the downpour. She retched, bile rose in her throat, keeping her mouth tightly closed, she swallowed it back down. She retched again and again and swallowed.
He finished decanting another bottle, admiring the trails of wine that ran through her hair and splattered her heaving breasts. He picked up his beloved camera.
Click, click.
The camera shutter hissed as he took a close-up of her angry face.
Click, click.
His phone rang, he ignored it.
Click, click.
He moved to the end of the bed and stood between her open legs, he squinted into the lens and focused on the red stream of wine that trickled its way down through pubic hair to swollen, glistening lips.
Click, click.
He moved back up to her chest, bent low over her right breast and put his mouth against her skin, chasing up a wine trail with his tongue. Her nipple jumped, hardened.
“Bastard,” she spat.
Click, click.
The intoxicating wine gave more courage.
“There’s no way you’re going to cut me up, you bastard,” she turned her face away from him and screamed as hard as her lungs could stand. Angry tears stung her eyes… fuck you! She wouldn’t give up; summonsing strength, she screamed again and again.
Growing bored with this game, he swiped his fist hard across the side of her face, she lost consciousness.
He opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out two screwdrivers, a staple gun, and masking tape. The screwdrivers were for the eye sockets, the staples to pin back skin, and the sticky tape to silence her mouth.
>
He took another sip of the exceptionally agreeable wine; although it was a tad cool, not quite room temperature. He inspected his tray of instruments. Teacher would be pleased, how neat he was… top marks dear boy! He picked up a remote control and punched the replay button. A soothing Mozart violin concerto filled the air.
He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, enjoying the clammy feeling of distance they gave between him and his victim, between him and his conscience. Humming to the music, he turned his attention to the tray of tools, his fingers danced along the row of blades, finally landing on the smallest one; he held it up to the light, inspecting the cutting edge.
“Now wake up dear, dissection time.”
He knelt at the side of the bed, slapping her face. She started to come around. He leaned in over her for the first incision… this will wake her up.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Once Michael had finished with the police at Maria’s flat, he drove back to Franco’s.
He’d told the police everything (except that she was still alive when he got there). She’d left the door open; she’d wanted to be found, it looked like a cry for help that’d gone wrong. But they could not rule out foul play until the autopsy reports were in. They would need to interview Franco.
Michael was pissed off. Franco had enough paparazzi attention without being seen walking into a police station. On hearing the news from a distraught Franco, Ned had called Michael and told him to sit tight with Franco at the apartment while he sought legal advice and prepared a statement for the press.
At the apartment, Franco was white with shock.
“Shit, Michael, why the hell did she do it? What a waste.”
He couldn’t take in what had happened, for all her faults, Maria was a beautiful vibrant woman; he couldn’t believe she was gone, it was his fault.
“She always did manage to have the last word… I guess she’s got me back big time now,” head in hands he slumped onto the sofa. “What now, wait for the police? What did Ned say? Has anyone told her parents?”
The doorbell rang. Michael went to the intercom, wondering if it was Seb; he hadn’t told Franco about Seb and Tara yet. It was not his boss’s day.
“Hiya,” a chirpy voice effervesced through the speaker, echoing through the apartment. “It’s only me; Anton… is the lovely Franco there?”
Anton, what could he want? Maybe he had a message from Tara.
“Yeah, let him up, Michael, he’s cool.”
Michael pressed the buzzer with instructions to take the lift to the top floor. He also knew Anton was ‘cool’, he’d done a bit of snooping on him over the last few weeks, his research showed that Anton, a screaming queen, was kind, well loved, and trustworthy. He’d shown his allegiance to Franco by not cashing in on the press frenzy.
Michael left the front door ajar, walked over to the kitchen area, and put the kettle on. His Irish grandmother had always said, “in times of strife, make a pot of tea.”
He kept a watchful eye on Franco, who was huddled up on the sofa, his head bent in grief over Maria; he wasn’t going to enjoy broaching the subject of Tara. The boss certainly knew how to choose his women.
Anton burst into the room, a breath of fresh air, arms full of flowers and a box of chocolates. He jogged across the room to the sofa and plopped himself down beside the miserable Franco. His jog reminded Michael of a beautiful Lipizzaner show horse, with his dainty high lifting ballet steps.
“Franco, dahling, how are you? So glad you are here, just popped in to say how sorry I am about all this press stuff, deary… I want you to know it had nothing to do with me…I would never let your little secret out of the bag, and that Maria is a bitch.”
Franco smiled weakly. Anton continued, oblivious to the fact that Maria was dead.
“Oh, it’s all too horrible, sweetie… here, have some chocolates, a naughty little pick-me-up, and some flowers to brighten up the place,” the gifts were ceremoniously laid out on Franco’s lap.
“Thank you, Anton; it’s good to see you.”
Franco meant it. Anton’s chatter lifted his mood; it was good to see this bundle of fun.
“Have you met Michael? Anton, this is Michael… Michael, Anton,” the two men nodded at each other.
“Michael’s making tea do you want some?”
“Oh yes, love some… but let me, you know how I love to take over the kitchen, and it’s such a nice one, great place you have here, Franco… when it’s finished.”
Mindful of the workman’s tools that scattered the floor, he skipped to the kitchen and shooed Michael out from behind the breakfast counter.
“You look so silly, all butch, standing over the tea caddy, deary, let me…”
Happy to let Anton take over, Michael joined Franco. Sitting opposite him in the easy chair, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, trying to choose his words carefully to explain the latest developments.
The doorbell went again. Looking up at Anton, Michael nodded for him to answer it. It was Seb. Anton buzzed him in and set about adding another cup to the tea tray.
“Aahh… it would be lovely to see Seb,” he muttered, rinsing out a new milk jug that had never been used.
“What’s Seb doing here?” quizzed Franco, worried about how serious his chauffeur was looking.
“Well, I took the liberty of inviting him, Boss. Ya see, Tara’s gone missin’ and we think we know where she is. We were going to meet first thing this mornin’ to sort it out, but the Maria thing happened and Ned has asked us to wait here for…”
“What do you mean, she’s gone missing? Is she safe? Where is she?” Franco tried to remain calm. First Maria, now Tara; what was going on?
“Oh my God, Tara,” a squeal from the kitchen, Anton was listening.
“It’s a long story, but the guy who’s been taking the photos, and living above Tara, we fink he ’as her. He’s called David. She may ’ave gone around there a few nights ago, and ’asn’t been seen since…”
“Why would he want her? Is he dangerous?” Franco was getting nervous; he hadn’t seen this side of Michael before. If Michael was worried, something serious was up.
“We do not know for sure if he wants to harm her, he could be dangerous, he has previous,” Michael did not go into detail, Franco was looking pale enough.
“Well, let’s tell the police, for Christ’s sake,” Franco stood up, wanting to do something, anything, flowers and chocolates spilled to the floor.
“Maybe, but we don’t know any of this for sure. Seb and I were going to suss it out first before we raise another possible hornets’ nest. You don’t need any more publicity than you ’ave already. Besides, she may be there of her own accord, or she may have gone off for a few days in a huff, who knows? We’re just looking into possibilities.”
Michael gently pushed a confused Franco back down into his seat.
“Let’s wait to see what Seb has to say, ok?” soothed Michael.
As Seb walked into the room, the doorbell went again, he answered it, knowing who it was, he pressed the intercom to let them in.
“Hiya, Seb… err… who was that?” asked Franco, not sure he was in his own home any more.
“Hello, mate, look, we’ve got to talk.”
Leaving the front door ajar, he joined Franco and Michael around the coffee table.
“It’s Josie and Helen; they’re on their way up.”
“Seb, dahling, do you want tea?” Anton was pleased to see him and waved gleefully from behind the kitchen counter. Worried that he did not have enough cups for them all, he started to scan the cupboards for more, some would just have to have mugs… oh well.
“Anton, what you doin’ here? Good to see ya, mate… err, no thanks, just had coffee. Got anything stronger?” Seb twinkled at his friend.
“Who the hell are Josie and Helen, Seb? What are they doing here? We have serious things to discuss right now, Tara is missing, we’ve got to find her,” Franco budged up on the sofa for S
eb to join him.
“Well, I don’t know what Michael’s told you but Tara’s in big shit. I think… anyway, they’re her best mates, they may be able to help, I think…” Seb nervously ran his fingers through his hair.
He hoped they were mates, but it was too late now, as Josie and Helen rushed into the room, slamming the door behind them.
“What’s wrong with T?” demanded Helen, panic-stricken about her friend. Seb had frightened them, they questioned him in unison, “where is she… is she ok… what’s going on… is she hurt?”
As their concerned voices grew louder and louder, Franco put his head in his hands and shouted.
“QUIET…PULEASE!”
Ten minutes later, all six of them were huddled around the coffee table, on the arms of the sofa, and on the floor. Anton had distributed mugs and cups of steaming hot tea, and a glass of brandy for Seb. The chocolates had been opened and passed around.
Michael and Seb filled everyone in on what they knew, with Seb filling in the details of his morning’s events.
Helen interrupted, “who is this David guy, anyway? Do we know him?”
“Well yes, actually we do,” Seb coughed. “It’s your bro Hel,” he waited for the explosion.
“What?” exclaimed Helen. “You’re joking,” not believing it, Josie squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“Oh my dear God,” exclaimed Anton, popping another chocolate in his mouth.
“What? Tara’s been kidnapped by her brother,” Franco pointed accusingly at Helen. “This is ridiculous; go and talk to him right away and get her back,” he screamed at her.
“Hold on a min, we don’t actually know if she is there or, if so, whether she is there voluntarily or not… my guess is she’s there, involuntarily.”
Seb filled them in on the den pictures, Tara’s phone in the cupboard, the bindings on the bed, the dinner settings for two in the dishwasher, the mound shape in the bed, and David’s freaking out when he entered the bedroom.
The Penance List Page 35