by Dan Scottow
Scars
Dan Scottow
Copyright © 2021 Dan Scottow
The right of Dan Scottow to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by HIM in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
* * *
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
* * *
Print ISBN 978-1-914614-25-5
Contents
Love best-selling fiction?
Also by Dan Scottow
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
You will also enjoy:
Love best-selling fiction?
Love best-selling fiction?
Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks!
* * *
Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors?
Also by Dan Scottow
Damaged
Girl A
This one is for all my readers. Without you I wouldn’t be here writing. Thank you!
1
2008, Location unknown
A bright red light blinks in the pit of darkness before her.
She writhes, trying to escape the cramp which creeps up her leg. Her naked skin slides across the gurney, cold metal pressed against her buttocks.
She glances to her right. The girl at the next table is dead, she is pretty sure. She’d finally succumbed. She can’t blame her. She would do the same, too, if she could.
That means somebody new would be arriving soon. He always had at least two on the go. She closes her eyes, wishing she could die and be free from this hell. But her body won’t let her. It isn’t ready yet. So she has to endure it for a little longer.
Perspiration pools inside the leather mask that has been fastened around her head. Wisps of her blonde hair, sweaty and matted, stick out from beneath it. The thick straps dig into her neck, too tight. Painful. But this is the least of her worries.
Soon, he would be back.
She wriggles her wrists, which have been tethered to the end of the table, above her head. The stiff leather cuffs rub against her skin, knocking fresh scabs from her flesh. Blood trickles down her arm, dripping onto the tabletop. He’s watching; she has no doubt. The red light indicating that the camera is on. She doesn’t know how long she has been in this dreadful place. She knows four other girls have joined her and departed in the time she has remained.
They’re the lucky ones.
Without any natural light in the room, she has no idea how many days and nights have passed. It doesn’t matter. Nobody will miss her. She sleeps when her body is exhausted; she wakes when it tells her to. It might have been two weeks, it could be two years, for all she knows.
It seems endless. And she prays, begs for death. But it never comes. She’s always been a fighter. But for the first time in her life, she wishes she wasn’t.
The familiar rattle of keys somewhere in the distance. The girl holds her breath, eyes darting around the darkness, heart pounding.
He’s back.
The heavy door creaks open; the sound of metal against metal as it closes again. His footsteps begin their descent down the steps. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Slow. Purposeful.
His feet hit the concrete at the bottom. His breathing is laboured. She hears a thump as he dumps something onto the floor. Turning her head, she watches as he marches towards the gurney to her right, loosening the bonds from the wrists and ankles of the corpse, pushing it off the edge. It slaps to the ground. The girl holds back a wave of nausea.
He returns to the heap at the base of the stairs, heaving it up over his shoulder, and she sees with horror the form of another victim in his arms. A new plaything.
He slings her on the metal tabletop, securing her limbs, before beginning the ritual.
Always the same. He takes a large pair of shears from the workbench on the back wall, the one where he keeps all his… implements. He slices the razor-sharp blades through the fabric of her trouser legs in one swift movement, removing her jeans in seconds. Repeating the actions on her top half, he casts her garments onto the floor. Finally, he snips through her bra and knickers, his body juddering as he does so; he always seems to enjoy this last part the most, as the bare flesh is completely exposed. And there she is.
The next one.
Naked, spreadeagled before him. He assesses his work, nodding briefly. She is unconscious, of course. They always are on arrival. Some substance slipped into their
drink while they aren’t looking, or away in the lavatory. Later on, when they are alone, and the girl wakes, she will comfort her, lie to her, reassure her that everything will be okay. As she had with all the others.
She remembers how he had looked at her in the bar, from across the room. She’d clocked him as soon as he had walked in. She’d seen him many times before. Always with a different beautiful girl.
She liked him. He excited her. The cut of his suit. The scent of his aftershave as he sauntered past her. She caught his eye, and he had looked away. But he’d noticed her. And she wanted him. She wanted him inside her. She may even do this one for free, she had thought.
Was this her punishment? Perhaps. Her mother had always told her she was going to hell.
Her heart had raced when the barman brought a drink over to her.
‘The gentleman at the end of the bar wonders if you’d care to join him?’ he’d informed her. She had stood from her stool, smoothing out creases from her black satin dress. As she approached, she noticed his eyes, fixed on the hem of her skirt, skimming her thighs.
He wanted her too.
He’d told her his name was Michael, but that was probably a lie. He was a different breed from her usual clients. He had asked her questions, seemed like he actually gave a shit. Where was she from? Did she have family? Did she have a day job? She had thought he was genuinely showing an interest in her life. More fool her. In hindsight, he was merely assessing the suitability of his prey.
When he had suggested they continue the conversation in his suite at the Dorchester, she had agreed, of course. A split-second decision which had ultimately been her downfall. No point dwelling on that now. She’d made her bed, as it were.
He crosses the room to the console on the far wall. She hears a click as he presses play, and the same old song fills her ears. Some fifties ballad which she probably would have quite liked had she heard it under different circumstances. It reminds her of her grandmother, the only person in her life who hadn’t let her down. The haunting vocal begins, sending a shiver down the girl’s spine.
A lovestruck man declares how the object of his affection will be his forever. He sings that they will be together for eternity.
She is his.
In the right circumstances it would be the epitome of romance. But here, and now, in this setting… it is chilling.
She knew what was coming next.
He crosses back to the foot of her station, turning to face the camera. He begins his sickening striptease, removing his tie first, as he always does, then his shirt, trousers, and finally his tight white briefs. Folding each item into a neat pile on a black leather chair beside him. Sometimes he would just sit there for a while, watching. He isn’t hard. Not yet.
That doesn’t usually happen until some pain is inflicted.
She screws her eyes shut, trying to block out the melody, trying to take herself to another place. A safe place. She hears his bare feet pad across the floor, and a scrape of metal as he chooses his instrument for today’s session. She keeps her eyes closed, choosing not to know when it happens. Knowing it is coming is enough.
She can hear his breathing beside her now. His head is by hers. She feels his tongue slip through the slit in the mask where her mouth is. His warm saliva on her lips as he probes her. She had learned there’s no point fighting it. It only seems to make him enjoy it more.
The song on repeat echoes round the room. The lyrics promising that the girl will always be his.
And she fears that this may be true for her too. She wonders if she is special to him. He’d told her he was aroused by her resilience. He couldn’t believe she’d outlived the others.
She opens her eyes; he looms beside her. Something cold and sharp presses against her abdomen. She draws in a breath as he traces the blade across her skin, up towards her exposed nipples. Circling her areola. He laughs as her body shivers.
‘Good girl,’ he whispers.
And then the point breaks her skin, a searing pain shoots through her.
But she will not cry, will not scream. Refuses to give him the satisfaction. She stares into his face defiantly, and he smiles. He pushes the blade in further; she winces, and that is enough. His dick stiffens, standing to attention. He pushes down with the knife, slicing her flesh. A tear runs from the corner of her eye, dripping onto the metal gurney, as he forces her legs apart and slides inside her.
She closes her eyes, trying to focus on the music. Only the music.
Please God, she thinks, please just let me die!
He thrusts painfully into her, and the cold steel of the blade teases at her throat, breaking the skin. Everything begins to go black. The music still plays, but it now seems far away in the distance. Like she is listening from under water.
As her world fades into darkness, she realises that finally, this is it.
The girl lets out one final, anguished breath.
And she is gone.
2
Lucy
The West Coast of Scotland, some years later
The ferry pulls into the dock with a heavy clunk. Lucy waits patiently, tapping her foot as the exit ramp lowers, and she is away. She hurries through the drizzle towards a row of taxis. She hands the driver the address. He eyes her curiously, frowning.
‘Jump in,’ he says, an edge to his voice.
He doesn’t get out to take her bag, so she opens the rear, throwing her case onto the back seat. She climbs into the front, closing the door behind her.
‘Grim weather,’ she says.
‘Get used to it,’ he mumbles, in a thick west-coast accent.
He pulls away from the dock, away from civilisation. A narrow single-track road winds up an enormous hill, a vast drop on either side, down into dense woodlands. Tall spruces tower above. Pink and white foxgloves break up the greens and browns. Huge ferns littering the sides of the road. Now and then the cab emerges from the trees, and Lucy can see for miles, across treetops. In the distance, across a body of water, an entire mountainside is covered in rhododendrons, making it appear bright purple. Low-lying cloud lingers in the damp air. Lucy’s head whips around, not wanting to miss a second of the breathtaking scenery. So different from her familiar city dwelling. She has never seen so many different shades of green.
‘It’s so beautiful here!’ she says.
He grunts something unintelligible. The taxi passes over the crest of the hill, stopping now and then for a sheep or a grouse in their path. The road spirals down steeply before them, back into the forest.
A rabbit darts from the undergrowth, scurrying in front of them. The driver curses, swerving a little on the track.
‘How much further?’ Lucy asks.
He laughs humourlessly. ‘A while yet. Ye’ve picked a fair remote place to visit.’
Lucy lowers the window, leaning out, inhaling the fresh air. Pine and florals fill her nostrils. She smiles. Rain spatters the inside of the taxi, and the driver tuts. Lucy closes the window, apologising.
‘So what brings ye to these parts?’ he finally asks after another thirty minutes of silence.
‘A job.’
‘Oh, aye?’
Lucy nods. Doesn’t offer any further information. The driver shrugs, focusing on the road ahead.
Deep beneath the trees, Lucy can no longer tell if it’s still raining or not. The forest is so dense, hardly any light filters through. She pulls her mobile from her pocket, checking the signal. A single bar is displayed on the screen. It sporadically disappears, and flashes back. She raises her eyebrows, sighing.
‘That’ll be no use where you’re goin,’ the driver informs her.
‘Yeah, I got that impression.’
‘There’s no reception once ye reach the edge of the forest. If you need to let anyone know you’re safe, I’d recommend doing it now, while you still can.’
‘It’s okay,’ she mumbles, as she slides the handset back into her jeans pocket.
After what seems like an eternity,
the car emerges from the gloom.
‘Almost there. Just on the other side of those trees.’
Lucy glances down a hill towards a ridge of large beeches. The only indication of life is a plume of white smoke, rising into the air from behind them. As the taxi pulls around, the loch opens up before them. The cottage sits at the outer edge of the water. Grey slate tiles glisten with rain on the roof. There are chimney stacks at each end of the structure, one of which is the source of the smoke Lucy had seen. A Virginia creeper climbs up the whitewashed stone walls at one side. A huge wisteria decorates the other half, arching over the windows and door, spilling its abundant blooms down the front of the house. To the left of the door, a small log store holds a pile of firewood.