Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  68

  Donaldson marched quickly up the drive, totally indifferent to the sound his boots made on the gravel, before making his way around the outside of the house. He paused underneath the lobby window. Placing his hands on the stone sill, he leveraged himself just high enough to take a rapid glance inside. No one. He smiled to himself as he silently opened the door and entered the house. Almost immediately, his heart began to pump faster and the sides of his temples visibly pulsated in rhythm to the quickening beat. He walked through into the kitchen. The wooden table had been partly set for breakfast with bowls and plates neatly placed in front of two chairs. Packets of cereal, milk and fruit juices were nearby. Two mugs were placed on the work surface adjacent to the coffee maker and a heavy kettle simmered gently on the hotplate of a cast iron cooking range. The constant heat had made the kitchen extremely warm and that, together with his adrenalin-fuelled excitement at the prospect of soon collecting his prize, caused beads of perspiration to quickly form on Donaldson’s forehead. He picked up a small towel hanging from the drying rail of the range, mopped his brow and wiped his rapidly moistening hands before superfluously rubbing them down each trouser leg. He clasped his right hand over the handle of his hunting knife, sheathed at his side, and several times subconsciously gripped and released his short fingers from its shaft. As he moved cautiously towards the hall he could hear some distant voices, the excited chattering of two women. Startled, he walked back through the kitchen to the lobby, closing the internal door behind him.

  Since the Assiters had arrived, Cindy and Paulette had drifted into what had become a familiar morning routine. They would rise at a pre-agreed time dependent on their plans and, not bothering to dress after washing, would don a pool robe from the previous day and start each morning with a splash in the pool. After their swim they showered in the changing area, took a fresh robe from the many on the pegs, rinsed out their costumes and hung them to dry in their cubicle before walking back to the inviting warmth of the kitchen for breakfast. Donaldson heard them enter the kitchen, Cindy talking about the dam. He waited. He heard the sound of the coffee machine being started followed by the mugs being slowly filled and the steady scrape of the wooden chairs on the stone floor as the two unsuspecting friends sat at the table. Donaldson turned the handle to release the lock on the internal door and then deliberately kicked hard against it knowing that the loud, sudden sound of his boots against the heavy wood would instil momentary fear, adding to the element of surprise and thereby lessening the risk. Both women screamed loudly and turned their heads.

  Donaldson entered the room, his rifle aimed at Cindy.

  “Shut up,” he shouted. Paulette screamed again. He immediately took his rifle in both hands and used the butt to strike the French model in the mouth. Be ruthless at the outset, minimise opposition. She nearly toppled from her chair, but recovered her balance. Blood was spurting from her smashed lip which she vainly tried to stop with her hand. Red blobs ran down the back of her fingers before dropping onto the fresh white robe. Cindy, too bewildered and confused to speak, gaped open mouthed at Donaldson.

  “I said shut your mouth, and meant it.”

  Menacingly, he slowly withdrew his knife and brandished the point close to their faces.

  “Leave her alone!” Cindy raised her voice, “What the hell are you doing here, Donaldson? What do you want?” She was recovering her composure.

  It was now time to ensure one hundred per cent compliance. Donaldson leaned closer to Cindy.

  “I told you to shut the fuck up. If you don’t, you see this knife – it has a real sharp blade and your friend here is going to be skinned little by little.”

  As he spoke, he very gently ran the point of the blade across Paulette’s cheek, being careful not to cut the skin.

  “Not my face, please not my face,” Paulette started to cry, and the blood on her teeth and lips flowed a little more as she spoke with a heavier French accent than was usual.

  “OK. OK. Leave her Donaldson. Why are you here? Does Alan know? Why are you following me? I presume it’s me that’s brought you here?”

  Before Donaldson could answer, Paulette whose mind was gradually clearing from the impact and shock of the blow to her mouth, said hesitantly, “Do you actually know this man, Cindy? Why is he here?”

  “He works for Alan but… ”

  “That’s enough! Shut up, both of you. Your husband and I parted company, if you must know so I thought I’d look up a few friends,” Donaldson smirked, “those who owe me a favour or two.”

  Donaldson leant his rifle against the table and once more placed the knife close against Paulette’s face. “Now Cindy you do exactly as I say or she gets very badly cut indeed. And no more questions. Got it.”

  Cindy nodded as a terrified Paulette tried to lean further back into her chair. Donaldson threw Cindy several of the long and wide plastic cable ties.

  “Handcuff each wrist to the chair. Place one on each of her wrists and secure them tightly. Then thread another one through the first and hook it round under the arm of the chair and then tighten ‘em up.”

  Cindy hesitated. She had always disliked Donaldson, distrusted him, and now her worst fears were turning into some sort of nightmare.

  “Do it!” Donaldson barked out the order, and Cindy slowly fixed the ties to each of Paulette’s wrists.

  “Now her ankles. Pull her legs back so each ankle is next to a rear chair leg. Then fix them in the same way.”

  Cindy slowly got down from the chair. Her mind spinning with thoughts of how she might escape, but so much was rushing through her brain she found it difficult to think of anything but carrying out his orders.

  After a few minutes Paulette’s hands and feet were securely bound to the chair. Donaldson sarcastically praised Cindy, “That’s good, Mrs Crossland. You see how real easy it is to please Jack.” He laughed, contemptuously at her. “You’ll get a reward soon. Bet you can’t wait!” he contemptuously spat out the words to her. Cindy felt physically sick. The man always had always been gross and uncouth but now he really terrified her. He had become a monster out of control. He positioned an empty chair a little away from the bound Paulette and looked at Cindy.

  “Get back into the chair. Slowly.”

  As she sat down, Donaldson began threateningly waving his knife around between the two helpless women. He touched the point on Cindy’s throat and gradually moved it up to her wide open eyes. There he deliberately kept turning the knife around so that the sharp, shiny blade flashed from the reflection of the bright halogen ceiling lights.

  “Now, stay there. One move from you and I’ll start cutting her up. Put your arms on the chair”. Cindy obeyed and he used one hand to fix the plastic strap into place. The process was repeated for the other arm, but he left her legs unbound.

  Cindy was desperately trying to think of how best to escape, or at least minimise the danger she and Paulette now faced. She knew that it was not in their interests to anger him and that it would be better to try and strike up some sort of rapport with their captor.

  “Jack, what’s this all about? We know each other, surely this isn’t necessary? What’s gone wrong?” She tried to sound composed and calm, anxious not to upset him.

  Donaldson wasn’t listening. He returned to Paulette, placed his hand under her chin and lifted up her head. “You are really quite a pretty little thing aren’t you Frenchie?”

  Paulette didn’t answer. Donaldson grabbed the belt around her blood spattered robe and cut it through with his knife. The robe fell apart exposing her naked body.

  “Not bad Frenchie, not bad. I’ll keep you as my bonus prize for later.” He replaced the knife in its sheaf and sniggered as he placed his hand on her breast. Paulette quivered as his thick, coarse fingers touched her smooth soft skin. She leant backwards as far as her shackles allowed but Donaldson only laughed at her futile efforts. She opened her mouth wanting to scream but, too fearful, wept silently when no sound came.


  “Leave her alone, Jack,” Cindy snapped. Donaldson laughed again, still slowly moving his hand across Paulette’s breasts.

  “Why? Are you getting jealous, Cindy? Your turn will come. I’ve something very special lined up for you.”

  He moved between the two chairs, then said, “I want to know why the police, why all this protection. Is it for her?” He looked at Paulette.

  Neither woman replied.

  “Answer me!” He barked.

  “Mr Truscott is planning a party this weekend. Some important people are arriving today and tomorrow. The police wanted to ensure the area was secure,” Cindy hoped she sounded convincing.

  “Ugh. Well it wasn’t, was it? And they’ll sure get a surprise when they come, won’t they!” He laughed, then spoke more seriously, “Don’t give me a load of crap, Cindy. Your stupid husband might have believed your lies but no one’s coming here – if they were, lover boy and his mate wouldn’t be halfway up a mountain.”

  “You are really some sick bastard, Donaldson. Really sick.” Forgetting all about trying to appease her captor she spat the words at him. Her lapse was painful for Paulette. Donaldson grabbed her left breast and squeezed hard. Paulette screamed.

  “What did you say? What did you say? I think you should apologise to big Jack.”

  “Sorry, Jack. Let her go please.” Cindy mumbled. Donaldson released the pressure of his hand and stepped back.

  “OK. But you will have to show me how you grateful you are. I deserve a better apology than just you saying sorry.”

  He stood directly in front of her, so close he rested his chin on the top of Cindy’s head. He cut the shackle from her right wrist.

  “Now, Cindy, make me happy.” He spoke calmly, without menace.

  Cindy raised her hand, shaking slightly, lowered the zip on his trousers. She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

  Donaldson quickly walked across to the kettle and held it above Paulette’s head. Maintain the terror. Ensure obedience. They always give in.

  “You win, Jack, you win,” Cindy whispered; defeated, humiliated, submissive. Donaldson now knew that she would offer no more resistance, her fight gone. He calmly replaced the kettle on the Aga, and as he stepped back to the chair Cindy lowered her face in readiness of what was expected of her but surprisingly Donaldson started to talk.

  “You remember when I came to see you how you kept bending over, first showing me your tits then deliberately showing off that tight arse to me?”

  Cindy stayed silent.

  “I’ll ask you again. Do you remember?” He raised his voice, threateningly.

  “I didn’t do that, and never would,” but Cindy did immediately recall the day he came round for Alan’s papers and she had given him coffee.

  “Oh, yes you did, sweetheart. You knew exactly what you were doing, how much I fancied you and played me along. We really could have had some good fun, you and me. It was obvious you wanted to but then you backed off, you silly bitch. I’d have given you what you needed.” He stared at her, paused, and said quite gently, “I hoped you’d be different, but you’re all the fucking same.”

  “That’s not true Jack, none of its true,” Cindy simpered as she began to cry.

  “Well it don’t matter, ‘cos now it’s time for you to make amends and let me have a real good look, close-up like.” Donaldson sniggered as he began cutting through the remaining nylon restraints holding Cindy to the chair.

  The ties pinning her hand fell away and he motioned with the knife for her to stand up.

  “Now take off that robe, turn around and rest your arms flat on the table.”

  The truth of what was about to happen gradually dawned upon Cindy. She wanted to yell at him and run but was too tired, limp and exhausted.

  Feebly she managed to say “No Jack. Not that. I’ll do anything but that,” but Donaldson ignored her.

  Cindy stood there, her naked body trembling, as he started fondling her breasts then her buttocks before gently pushing her head down next to her hands. She turned her face and shut her eyes whilst he positioned her exactly where he wanted. As Cindy bent over the table she cried out as he thrust into her. Adepto tantum victorem praemio.

  69

  Fadyar Masri left the protection of the forest and furtively crossed the lawn to the house. She walked slowly around the perimeter and very carefully tried to look inside any window that she could easily peer into. She saw nothing. As she retraced her steps she heard voices coming from what she presumed to be the kitchen, but the windows were just above her head which made it impossible for her to see inside. She waited and listened. Minutes passed. Every now and then she heard the man’s voice shout out and she thought she heard crying from at least one of the women. She knew what was going on inside and she was filled with revulsion. She wanted to stop it now, immediately, and save the two women from being forced to perform the man’s degrading perversions, but she also had to protect her mission. That, too, demanded she enter the house to cut the phone and alarms, but the presence of the two women now faced her with a very difficult dilemma. What was she to do with them, even assuming she could ensure the man was no longer a threat?

  She heard another scream and impulsively pulled at the large lounge patio doors. One moved open and she slipped inside. Staying low she crept across the lounge floor and out into the hall. She could hear the voices more clearly now, and it was obvious that her worst suspicions of what was befalling the two women were confirmed. The kitchen door to the hallway was closed. Fadyar knew that it would be impossible to break into the kitchen without the man having sufficient time to kill or maim one of the women, possibly both. Or he would take one of them hostage. She could not allow events to spiral out of control. Stay calm. Reluctantly, she withdrew to the lounge and crept back into the fresh air. She had to find an alternative means of bringing the situation in the house to an early conclusion. An idea struck her. She ran across the grass into the forest and using the trees as cover, she made her way to the smaller A-frame buildings. She went to the rear of the first chalet which was almost opposite the kitchen of the main house. Removing most of her bulky gear, she slung her rifle across her shoulder and shinned up the drain pipe until she was able to climb onto the roof. Slowly making her way to its apex, she stopped and looked over the ridge tiles. She had a perfect view of part of the kitchen. She could see one naked woman seated in a chair and just the right arm of the second woman. Facing them was the red head. She gasped as she saw him.

  The school! The soldier!

  As Fadyar sheltered behind the wall from the bombs and guns on the day her parents were killed, she saw an infantryman come out of the school building. Several days later she had learned of the atrocities he had carried out on the schoolgirls. That soldier was the same person as the man now in the kitchen of Mealag Lodge and still committing similar abuses. Her anger rose. She was also confused. Why should he be here, at this particular time? Was he still a soldier? Was he supposed to be protecting Assiter? No, she ruled that out. But neither would he be at Mealag simply by chance. It was too remote a location. He was there because, like her, he had a mission. He was a hired killer, she was sure – but who was he to kill? It had to be Assiter or Truscott and he had probably simply taken advantage of the women being alone, much as he had of the schoolgirls in Iraq. It was another case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever, he was a killer and a psychotic abuser of women and he was a threat to her meticulously laid plans. He had to be stopped.

  She carefully slipped the safety catch off her rifle and looked through the Schmidt and Bender scope. She loaded two 0.50 bullets into her AWSM rifle and removed the safety catch. This was going to be a most difficult shot and had many attendant risks. She was perched on top of a roof, not particularly comfortably. Donaldson was not a still target and she would be firing the bullet through a double-glazed window. There was no doubt the bullet would penetrate the window, but the impact would almost certainly cause it to deviate slightly
, ever so slightly, and that might be enough to only injure the redhead or, worse, miss him entirely. In her favour was the distance, which she estimated at only about fifty metres. A movement in the kitchen caught her attention. Donaldson had hold of one of the naked women who seemed to be being forced to bend over near the table. She raised her rifle and slowly aimed the crosshairs just above the centre of Donaldson’s back. A head shot would be too risky, too much chance of a movement of the head or a deviation causing the bullet to miss entirely. His back presented a broader target but she had to wait. She heard the woman scream but dared not risk a shot whilst he was bent over and almost on top of her. Fadyar kept her aim steady waiting for Donaldson to stand more upright so there was no risk of the bullet passing through him and into his hapless victim. Suddenly he jerked upwards and instinctively Fadyar pulled the trigger. The large bullet smashed through the window, instantly resembling a web of cracks emanating from the punctured hole to the outer edge of the frame. Donaldson fell forward onto Cindy, a large blood stain rapidly appearing below his right shoulder.

  “Aaaaagh… Fuckin’ bitch… I’m hit.” His piercing curse mixed with the simultaneous screams of Cindy and Paulette but it still carried across the kitchen and beyond. Donaldson was not dead but wounded, and probably now even more dangerous.

  Fadyar instantly slid down the roof, jumped to the ground and ran to the lodge. She saw Donaldson, now freed from his union with Cindy, staggering around in the kitchen. Fadyar flung open the door and rushed straight through the lobby. The startled and enraged Donaldson turned, and with his left hand swept the kettle from the hot plate towards Fadyar before she had time to aim her hand gun. She stepped out of the way of the spilling boiling water as the kettle crashed to the floor, but his action had delayed her and in those few vital seconds Donaldson had grabbed his rifle and dashed out of the kitchen into the hall. Fadyar drew her automatic and rushed after him, but he was gone, running down towards the loch, the back of his shirt completely covered by a large red stain as more blood pumped out of the wound. Donaldson was raging from both the pain inflicted by the high calibre bullet and at being denied his ultimate prize just at the point of climax. His sexual frustration and dented pride angered him almost as much as the hole in his back. He strained to focus on where he was and what had happened.