Initially, I’d been planning to scare the hell out of Conlan, but after realizing what he’d done to that girl, I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. He clearly loved hurting women.
By the end of our girlie chat, I knew her life story. How she’d wanted to be a beauty therapist but had ended up quitting school when she got pregnant by Conlan. The way she spoke about him, you’d have thought he was Brad Pitt, not a fat, sadistic bully.
When she said I could meet them for a drink on Friday night, I agreed.
When she texted me to say Paul wanted to meet me at the Balloch Arms, I panicked. Sam and Rosalie would be working that night. Would my disguise fool them too?
It had to, because this was my best shot at getting Conlan and his psycho mate. If I’d suggested a change of venue, I think he’d have smelt a rat.
Chapter 18
Scrutinizing myself in the mirror, I’m sure I’ve gone for the kind of look that will tempt that sleaze ball. I’m back in my blonde wig and wearing the contact lenses that make my eyes emerald-green, and I’m wearing a tight white blouse, painted-on jeans, and black knee-high boots. I’m a male fantasy and I hate myself for it.
Checking I’ve got the roofies in my handbag (best to be prepared), I head to the bar, heart thundering in my chest as I pray nobody will recognize me.
Spotting Alison is easy. Sitting next to her with a vomit-inducing grin when he spots me, is Conlan.
This is the first time I’ve seen his full face close up, and “butt-ugly” doesn’t even come close to describing him. He has a face that makes you think someone has grafted facial features onto a backside. Forcing myself to smile at him when he looks over hurts my face.
He wraps an arm around Alison that appears affectionate, but he must be holding her too tight because her whole body stiffens. Bastard.
With my heart on loudspeaker, I stroll over. If he recognizes me, I’m screwed. He might even think Alison’s in on it. He already uses her as a punching bag; this time he might kill her.
The tension in my body eases when I realize his eyes haven’t risen higher than my cleavage that’s only held back by the bottom two buttons on my blouse because I’ve left the others undone. I fight the temptation to grab a bottle from the table, smash it, and use the jagged edge to sever his gooseneck of a throat.
Instead I chirp, “You must be Paul.”
He grunts something. His eyes are glued to my top that’s a size too small, making my breasts resemble ripe apples; I’ve applied concealer to hide the scars. Slutty, I know, but I have to reel him in. There might not be another chance. Not unless I wait for him in a dark alley with a sawn-off shotgun.
Alison’s acting as if she hasn’t noticed him leering at me, but I know she sees what he’s doing and is embarrassed by it. She’s too cowed to say anything.
Sliding in beside the pair of them, I make sure I park myself next to Allison. I feign interest in the tattoos her thug boyfriend proudly displays on his arms, asking him if it’d hurt when he got them done. He must have worn long sleeves that night because I don’t remember any tattoos.
Shrugging his bulldog shoulders, he grins over me, exposing his lack of teeth. “Nah. I enjoy pain.”
Especially inflicting it on others, you fucking coward.
My admiration hides my contempt as he points out his tattoos, showing me what they are and telling me what they mean. He’s happy that I’m asking about them, and I give an Oscar-winning performance of a gushing girl who’s impressed by such things. The tightness I noticed in Allison’s jaw when I strolled over has gone. She can relax because for once he likes one of her friends. She reminds me of a little puppy seeking constant approval from her master; so different from the woman I caught a glimpse of when we chatted. Someone who was funny and smart.
As I watch her turn to him as though she needs his permission to speak, I vow there and then that I’m going to be the best friend Alison has ever had, because I’m going to give Paul Conlan a taste of the pain he enjoys inflicting on others. Hey, maybe I’ll even throw in a free tattoo.
For now, I need him to think I’m just another plaything. That’s how Neanderthals view women—as mothers or slappers, and I know by the way he’s ogling me which category he’s put me in.
“I like men with tattoos,” I purr, leaning in towards him, wanting to throttle myself for being a total bitch and coming on to someone’s boyfriend right in front of them.
“So, how do you know my Alison, then?”
I tell him about our meeting at the school gates.
“So, you’ve got a kid, then?”
His tone’s a bit aggressive, but I know how to deal with men like him. Taking my time, I dust an imaginary crumb off my top. His appraising eyes on me make me feel like hundreds of cockroaches are scuttling across my bare skin. But my ploy works. He stops asking me questions and switches from thinking with what passes for a brain to what’s in his trousers.
It’s when Alison goes to the ladies’ that the slimy creep makes his move. Sidling up to me, he plants his greasy paw on my knee and says, “So, you like tattoos, then?” before adding, “You don’t happen to have any yourself, darling?”
Biting back a desperate urge to wipe that smarmy grin off his ugly mush with the stiletto heel of my boot, I don’t move away. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Do you fancy meeting up, away from here?” He’s talking to my boobs.
After a suitable delay, I say, “What about Alison?”
There’s not as much as a trace of discomfort when he says;” Alison and me have an understanding.”
Yeah, sure you do. You beat the crap out of her because you can only hit women.
I’m keying my number into his mobile phone when Alison reappears. She walks over to us with her head down, something that I’m glad about because it means I don’t have to make eye contact, see that look of disappointment and self-loathing in her face.
What kind of friend am I? The girl’s been hurt enough without me adding to it.
A plan hatches in my mind. Maybe I can get her to go home and then entice Conlan back to my place?
“Are you okay, Alison?” I say. “You’re looking pale.”
A tight, wee smile in my direction gives me her reply. Then she turns to Conlan. “Can we go home now, Paul?”
He ignores her and continues drinking his pint.
“Please.”
Her wounded little-girl voice makes me want to punch myself. All she is, is a pawn in a game she doesn’t even know she’s in.
Conlan squints at her as he cracks his knuckles. He has love and hate inked onto them; he’s such a cliché. The seat squeaks as he lifts his fat backside off it.
With a muted good-bye, they leave. But even then I can’t relax, because Rosalie who I’ve managed to avoid all night is looking straight at me.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
My heart thuds against my breastbone. If she realizes who I am, she’ll want to know what I’m playing at. She’ll tell Sam, and there’s no way he wouldn’t mention this to his pal Conlan.
“No. I don’t think so.” I speak in a syrupy voice. “I’ve just got one of those faces, I guess.”
Before she can study me, I’ve swept past her and I’m out the door. She doesn’t try to stop me.
I’m hyperventilating as I half walk, half sprint towards my car that I’ve conveniently parked down a side street. With every step my heart’s pounding away. What if she follows me outside? Asks me what the hell I’m doing. Then my cover will be blown.
Relief washes over me as I turn the key in the ignition and realize I’ve got away with it. What an escape.
But it’s all been worth it. When I get back to my current pad and check my prepaid cell phone, there’s already a message from the pervy creep.
Reining in the nausea that rises in my throat as I read his disgusting text and view the accompanying picture—why do men think we want to see pictures of their penis?—I get into slutty cha
racter, and the racy texts ping back and forth.
With each text, I’m filled with more self-loathing, but I also feel a sense of achievement. Soon that murdering piece of scum will experience real pain.
Chapter 19
Paul Conlan’s oblivious to the danger as he stands there on my doorstep, tongue hanging out like a lizard’s. Scruffy swine hasn’t even made an effort. Tonight, his pungent body odor is a cross between rotting fast food and unwashed sweat—does he ever take a bath or use deodorant? The reek makes me want to jump back inside the door, slamming it shut to stop the stench from snaking its way inside. He’s still wearing the same manky jeans he’s no doubt been wearing all day, whilst he’s been applying the thumbscrews to old women and beating up kids, or whatever a rent-a-thug does these days.
When his eyes latch on to what I’m wearing, latex full-length zip-up boots that hug the contours of my legs and a red corset, his face is a mixture of surprise and something else that makes me want to puke until my throat bleeds, lust. Stupid prick thinks I’m going to put on a show for him. He has no idea how repugnant he is.
“All right, darling,” he says.
When we go through to what passes as a living room in the fleapit I’ve rented, the fat bastard’s eyes are trained on my butt all the way.
“Can I get you a beer?” My voice is a drawl.
When he plonks his fat butt down on the couch, it creaks under the strain. I pity poor Alison having that heaving and panting on top of her every night.
“Aye, but don’t be too long, darling. Don’t want to get lonely.”
In the kitchen, I grab a Bud from the fridge and pour myself a glass of a fizzy fruit juice that will pass for wine.
Once I’ve opened his bottle of Bud, I take some Rohypnol that I’ve hidden in the sugar jar and drop it into his drink. Thanks to countless campaigns warning people to guard their drinks against being drugged, I know he won’t be able to taste it.
When I go back into the living room, he’s sprawled on the couch, arm draped round the back.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” he says, patting the couch, indicating where he wants me to sit. Ignoring him, I stay standing and hand him the Bud.
This place isn’t nice, it’s a dive. It’s the first one I found that didn’t want references, a security deposit, and a sample of DNA. My attempts to make it look homely haven’t gone much further than placing two lava lamps on the tables and scattering a few pink cushions in a feeble attempt to make the place look lived-in.
“The place is a dump, but at least it’s watertight,” I say. “The last place I was in had a hole in the roof. The landlord told me to put down saucepans and buckets to catch the drips. Can you believe that?”
As I blabber on, he doesn’t even attempt to feign interest in what I’m saying. He downs his Bud in two gulps, then rubs his greasy paws together.
“Let’s no fuck about here, darling. We both know why we’re here.”
Circling my lips with my tongue, I rasp, “I need you to do me a favor first.” My voice sounds grating to my ears.
He raises a hairy eyebrow.
“I’ve got something for you in the bedroom.”
“Oh, aye?”
His leer’s a foot wide.
I lead him on through. “There, over on the bed.”
He waddles over.
“Where?” He’s confused. “I can’t see anything.”
“On the bed.”
It’s as he’s leaning over the bed, trying to see something that isn’t even there, that I reach under the bed and pull out the Taser. Alerted by the noise, he turns round in time for me to zap him in the chest.
As thousands of volts surge through his body, he drops onto the bed and he goes into spasms. Watching him reminds me of a puppet my grandfather used to have. He’d make it jiggle up and down for me and Shug. I never liked that puppet.
A few minutes later, his hands are above his head, and he’s handcuffed to the bedpost. I’ve used two sets of handcuffs to make sure he’s incapacitated, and I’ve tied his feet with strong rope. Even with the drug I slipped him, I’m taking no chances; he’s a strong guy.
“You might recognize me now,” I hiss. “My hair was this color when we last met.”
I’ve changed into my jeans and ditched the wig. My long red hair tumbles down my shoulders.
By his reaction, the dumb bastard clearly has no idea what I’m talking about.
Shaking my head in exaggerated disappointment, I say, “You don’t even remember me and the time we spent together? There was three of us.”
Tutting, I stroll over to where he’s trussed up, naked apart from his pee-stained boxer shorts, his curses drowned out by the gag I’d stuffed into his gob—well, I don’t want the neighbors to hear—and I lean over so he gets a good view of the breasts he’d mutilated with a knife. The skin graft didn’t take, and now I’m left with marks from where he’d tried to cut off my nipples. The sick fuck clearly has mommy issues.
“You don’t recognize your own handiwork, Paul?”
I spit the words into his face. I’m rewarded when he flinches. For the first time I can smell something other than BO, the heady stench of fear. The stink should repulse me, but I feel something else, gratification.
“You know who I am now, don’t you?”
For a brief moment, I remove the gag so he can speak.
“Fuck you, bitch.” His speech is slurring, and in spite of the defiance in his voice, I can tell the reality of his situation is hitting home. His erection’s gone.
“That’s not very nice.”
I punch him in the balls. His roar of pain is cut off by me putting the gag back in place.
“If you can’t say anything nice, then maybe you shouldn’t say anything at all. Capice?”
He glares at me.
“25 William Wallace Road, ring any bells?”
No recognition. Maybe he’s raped so many women and murdered their families that they all fade into one. Better give him a wee reminder.
“Maybe I should tattoo rapist across your stomach like Lisbeth Salander?”
There’s a lack of understanding on his face. He’s not a reader, which comes as no surprise.
A wide grin spreads across my face, and I make a big show of looking round the room. I whistle through my teeth. “Damn, I don’t have a tattoo kit. What’s a girl to do?”
I tell him to wait there, which makes me chuckle because it’s not like he can go anywhere. Marching over to the kitchen, I pull a knife from the block I bought especially for our little games. Gripping the knife makes me feel strangely powerful. Is that how it starts, the desire to hurt someone? The thrill of having someone at your mercy? Do you get drunk on the power you wield?
Maybe this is how Conlan felt when he used a blade to carve crisscrosses into my breasts as I howled behind my gag before passing out with the pain. But I’m not a monster like him; I’m getting revenge for what he did to me. We are different.
Holding up the knife, I make sure the glint catches in his startled eyes.
The memory of what he did to me makes the bile rise in my throat, and I have to leave the room until the nausea goes. Flopping down on the couch, I picture my parents as I last saw them, and in an instant my self-pity is swept away in a torrent of hatred for this pathetic excuse for a man.
I stand up and almost skip into the room where my prey awaits. This is my place, my rules. I get to decide what happens here. I’m in control.
There’s a frown on my chops as I eye the bloated monster before me. He’s not such a big man now, tied to the bed in his pee-stained pants.
“Honey, I’m home,” I chirp.
As I watch him struggling against his binds, I remember how I struggled to get away, but all my attempts were futile. I remember the helplessness I felt, the complete loss of control. One thought overtaking all others, I’m going to die here in the one place I’ve always felt safe.
Seeing the pitiful state he’s in, maybe I shou
ld pity him, but he showed me no pity. When I stared into his eyes as he abused me, there was nothing there but cold, hard stone. I was nothing to him and he got off on my pain.
“You killed my parents.”
I say it in a matter-of-fact way as if I’m talking about the weather. I’m damned if I’ll show him any emotion, bar hate.
If I’d hoped for a slither of remorse on his part, any flicker of regret, I was a mug. There was nothing there behind his eyes but his own fear.
I move the knife towards his face, letting him see it, fear it as I had, and then just as I move it towards his eye, I let it trundle to the floor. His body heaves. Then his cockiness returns.
Behind the gag, he sneers at me for not having the balls to hurt him, to stick the knife in him until he bleeds.
His beady eyes follow me as I stroll over to where my curling tongs are plugged in.
Holding the tongs up, I fight the temptation to use them like a smoldering iron and burn out the same eyes that viewed me with such distaste as he raped me, so that he can’t look at me anymore. Instead I hold them above his forehead. The tongs are so close I can smell his singeing eyebrows. His eyes are wide with terror as he tries to wriggle away from me, but there is no escape.
“Tell me who was with you that night. Tell me who paid you and your mate to pay my parents a visit and I might let you go.”
Underneath the gag, he shakes his head, so I use the tongs.
There’s a hiss as the metal burns his cheek and I hold them there. His body buckles as tears sting his eyes and the smell of scorched flesh fills the air.
“Tell me, or I’ll do it again.”
This time I move the tongs downwards and hold them poised above his groin. “You better watch. I’m so clumsy, I might drop them.”
There’s a tinkle of laughter in my voice, but it’s put on. Let him think I’m a fully-fledged nutcase, capable of anything. Then he’ll spill and tell me what I want to know.
Hell To Pay (Crime Files Book 1) Page 6