Killing Pretties

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Killing Pretties Page 5

by Rob Ashman


  ‘I’m so sorry, darling. I had no idea. I’ll turn it down.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ve just moved in and not seen my friends in ages so we like to… get to know each other again.’

  I struggled to maintain eye contact with my oddly dressed neighbour, the sight of the woman passionately kissing the man on the sofa holding my gaze. Her legs had slipped open and his hand was up her skirt.

  ‘This is not the first time—’ I burbled.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. Would you like to come in?’

  ‘No, no, I have to sleep. I have a busy day tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, the invitation is there if you change your mind.’

  ‘If you could keep it down.’

  My jaw must have fallen open as another man, who nestled in beside them and kissed the woman, joined the couple on the sofa. She turned and put her arm around the back of his neck, pulling him to her.

  My neighbour turned to see what had caught my attention.

  ‘Ah, like I said, we like to get to know each other again. Are you sure you won’t…’ he stepped away from the door and waved his arm to usher me across the threshold.

  ‘No, I can’t.’ The second man now had his hand down her top. ‘If you could keep the music down that would be good.’

  ‘I will. Goodnight.’ The door closed and I was left on the landing, my head spinning with what I had just seen.

  The lecture programme was going well and in the third week I was invited to a drinks party hosted by the Law Society. My Spanish was improving at an exponential rate — being immersed in a foreign city will do that — and I enjoyed being in the company of the students and lecturers. So I went along.

  I hadn’t had cause to pay my mysterious neighbour another visit and, while the parties continued, the music was not a problem. I fantasised about what I’d seen. Every night I was sorely tempted to knock on his door on the pretext of wanting something. But my courage deserted me every time and I stayed in my flat.

  I was chatting with the Head of Admissions when I spotted him across the room. He was holding court with five other people, spewing conversation and anecdotes as they rolled back with peals of laughter. His sharp suit, tanned skin and dazzling smile had those around him captivated.

  A burly chap wearing a tuxedo lightly took hold of his arm and led him away to another group of people eager to make his acquaintance.

  ‘Who’s the guy in the blue suit, with the long hair?’ I asked my host.

  ‘That’s Antonio Pérez.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him around the university. Is he part of the faculty?’

  ‘Ha, no. He’s an actor and a model. I think he works for a famous brand. He’s a guest of one of the professors. Do you know him?’

  ‘Erm, no, I wondered who he was.’ I watched as Antonio glided around the room soaking up the handshakes and kisses. His perfect smile greeted everyone the same. I sipped my drink and watched him work the room.

  Then he clocked me with a casual turn of the head and our eyes locked. It took a second for me to register in his brain and when it did, he flashed me a smile and mouthed ‘Hello’. He broke away from his group and walked up to me.

  ‘We meet again.’ His minder appeared carrying a furrowed look on his face. ‘I didn’t introduce myself last time. My name is Antonio.’ He held out his hand. I took it and the touch of his soft, cool skin made me feel sick.

  ‘My… my name is Damien.’

  ‘Ah, like in the movie.’

  ‘No not like in the movie.’

  I released my grip.

  ‘I’ve been trying to keep the noise down.’

  ‘I know, thank you.’

  ‘Are you a student here?’

  ‘No I’m a—’

  The shrill sound the ting-ting-ting filled the room as someone struck a glass with a spoon, before everything fell silent.

  ‘Señoras y señores, permítanme llamar su atención. Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. Please welcome our guest speaker Antonio Pérez.’

  There was a round of applause.

  Pérez leaned into me. I could smell his cologne.

  ‘I have to go now,’ he whispered.

  He swaggered through the crowd, making his way to the front, touching the hands of the guests as he passed. He planted kisses on the cheeks of several of the women and they dipped at the knees in a mock act of swooning.

  Antonio stood at the front with his arms outstretched soaking up the applause. He clasped his hands together under his chin and bowed at the waist, a well-practised move. The taste of bile filled my mouth.

  I could only make out part of his speech. He spoke fast and animated and I struggled to keep up. I watched him as he played the crowd like a cheap whistle. One hundred smiling faces beaming back at him, confirming what Antonio knew all along — he was fucking wonderful.

  It was my last day in Madrid. I wrestled my bags across the landing into the lift and down to the lobby where a taxi was waiting to take me to Barajas Airport. It was seven thirty in the morning and the rush hour traffic was building. The driver helped to load the bags into the boot and we set off.

  ‘Parada aqui, he olvidado algo,’ I yelled. The driver slammed on the brakes not happy with being told to stop because I’d forgotten something.

  I apologised again and dashed from the cab, around the side of the block of flats to a set of wrought iron stairs bolted to the back of the building. The fire escape creaked and groaned as I made my way to the seventh floor. I had to catch my breath at the top. I was not built for this type of exertion.

  The small stone was in place, exactly where I had left it, wedged in the door-jam. I slipped inside onto the top landing, walked up to number 702 and rapped on the door. I knocked again. I knew he was in because he repeated his daily routine like clockwork and always left his flat at ten-thirty to have coffee with his gaggle of lovelies. I knocked again.

  I could hear the sound of shuffling feet on wooden flooring. The door cracked open.

  ‘Si?’

  ‘Hey Antonio. I know it’s early but I’ve come to say goodbye.’

  ‘Que? I mean what?’ he opened the door wide. He was cloaked in a blood red silk dressing gown.

  ‘I’m leaving and I wanted to say goodbye.’

  It took a while for the message to land in his brain.

  ‘Oh, okay, well, have a safe trip.’

  He offered his hand. I refused it.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I’ve bought you a gift.’

  ‘A gift?’

  ‘Yes, to say thank you for turning the music down.’

  ‘That’s fine. No problem.’

  I produced a crystal from my pocket. ‘I want you to have this.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Antonio said, stepping onto the landing. ‘There is no need for you—’

  ‘I want to. Please come and look.’ I stepped back against the bannister and held the crystal up to the light flooding through the glass dome above us. ‘When the light passes through it, the colours are amazing. See how it glints and shimmers?’

  Antonio came next to me and peered up at the crystal as I rotated it between my fingers. Shards of red, blue and green light danced across my fingers.

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘It’s pretty, just like you.’

  I bent down, wrapped my arms around his knees and heaved for all I was worth. Antonio tipped sideways and his chest slammed into the wooden handrail.

  ‘Aghh!’ he yelled. ‘What are you—’

  His hands flailed in the air, not knowing whether to grab the bannister or me. I drove hard with my legs and he tipped over the top.

  He made the entire journey to the floor below in compete silence. Landing on the tiled floor below with a slap that echoed through the stairwell. I ran to the fire escape and hurtled down the steps to the waiting taxi. My heart was thumping in my chest and by the time I reached the ground I couldn’t speak.

  The taxi driver wa
s huffing his displeasure as I slid across the back seat.

  ‘Perdone,’ I rasped as the car lurched away from the curb. I opened my hand.

  The crystal looked dull and lifeless — much like Antonio.

  Chapter 10

  I only harvest the best parts to make my glaze. Don’t get me wrong, in every case the victim is a Pretty who deserves to die, but even Pretties have features that stand out above the rest. It might be their eyes, their hands, their feet, their lips, their genitals — the prettiest parts are the ones I treasure the most.

  But they need to be collected when the victim is alive to achieve the maximum effect. I’ve tried taking them once the last vestiges of life have been extinguished from their bodies but it’s never the same. To the uneducated observer, there is no discernible difference in the end product but I know… I know there’s a difference.

  The prettiest parts — or ‘packets of joy’ as I like to call them — are fired in the kiln and their ashes lovingly collected. It’s essential to control the temperature and the time, it’s easy to reduce them to nothing. The heat and duration of the fire must be precise to produce the desired results.

  Once processed, they are mixed with other compounds to produce my signature glaze. The glaze that sets me apart from other potters. The glaze that makes the other competitors ask: how do you do that?

  The timer goes off on the kiln, closely followed by the one on my phone. I always take the precaution of setting two. I would hate to over-cook my packets of joy. The valves close and I open the vent. There is a hissing sound as the heat rushes into the night. I watch the temperature gauge plummet and sip my wine.

  The temperature has dropped sufficiently for me to open the door; the residual heat from the bricks hitting me in the face as I enter. I’m wearing heavy welding gloves and pick up the metal plates, returning to my work bench and arranging them on a thick asbestos tray. There are six in total and I put the tray into the proving room to cool down.

  There are three more small packages left in the freezer. I enter the narrow room and fish them out. Belinda Garrett is next to me, suspended from a winch in the ceiling. Her body white and motionless, the stumps at the end of her legs where her feet had once been hovering eighteen inches above the grill. I poke her with my finger and she swings back and forth. The butcher’s hooks in her back support her weight easily now she’s drained of blood, and minus a few body parts.

  I look into her face. She was once strikingly beautiful. The type of natural beauty that ripped the breath from your lungs when you met her. At least, that’s what happened to me. Elsa did the same when Belinda slipped her arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck.

  We used to meet Belinda in a hotel. It was always the same arrangements. We would arrive on a Saturday and book into our room. Belinda would check into the room next door and the adjoining door was our conduit of pleasure.

  I would order room service of oysters and champagne and we would sit and chat while gorging our fill on both. That was until Elsa could wait no longer and started gorging herself on Belinda. As much as Elsa likes men — and she certainly likes men — the prospect of bedding a woman always fills her with an animal-intensity she finds hard to control.

  I remember on one occasion we were sitting in our hotel room in mid-conversation when Elsa launched herself at Belinda, pawing at her body and tugging at her clothes. The two of them writhed around on the sofa oblivious to the fact I was there and equally oblivious to the spilled wine pooling on the cushions. After several minutes of kissing and groping, Elsa took Belinda by the hand and led her into the other room, banging the door shut, leaving me to finish the rest of the meal. I remember looking at my watch. It was at half past two in the afternoon — they fucked each other to a standstill for hours. At six-thirty Elsa re-emerged through the adjoining door completely naked.

  ‘We’re starving,’ she said, walking across the room and kissing me hard on the mouth. I could taste Belinda on her lips.

  ‘You probably need carbs. How about burger and chips?’ I said.

  ‘That would be great. And more Champagne.’

  I glanced through into the other room to see Belinda sitting up in bed. In a theatrical gesture she swept the covers back to reveal her lean body and opened her legs giving me an eyeful. Elsa smiled and kissed me again.

  ‘Give us a knock when it arrives,’ she winked and re-joined her lover. Pretty soon the sound of gasps and groans were coming through the walls. My cock was as stiff as a fireside poker but I wanted to save myself for later.

  Elsa had a fixation for Belinda for longer than I would have wanted. Then one day she gave me the signal, which meant she had finished with her and it was my turn.

  It wasn’t difficult to see why Elsa was so captivated. Belinda was a complete fucking airhead with nothing to contribute other than the way she looked and the way she could make my wife scream in bed.

  As I stare into her face, it is important to remember Belinda had been strikingly beautiful. But now a hole in the middle of her face, where her aquiline nose had once been, and her exposed teeth give her head a screaming-skull look, now her pouting lips have been removed. Her fingers were long and slender like a pianist. I severed each one using garden secateurs and rolled them into neat paper packages.

  I’m not sure what made it perfect, but Elsa always told me that Belinda had the perfect arse. So, I sliced her buttocks from her body and put them in the freezer. Packets of joy waiting to be used.

  The rest of the carcass is no use to me. Sure, her breasts are nice and her legs are delightful, but they aren’t her prettiest parts.

  I press the button to lower Belinda into the wheelbarrow. Then unclip the carabiners, leaving the hooks in her back and wheel her across the room to the kiln. I heave her up and attach the hooks to two metal rods secured to a hoist in the roof of the kiln. I run the chain through my hands and she unfolds herself from the confines of the barrow.

  Belinda looks very sorry for herself hanging there. I walk out, close the door and press the buttons. The kiln fires up.

  I cross to my workbench and set the timer on my phone. I’ve cast a fabulous vase for a competition coming up next month and the glaze has to be exquisite. My confidence is high. Belinda Garrett was an exquisite Pretty.

  Elsa comes in.

  ‘Hey, how’s it going?’ she asks.

  ‘Good, I’ll be finished in an hour.’

  ‘Any more of that wine left?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I fetch another glass, top it up and hand it over.

  ‘Cheers!’ Elsa chinks my glass and slurps a large slug of wine. She pushes me back into my chair and puts her glass on the table. Then she leans over me with her hands on my thighs and kisses me. ‘I feel guilty about last night so I want to make it up to you.’

  Elsa kneels between my legs and tugs at the buttons of my jeans.

  ‘I thought you said…’

  ‘I know but I thought you might like a starter before your main course.’

  As I watch the temperature gauge rise, Elsa goes to work on my cock. It’s not long before both are in the red.

  Chapter 11

  T he first guy charged into the room hard and fast, wielding his bat. Wrigley flew at him, catching the attacker in the chest with his shoulder. Both men toppled over in the corner, a solid thud echoing around the room as the attacker’s head thumped into the wall.

  The second guy barrelled in swinging his bat at nothing. Malice was still sitting with his back against the wall, below his eyeline.

  Wrigley jumped to his feet and was just about to stamp on the guy on the floor when the second attacker flattened him with a swing that smashed into his shoulder. Wrigley was once more lying on top of the man in the corner.

  The second man raised the bat above his head, taking aim. Malice lashed out with his boot and swept the man’s legs from under him. He cartwheeled in the air and crashed down to the floor, spilling the bat. Malice lurched forward and punched h
im twice in the face but the man brought his knee up, catching Malice on the side of his head. The blow sent him tumbling backwards.

  Wrigley was rolling around trying to claw himself away from the man lying in the corner. The second guy found his bat and brought it down hard on Wrigley’s arm. He screamed in pain.

  Malice had regained his feet and launched a haymaker at the man with the bat. His fist slammed into the side of his jaw, causing the man’s head to snap to the side. He crumpled into a heap.

  The first guy was now on his feet having recovered from his bang on the head and ran at Malice with his head down. Malice caught him in a headlock and dropped to the floor. The man’s head bounced from his grasp as it slammed into the wood. It was unlikely he would be recovering from the impact anytime soon.

  Malice rushed over to Wrigley who was thrashing around, groaning.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Wrigley clasped his right shoulder.

  Bullseye appeared in the doorway, blood running down his face. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, but Wrigley got knocked about.’ Malice wiped blood from his eye. ‘Who the hell are these guys?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bullseye replied, kneeling beside his boss.

  ‘Fuck!’ Wrigley yelped, heaving himself to his feet. He rushed across to the attacker laying like a starfish on the floor and kicked him in the balls. The inert figure didn’t budge. ‘You need to leave,’ Wrigley said, nodding at Malice.

  ‘You might want to get that looked at,’ Malice replied, surveying the scene. He pulled out his phone and took a photograph of each of the attackers, then riffled through their pockets and came up empty.

  ‘All in good time,’ replied Wrigley. ‘Firstly, you need to go.’

  ‘I have my car nearby, I can drive you.’

  ‘You’ve helped enough. I got it from here.’

  ‘And you have no idea who these guys are?’

  ‘Nope. Never seen them before. Now, let me take care of business.’

  ‘Okay.’ Malice held up his hands. ‘I’ll see you around,’ He left the house by the same way he came in. His eye hurt and his knuckles were bruised. He sat in the car and twisted the rear-view mirror to get a better look.

 

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