The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  It hid the brutal fear vibrating so violently that waves of pain travelled through her body as every motion accentuated the tightness of her bonds around her wrists otherwise too numb to feel in the cold. Spring was bringing warmer temperatures during the day but the night-time was still frigid.

  The chair Sophie was tied to thrust violently backwards and dragged across the terrace. Tilted backwards on the back legs; she could see her breath against the London night sky. The jolting caused her binds to bite deeper into her flesh. She cried out through clenched teeth, her jaws locked to keep them from chattering irrepressibly.

  Once inside, the chair was dropped back abruptly on all four legs, thrusting her body forward; a cry forced from her lips at the surprise of it. The only thing she remembered was the door, slightly open, and a blow across her face knocking her to the floor, a pair of shoes, and then nothing.

  Warmth thawed her flesh into stinging jabs, her blood liquefied and began to pump freely again. Slowly, the feeling came back to her limbs and she began to take inventory of the wounds through the sensations of pain. Licking her lips she could taste the salty metallic blood, the bile rising in her throat, she pushed it down, concentrating on the feel rather than the smell or taste if she wanted to stay conscious. A cut on her cheek pricked, burning on her wrists indicating just how tightly she was bound and the throbbing in her cheekbone circled around her head.

  Her sight was only coming back into focus when he sat on the sofa across from her. The moustache hid his upper lip and his hairline was receding but the hair he had was a dark blonde and thin. Worry in his hazel eyes betrayed the confidence he tried to portray while holding the gun in his hands, alternating between holding the gun and swiping nervously through his hair like Oliver did when he was exasperated, occasionally wiping the sweat from his forehead and fidgeting.

  Looking around the flat, he was trying to concentrate and find an answer to his dilemma, avoiding eye contact with her. “I really don’t want to kill you but if I have to choose your life or mine, guess which my preference is,” his voice was raspy.

  “Wh-what do you mean? Wh-why would you k-kill me,” she stuttered, the warmth wrapping her like a blanket but the shock swept through her, taking over where the cold left off. An interesting question considering she was there to put the poison in him.

  “That’s the only way I see this playing out,” his elbows resting on his knees, his hands open, palms up expressing the desperation in his hand gestures, his brows furrowed. “I was informed someone was coming to blackmail me. Not very good at this are you, just showing up like that? Finally, his eyes met hers and his expression hid the fear, he had found the courage he was hoping for which was bad news for Sophie. “And I can’t have you jeopardizing everything I’ve worked so hard for can I?” His questions formed as justification, even to her, the idea of killing her. Her stomach flipped and her heart pounded at the notion that this was how she was going to die unless she could convince him otherwise.

  Either Sydney was a blackmailer or someone mistakenly thought Sophie was. “For her own good,” echoed in her mind. Curiosity brought her thoughts to Sydney but her survival beckoned for Oliver. He had been indifferent to her since Sam’s death; she gave him time not knowing what else to do. He left her flat without a word and had not asked her to go to the viewing or funeral and since the opera he had withdrawn. Occasionally she called to check on him but he didn’t answer. Her innocence was not in question now, she thought, he had said so and he had no reason to lie to her.

  Wit and cunning were not her strong suits but that was all she had to use, confined to the chair. Sophie closed her eyes, her head swaying trying to remember anything from his dossier she could use. Then it came to her, the inconceivable.

  There was never any use for feminine wiles either, a woman’s weapon, when needed. Her mother’s words, “men can’t help themselves.” In this case she hoped she was right, even though Oliver contradicted it but she was hoping with his weakness played against him that Maurice would act on it.

  Never had she even attempted playing the seductress and Oliver’s words echoed in her head, not a good liar. Remembering what she had seen in movies was all she had to go on. Would the shaking and the pain hide it? Those weapons of femininity were the only ones she had and she was about to have a crash course in using them with a little help of his vice. Not a good liar and her head grew heavier, darkness swirled in her head, and she thought she would lose consciousness once again, her head drooped, she was thinking what to do.

  Lifting her head and looking him in the eye, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, a half smile curved her lips, “Why would I blackmail you when you’ve so generously paid for me already?” His eyebrows shot up and before he could say anything, she continued, “I don’t think the agency will be too happy to see what you’ve done to me and would forbid anymore business with you if I told them.”

  “You’re from the agency,” he looked her up and down sceptically, shaking his head. “How do I know you didn’t just become greedy?”

  “I am greedy, that’s why I’m in the business. I like to have my cake and eat it too….usually,” she bit her lip in pain but emphasized it with a throaty moan, seductively. “Does your wife love you?” She sat back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other casually, noticing the gold band.

  “What,” he was distracted, not by the red mark she had left on her own lower lip, but when her tongue flicked out licking the blood at the corner slowly, deliberately, and she shuddered.

  “I said,” she paused clearing her throat that was now dry, “does your wife love you?”

  “I knew it, you...,” he jumped up and started pacing, the gun precarious in his nervous hand.

  “No, don’t misunderstand me,” she interrupted, “whoever is blackmailing you could very well be a nuisance to me as well. Assuming your sexual escapades would be what the extortionist has against you? Or are you always naughty,” one eyebrow rose in question. “Besides, the last thing either of us wants is to deal with an angry wife. And the way I see it, if you kill me that’s two problems on your hands but,” she tried to shrug non-chalantly, not actually having room to do so, “if you go to prison for murder, you won’t have to worry about being blackmailed.” The gun rose until she stared down the barrel but he was trying to read her.

  “The agency knows I’m here and knowing where I went before I went missing would bring a whole world of law on your head. I think it’s a much better idea to get on with what I’m here to do, don’t you,” she tilted her chin down and looked at him through her dark lashes. “I think if you wanted to kill me you would have already.”

  He wiped his bottom lip with the back of his hand and stared at her breasts. It was a familiar gesture, a lot like Declan and she knew he was on the hook. “You would say anything to save yourself. Maybe I should call the agency and verify your story,” taking the phone out of his pocket, gun still aimed at her.

  “Or, you can let me go,” she leaned forward as far as she could to be close to him, the bonds straining and cutting deeper, as far as they would allow, she stretched just a little further, flinching, looking up at him, “and I can verify it another way, any way you want,” her tongue flicked out touching the end of the gun and she sat back, showing no fear but her heart was beating fiercely. Wide eyed, disbelieving what she had done, he dropped the gun to his side.

  “Even now, you would have sex with me,” the battle between what he wanted to believe and what he thought he should do raged on. He closed the gap that his extended arm had filled before.

  Licking the blood again, she replied, “We’ve already had the foreplay.”

  Still sceptical he replied, “You’re not dressed very sexy,” looking beyond her lovely, bruised face to the unrevealing black shirt and dark trousers.

  “It’s cold outside,” she sat back in the chair again, arching her back a little more, her breasts thrust forward, her shoulders now aching adding to the cacophony of pa
in rippling through her. Now thawed, it was all evident, the cuts and bruises were the only things that kept her focused.

  “And you’re still cold from the looks of it,” putting his phone away, he couldn’t resist pinching her left nipple between his thumb and finger.

  “I didn’t think I would be wearing them for that long, it’s what’s underneath that’s sexy unless you don’t like black lace,” she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper to hide the need for water, the effect working on him.

  “Besides,” sitting straight, looking up at him, her mouth inches away from the erection he couldn’t hide, she breathed, “I know the depravity of men. It’s alright to let the animal out every once in a while because left caged too long could lead to some extreme behaviour,” her head titled to the side, “like now. Is that what it is? You’ve been trapped in your cage too long, Maurice,” the end of his name hissed. “We can play those games if you want. It’s not that long ago that I was cut with a knife so I’m tougher than I look.” It had the effect she was looking for, his breath caught suppressing excitement. “Would you like to see,” nodding indicating it was on her left side.

  He crouched in front of her, slowly pulling her shirt out of her trousers, his knuckle tickled her skin. He mistakenly took her quickness of breath as pleasure. His fingertips followed her scar and swiftly pressed into it making her flinch and his other hand flew up to squeeze her throat firmly.

  “They don’t like scars at the agency,” she looked him in the eye, his nose almost touching hers, his breath on her face.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she strained, “but you better not make any more or you won’t have someone to play with anymore,” her tongue darted out, the tip brushing his lips and he couldn’t hold back any longer, he eased his grip and tilted her head back to have full access to her mouth, kissing her deeply, the moustache abrasive on her skin. His kiss was wet and sloppy; his tongue darted in and out of her mouth like a lizard.

  He paused, looking into her eyes, “What will you tell them about tonight?” The barrel of the gun pressed against her neck.

  “I’ll just tell them,” she thought for a moment, “that all went well and on my way home I was attacked on the street. It will be our dirty little secret. But you have to cut me loose first,” she jerked her head free of his hand.

  Walking behind her, she heard him place the gun on the glass of the table behind her and a click of a pocket knife, anticipating the tip of it going into her flesh but then she felt the delicious release of her hands. She hugged herself, easing the stretch of her shoulders but he was in front of her, jerking her to her feet until she was on her tip toes, walking her backwards towards the bedroom.

  Weaving her arms through his, in front of her, she pushed his hands off her arms and caught them, placing them on her breasts then entwining hers in his hair kissing him. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her coat lying across a stool close to the kitchen so that’s where she led him.

  “Oh you want to do it in the kitchen,” he said misinterpreting what she wanted but all the same to her advantage. He spun her around, kissing her neck, his hands kneading her breasts now under her shirt, pulling her bra down, she straps sliding off her shoulders to have access to her nipples, gliding slowly towards the coat.

  She was disoriented, his hand entwined in her hair pulling it back so that she couldn’t see but she was feeling around for the pocket. Once she found it, she could feel the needle and slid the sheath off when she heard his zipper, and she gripped the needle firmly. He tugged at her clothes but she was not giving over so easily and poked him with the needle in the web between thumb and forefinger, then tossed it back into the pocket.

  Crying out, he pushed her down between her shoulder blades, her knee bumping into the stool, her head pressed on the bar’s cold stone. His hand was undoing the button of her trousers and sliding between her pants and her stomach, groping. She was clawing at his hands. She drew in her breath between clenched teeth. Gripping her hair again, it was less pulling and more a firm hold, he whispered in her ear. “Is this what you want?” It was only a matter of time. The pinch of her nipple was so hard she instinctively elbowed him in the ribs.

  He shoved her aside, she fell to the floor and he was on top of her before she had realized what happened. She lay there, motionless while he kissed her, gripping her trousers with her thighs he was struggling to pull off but he just smiled and laughed at her. “Wait,” they were both breathless and huffing. The sweat on his brow, the red face, could be signs that it was kicking in or the tossing that was going on, she couldn’t be sure.

  “Why wait?” He wheezed but just once.

  Give his hands something else to do. “Hold me down,” she put her arms above her head, “and just use your mouth.” His fingers interlaced with hers. Not exactly what she was thinking of but his hands were out of her pants.

  He pulled her shirt up around her neck with his teeth, her bra pulled down already made easy access to her breasts. He started to cough, throwing saliva on her chest and stomach. There was a satisfaction in that; it was beginning to take hold. “Are you alright?”

  He stopped, breathing deeply, grunting. “I don’t feel so well.” Feeling urgency, he let go of her hands and started tugging at her trousers again. All she had to do was fight him long enough.

  “No,” she said and pushed against his chest. He laughed and coughed. She was pulling on her trousers the opposite direction.

  The pain in his chest tightened and he dropped down to the side, his arm not able to support his weight any longer. One shove, she thrust him on his back again and straddled him, on her knees and watched his face get redder as air became wanting, his hand clutched his chest.

  The expression on her face was smug and he realized she was the source of the pain. He looked at his hand where she had pricked, a little blood pooled there. She could see the realization of what she had done on his face and when he moved, she moved just as quickly. Swiftly, they both grabbed each other’s throats in a silent battle of anger. Where he only used one hand, she had to use both. He gasped, his grip becoming tighter, struggling for air and closing off her airway. She felt the same lack of oxygen as he, using the last bit of energy to squeeze.

  Face hot and flushed, her lungs started to ache, eyes watering when his grip slackened slightly and a small amount of air could come into her lungs. One deep breath in, she used it to speak, “Remember me,” she strained, could have been a statement or a question, not quite recovering from his grip when he finally released her. His eyes were wide with fright then knowing.

  Slowly rising on her feet, she watched him wheeze and then crouching down, she tilted her head studying him and with his next to last breath, the anger built up in her and she forced through constricted breath, “This is what you made me do,” she spat it at him like venom and stood, dizzy, the sweet air filling her lungs as the last of his escaped and darkness swirled again in her head. Those were the last words he heard.

  Sophie dropped down on her knees and looked down at him, his eyes open, bulging and bloodshot but the life gone and for a moment she was despondent. It felt like her lungs deflated and refilled more and more with each breath, the feeling of pressure on her neck, coughing.

  This is why she didn’t like to look at them, couldn’t stand to look death in the face and up until now she never did. Her hands covered her eyes; she backed up stumbling, almost falling over his feet. Panting, she looked at him through her fingers, trying to assess the damage without looking at him directly any longer. But if she hadn’t he would have killed her out of desperation so it was reverse self-defence, she reasoned.

  Looking around the flat, she fought through the cacophony of sensations, the emotions, the feeling of being choked, the burning in her wrists, everything to get out but she couldn’t get out until she found the remnants of her that remained.

  Without any more delay, she started putting her clothes back in order; nothing was off so that was a
relief. She put the chair back under the dining table, took the severed pieces of the ties that held her, walked around him without looking down. She gasped wanting to cry but telling herself that she was fine.

  The needle. She started to panic, where did it go? She tried to remember where she had pricked him, what was going on when she did. Looking around there was nothing. Grabbing her coat, she felt the outside of the pockets and there it was. She sat on the stool for a moment knowing she had to go to Oliver. He was the only one that could help her, not knowing how much help she really needed but she was prepared to swallow her pride and ask for it.

  Putting on her coat, flipping the collar up, noticing the gun on the table, she shoved it in her coat pocket. Outside the door was an envelope like hers with Maurice’s name on it but the lettering was slapdash. Sophia leaned against the door, sliding down, crouching not able to stand without moving, opening it, she pulled out a photograph of Sydney someone had taken of her, if it had come earlier, Sophie would not have gotten away. She shoved the photo back in, folded it and put it in her other jacket pocket. The adrenaline becoming more pronounced, pulsing through her body.

  Emotions would have overwhelmed her except for the aches and pains, some sharp, some dull taking turns seizing her attention. If it wasn’t for the shock, she wasn’t sure she could stay upright; it was the only preserving thing she had, dulling her senses and keeping her on her path. Oliver, she thought, I need Oliver and unfortunately she knew where she had to go to find him and would he care now? Her fingers trembled, missing the buttons to dial him. Swearing she tried over and over, only to get his voicemail when she finally succeeded. There was no message to leave.

  On the Prince Albert Bridge, she could barely see her way despite the lights that illuminated it. The movement of the lights reflecting in the river looked like they were dancing but it also made her feel a little nauseated. She could hear the traffic behind her but looking around she didn’t see anyone walking on her side of the bridge.