by Rick Wood
Option two – win a million dollars.
Of course, option two was not to win a million dollars. For starters, the currency of England was pounds, and he already had a good few million of those.
He realised he’d been lost in thought and brought himself back to the room.
“Let go of the box,” he instructed, taking a step forward.
“Eh!” Luke exclaimed. “Stay where you are. An’ I really think me letting go is not what you want right now.”
The imbecile was right. It had been a poor choice of words.
“Fine. Stop touching it.”
“Like I said, the knife.”
There was no chance he was losing the knife.
He began to come to terms with it. Losing the toenails.
It was his own stupid fault for leaving this room unlocked.
He never left this room unlocked.
He was only popping out for half an hour, he didn’t think he’d have to deal with this mess when he came back.
He decided to try a different tact.
“I’m going to fuck your sister,” he stated, as matter-of-factly as if he was reciting a recipe for slow-cooked veil.
“Shut up.”
He took a small step forward. So small Luke’s anger didn’t allow Luke to notice.
“I’m going to fuck her, and I’m going to do it over your naked corpse.”
“I said shut up!”
Luke was shouting now.
This was good.
Make them lose control. Make them lose it all and they relinquish any power they had.
“What’s the matter? Would you rather stay alive so you can watch?”
“You touch my sister, I’ll kill you.”
He couldn’t help but laugh – a loud, blurt of a laugh, a mocking one, one that was sure to incense this boy’s feeble disposition.
“I swear, if you–”
More empty threats.
This was his chance.
He dove forward, swinging for Luke.
Luke leapt back, dodging the knife, letting go of the box. He caught it just in time, and replaced on the shelf, leaving the way open to pace toward Luke.
Luke did what was most predictable – which, as mentioned, was a real bane of this man’s life – and tried to throw his arms into the nearby trophies so he could scatter destroy as many as he could and therefore distract the man.
The man had plunged his knife into Luke’s side before he managed.
Unexpectantly, however, Luke’s instinct was not to scream. This was not, as you say, his ‘first rodeo.’ A blade was not intimidating to him. Instead, he swung his fist up and sent it into the man’s chin.
The man stumbled back.
Now he was the one annoyed.
No one had ever dared before.
What did this child think–
Foolish, to keep thinking angry thoughts, leaving his chin open for another under-hook. Before he knew it, the man had been forced out into the corridor, and the knife was no longer in his hand.
Luke was running at him with the knife above his head.
The man ducked the blade, grabbed Luke’s wrist, and smacked it into the wall.
The knife went flying across the corridor, skidding along the perfectly polished wooden surface.
Luke didn’t care. He could use his hands.
He dove upon the man, taking him to the floor and mounting him. From this position he continued to lay into him, punching one fist, then the other, then the other, then the other.
All the man could do was shield his face with his arms.
He’d seen this happen on the UFC when he watched it late at night. This would be the point the referee would decide enough, would shove Luke off him and wave his arms in the air.
But this was no sport.
Not for Luke, anyway.
The taste of blood incensed the man. He took the opportunity in the exchange between Luke’s fists to send his own flying up into the underside of the little squirt’s jaw, forcing him onto his back.
He stood, as did Luke, and they faced each other.
Two competitors.
Ready to take it to the bloody end.
And there could only be one winner.
37
Luke had never shied away from a fight.
In fact, at school, he had invited them.
He had been scared, at first. But then you grow to realise that one punch won’t shatter you like glass.
It’ll hurt, absolutely.
But it will not break you.
A punch is a punch. It is a short-term wince for a long-term target. It is the needed pain to achieve victory.
Most of those he fought had tattoos on their necks, lines in their hair, menace in their blood. They’d been fighting since they were kids, whether against their abusive step-father or the weight of their way of life.
And this entitled rich prick thought he could live up to them?
Those people fought dirty, fought hard, sent punches like they were Christmas cards.
What had this guy ever had to fight for?
The man sneered, grinning an unsettling grin, licking a spot of blood from his lip.
Luke was not afraid.
That’s what he kept telling himself.
So what if this guy had killed loads of people?
So what if those trophies were of the many he’d succeeded in hurting?
Luke would wager a large amount of his drug dealing money that this guy had never fought anyone like him before.
He probably just focussed on women. On anyone he could out-muscle.
No one outmuscled Luke.
And no one out-angered him.
Luke was permanently pissed off at everyone.
Gray.
His dad.
Himself.
He’d been preparing for this fight for twenty-one years.
He lifted his lip into a snarl, letting out a low growl as he did.
He began his approach, stepping slowly toward the man, his fists by his side, curled and ready.
The man didn’t back up, nor did he advance. He just stood, waiting for him, like a prom date about to be fucked.
Luke dove upon the man, retracting his elbow for as much leverage as he could manage and forcing his tightened knuckles into the side of the man’s jaw.
The man fell to the floor.
He didn’t cover his face. Didn’t get up. Didn’t go down further. Just crouched in the position Luke’s thump had forced him into.
He didn’t dab his lip, didn’t feel for his swollen jaw.
He just waited for the next thump.
As if he liked being pummelled.
Luke retracted his arm once again and laid his fist into the back of the man’s skull, so hard he could feel the bone shake beneath the strength of his strike.
Why wasn’t this piece of shit fighting back?
Luke held his hand back again and slammed it back down once more.
This time, the man flattened onto his front.
Luke lifted his foot and flattened it into the back of the man’s head.
The man was spread out, face on the floor, arms beside his head. He wasn’t covering himself, protecting himself, he was just laid out, letting it happen.
The man’s body began convulsing.
At first, Luke thought he was crying.
Then he heard the chuckles. The laughter, slow and heavy, precise and clear.
This fucker is enjoying this…
“What you laughing about?” Luke demanded, his voice hard and forceful.
The man didn’t respond with words.
His laughter grew more hysterical, into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
He rolled onto his back and wiped his watering eyes, leaking under the strength of his uncontrollable chuckles.
Luke slammed the heel of his shoe into the man’s nose.
The man just laughed more.
Harder and harder, louder and louder.
> “What the fuck are you laughing at?” Luke demanded again.
The man tried to answer, but ended up waving his hand in response, the laughter too much for him to be able to articulate a response.
This man is truly sick…
Luke lifted his heel again and went to stamp.
The laughter ended so abruptly it took Luke a moment to realise this distraction had allowed the man to get to his feet and run.
Luke gave chase.
Then he saw what the man was running for.
The man took the knife that had fallen from his hands and turned to Luke.
Luke couldn’t skid to a halt fast enough.
The next thing he felt was the warm slide of the blade beneath his ribs.
The man’s face was right next to Luke’s. No laughter any more. His fake hilarity, his ill-timed amusement had done enough to distract Luke and trick him and the mistake was proving fatal.
The man’s lip curled, eyes flickering with gleeful rage.
The man slid the knife back out again and stuck it into Luke’s gut, then retracted it once more.
Luke’s hands covered his wound, but he was unable to stop the blood from seeping through his fingers, trickling down his hands and dribbling to the floor like spilt milk.
The man stabbed Luke again, but this time didn’t hold the knife in – instead, he gave a series of attacks, slicing inwards and outwards as quickly as his change of mood, hitting every part of Luke’s chest.
The man then stuck his leg behind Luke’s and swiped his feet from under him, landing Luke on his back.
Luke’s spine and skull hit the solid floor with an impact that dizzied him.
The man stood over him, feet either side of Luke’s waist, looking down at his prey.
Grinning.
Still fucking grinning.
Luke tried reaching up. He didn’t know why, perhaps it was a request for mercy.
“I’m going to make this one quick,” the man said.
He crouched down over Luke.
“Because I’m eager to get to your sister.”
Luke’s eyes widened and his head filled with an ocean of panic.
Then the man slid the knife across Luke’s throat.
Luke choked and spluttered, and then it was over.
He ceased to exist any longer.
38
Just as I told you – unpredictability.
He was losing, so he laughed. That laughter threw the opponent. Allowed a perfect opportunity.
Because he wasn’t doing what was expected.
Luke did. Because he was boring. Because he didn’t deserve his banal existence.
The man stood, discarding Luke’s body as something he could clean up later, smacking his hands together as if that would rid them of the blood.
He walked down the corridor and into his walk-in wardrobe. Regrettably wiping his hand on his trousers – it had been a nice suit – he took the key from his pocket and unlocked it.
His suits were perfectly arranged on railings across the walls of the room. To his left were his Armanis, followed by his Canalis and his Dormeuils. Across from him was his Stuart Hughes, his Brionis, William Westmancotts, his Saint Laurents and a few Valentinos. To his right, his Burberry, Dolce & Gabbanna, Prada and his Dries Van Noten.
Removing his suit and dumping it into a hamper that he would dispose of later, he tried to make the tough decision as to which suit he didn’t mind getting ruined.
He wasn’t too fond of his Brionis but, honestly, he considered Prada to be an overrated pile of shit. Almost everyone who had a little bit of money to splash had one, as if it meant trying to hunt for a lesser-known but far more delectable designer brand was going to kill them.
He took his single-breasted wool and mohair Prada suit off the rails.
As for his shirt, he opted for a Dior Homme shirt with gold thread embroidery and white cotton.
He could, of course, find an old pair of overalls from when he tried painting one of his rooms himself – something that had been a complete disaster and was promptly rectified by a relatively competent painter he’d been reluctant to allow into his house.
Or, like he had done a few times, he could find one of his aprons and cover his suit with that.
But he didn’t want to.
Not this time.
This girl was too damn pretty and too damn special.
He owed it to her to be dressed in his finest – even if his finest was a piece of shit suit that was worth less than half of its extortionate price tag.
He did, however, opt for no tie.
It just didn’t feel like a tie occasion.
He wanted to be slightly more informal. Show her that this was a relaxed environment, that her death may be slow and excruciating but that needn’t meant they couldn’t be brief casual acquaintances.
He smoothed down his shirt, fixing the sleeve together with Van Cleef & Arpels cufflinks, shaped like two silver cylinders.
He straightened his suit collar.
He opened his top button.
Because, you know, why not?
He left the room, locked the door.
Found his way back to his trophy room, locked that door too.
He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.
He stepped over the boy’s corpse, careful not to skid on his blood.
He made his way to the top of the stairs.
He felt like that scene in Titanic, when Jack was at the top of the stairs and he turned around and said to Rose, “How would you like to go to a real party?”
He fucking loved that film.
Maybe he’d watch it later.
But not yet.
Oh, not yet.
He was too busy.
He was giddy with excitement.
He had a date with Amber.
Part V
THE FINAL DATE
39
Elsie Michaels sat alone in her living room with nothing but a lamplight for company.
She wasn’t sure what was happening. She wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t sure where her children were.
So often she would be alone, close her eyes, and open them again to find it was dark and Amber was sitting opposite her eating tea.
So she’d closed her eyes.
Hoping that by the time she opened them…
But they weren’t. It was just darkness. Open curtains framing moonlit trees and blackened roads.
She could feel life slipping away from her in every struggled breath.
She could feel her twitching fingers no longer twitching.
She could feel – no, she knew – that her end was almost near.
That she didn’t have long left.
And she wished to be surrounded by loving children, her three reasons for battling gathered around her, holding her hand and stroking her arm.
She wished to see Amber’s face, so caring, so desperate to help. Eagerly fetching Elsie’s dinner, feeding her if she had to.
Elsie had never wanted to be taken care of.
She had never wanted to be charity.
In all honesty, she had prayed for death. She had prayed to be released. This was no way to live.
Every time her child fed her, she felt humiliated; but the worst part was that she didn’t have to energy to say anything.
To tell Amber just let me go…
That it was over.
Elsie appreciated the love, but that was all she had left. Her body had shut down, her mind was absent. She wasn’t even able to talk to her children, communicate with them.
She wished to see Gray’s face, beaming at her, talking about his fancy degree.
She wished to see Luke’s troubled frown, and to continue to claim ignorance about the things he did.
Gray and Luke – how could she have raised two boys so immensely different?
One looking to be a teacher, one who was kicked out of school.
One who was going to make his money through the result of his educ
ation, and one who was going to make his money by…
Again, she pleaded ignorance.
She tried calling out Amber’s name.
Amber…
Amber…
Amber…
She heard herself calling it, but only in her head.
She felt her lips shake in an attempt to form the syllables, but those syllables never surfaced.
Strange, really.
In the past year she’d had a hundred conversations with Amber. About her ambitions, hopes, cares, work, childhood.
Only, none of those conversations had been spoken aloud.
She’d had to form her words then imagine the response.
Sometimes Amber would talk to her. She wouldn’t be able to make out every word – that girl had always spoken at such a quick pace. But there was always some resemblance of sense in there, some form of coherence.
Amber, where are you…
Even when spoken in her mind, her words still sounded weak. Like a broken wheeze, or the strain of a lost voice.
Once, she was a powerful business woman. She was left in charge of a company. She would never let anyone push her around, never take any shit – she was a strong, powerful woman, like she’d always hoped to be. She’d been insistent that she would show Amber what you could accomplish in a world dominated by testosterone. She would show Amber how a woman should be – never letting anyone push you around, condescend, or deny you opportunities.
Now what?
What role model was she now?
She was the epitome of illness. The image of disease.
Her once smooth, impenetrable skin was now coarse like the surface of a screwed-up piece of paper.
She was as pale now as she would be when dead.
Her arm that would once led a meeting full of intimidated men – that arm was now a dead weight, sunk upon her leg with the weight of a short life lived.
Amber…
It was no good.
Amber couldn’t hear her thoughts, even if she was in the same room.
It looked like she was on her own.
Her breath faltered.
Her heartbeat slowed.
And she tried to hold on.
40
For a house so big, there were so few hiding places.