by Neil Davies
She couldn’t see anyone. No Jill. No strange, anonymous, threatening men.
She tried to stand up straight but the rack was not tall enough. Her legs ached as she tried to keep the weight off her shoulders.
“Glad you could rejoin us.”
The voice came from behind her, an unmistakeable voice with more than a note of laughter in it.
Jill stepped round in front of her, smiling, holding a knife in her right hand, her left index finger turning gently on the point of the blade.
“Jill.” Linda struggled to keep her voice steady, to sound reasonable in the face of a situation that was anything but. “There’s no need for this. Surely we can...”
“Linda,” interrupted Jill, her voice quiet but commanding. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you? How much I’ve hated you since the first day you started work with me?”
“I know, but...”
“No, you don’t. You can’t. I doubt you have it in you to hate anyone or anything as much as I hate you.”
She stepped closer, pushing the tip of the knife under Linda’s chin, forcing the bound girl’s head back. A droplet of blood trickled down her neck.
“I hate your voice because it’s softer and quieter than mine. I hate your hair because it’s a different colour from mine. I hate your clothes because they’re cheaper than mine. I hate your tits because they’re bigger than mine. People think you’re nice and I hate that. Tom wants to get in your pants and I hate that. I hate...” She shrugged, smiled and slid the knife down Linda’s neck to the shoulder of her white blouse. “I just hate you!”
She pulled the knife, slicing across the shoulder.
Linda screamed. Blood stained the blouse, seemed to spread, soaked up by the cotton.
Linda sniffed back tears, gritted her teeth against the pain in her shoulder and tried once again to be reasonable.
“I can resign, leave straight away. I don’t need to go back at all. You’ll never see me again, just don’t...”
“It’s gone too far for that now.” Jill stepped away, picking at her nails with the bloodied knife. “It’s not enough to not see you ever again. You have to suffer for what you’ve put me through, day after day in that office, listening to you, watching you, hating you.”
She stepped further away until she was half hidden by the shadows in the dimly lit store. From out of the same shadows stepped three men, all dressed in black just as before. One of them held a baseball bat, another the same iron bar that had hit her in the first place, the third held a knife even bigger than the one Jill had.
None of them wore masks.
Linda could clearly see their faces.
She knew what that meant.
She began to shout for help, to scream, to struggle and kick against her bindings. Surely someone would hear her if she shouted loud enough? Someone had to be nearby in the mall!
Jill laughed and waited until the captive girl broke down into quiet sobbing.
“Please, carry on shouting if you like. You’ve been out for a long time. The mall is closed and if you think the security guard might help you...” she pointed with the knife at the man with the baseball bat, tall and heavy-set. “Say hello to him.”
The bat swung. Linda tried to move away from it but couldn’t. She felt an explosion of pain in her side, screamed. She was sure she felt a rib crack.
The man with the bat, the mall security guard, leaned close into her, his nose almost touching hers. His breath stank of cigarette smoke and garlic.
“I’m just warming up Lin. We’ve all heard so much about you we can’t wait to get better acquainted.”
He stepped back, one big fist grabbing the open top of her blouse and tugging.
The blouse ripped, buttons span on the floor. She was suddenly aware of how see-through her bra was.
It didn’t matter. Her bra was the next thing to be ripped off her.
The man with the knife pulled it across the top of her right breast. Blood ran down, followed the curve, meandered around the nipple, pooled in her belly button before staining the waistband of her skirt.
She screamed. More tears ran down her cheeks.
The iron bar slammed into her left leg. It gave way beneath her. She heard, felt something crack.
She tried to struggle as hands reached up under her skirt but she could do nothing except grimace at the pain in her leg as her pants were tugged down. The only thing that stopped them being removed altogether was her bound ankles.
Then the man with the knife was down at her feet, sawing at the bindings. Her ankles were free, her pants off, and she was lifted from the ground by hands under her legs, her buttocks. Her legs were spread apart sending waves of agony through her and the man she now knew as the security guard dropped his baseball bat and tugged at the belt around his waist.
Someone pulled her legs wider and pain exploded white hot in her head from her broken leg.
She could hear Jill laughing.
She blacked out as the man moved into her.
When she struggled back to consciousness again she was still tied to the clothes rack.
Her left shoulder felt dislocated. Her body was bruised and bleeding. Her ribs and her leg were broken. She felt a dull ache between her legs, tried not to think about it.
She should have been crying, beaten, destroyed. But inside her there was space for nothing but anger and resentment.
How dare they do this to her. How dare they scar her and rape her and think they could do whatever they wanted to her!
She began to understand the hate Jill had spoken of, but understanding did not lead to sympathy but to an intense desire for revenge. The feeling was new to her, strange, exciting even. She nurtured it. She let it grow. She enjoyed it!
She shifted her body to a more comfortable position and she did cry, but not in fear and despair, just in extreme pain.
With effort she lifted her head. The inside of the store was dimly lit as before. She guessed it was still night. Outside seemed quiet.
Only one man stood inside her range of vision.
The security guard.
He was looking at her, smiling to himself. The baseball bat, now stained with blood, her blood, stood upright against the wall nearby.
Where was everyone else? Where was Jill?
She tried to ignore the man, looked around the rest of the store as best she could. Either the others were all behind her or they’d gone, leaving the security guard to watch her.
She had no doubt they’d be back.
She knew they had to kill her now she had seen them all. Knew also that they would want more “fun” with her before then.
She needed to find a way out.
She flexed her arm muscles, testing the bindings. There seemed no give in them. At least her feet were still unbound, but she doubted she could do anything that required her to put weight on her left leg. It pumped pain through her and hung useless, the foot dragging on the ground.
There didn’t seem much she could do except wait and hope an opportunity would arise.
She thought she saw a movement at the window, through a small gap in the taped brown paper.
Were they back already?
She waited for the door to open, but instead saw more movement in the gap, a face peering in. A face she recognised.
Tom!
She tried to control the excitement that suddenly twisted in her stomach.
It was Tom, she was sure of it. Somehow he had found her. But if he just walked in...
She coughed, tried to clear her throat from its dryness, to speak clearly.
“Where have your friends gone then?”
Her voice sounded weak, trembling in her ears, but it was strong enough to be heard and that was all that mattered.
The security guard’s smile broadened.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be back soon and then we can carry on where we left off.”
“How come you got left behind? You the poor relation in this little happy f
amily then? Did you draw the short straw?”
“I volunteered! Wanted time to look at you on my own.”
“Just to look? Is that all you have the nerve to do without the others backing you up?”
She couldn’t believe she was goading the man, actually inviting him to attack her again, but she needed to keep him distracted.
Behind him she could just make out the shop door quietly opening and shutting again. She didn’t see anyone there but knew that Tom was inside now, somewhere in the dark shadows.
“Fuck you bitch! What are you up to? D’you want me to do some more to you? Not had enough yet?”
He was moving towards her, angry, beginning to unbuckle his belt once more, when she saw Tom grab up the baseball bat from where it stood and swing it.
It collided with the security guard’s head, snapping his neck to one side. Blood and bone sprayed over Linda as he fell, folding up as if all his bones had been suddenly removed. Blood poured from the wound in his head. The baseball bat lay broken with the force of the blow on the floor beside him and Tom was hurrying to untie her arms.
“What the hell’s going on Lin?” His voice trembled, she didn’t know whether it was fear or adrenaline and didn’t care. He was there. He had rescued her. “I got worried when I didn’t hear anything after your phone call from the food hall.”
“It’s Jill. She’s crazy. Wants to kill me!”
She fell into Tom’s arms, unable to stand on her own.
“Jill? I knew she was a bitch but...”
“We have to get out of here.” She allowed Tom to help her towards the door. “They could come back at any moment.”
“Don’t worry, I’m here now. We’ll get out of here and call the police and...”
A dark shape rose up before them, growing out of the shadows, unseen by either of them.
Linda saw the flash of a blade and Tom let go of her.
She fell heavily on her broken leg, screaming as the pain seemed to burn her whole body.
Through tears of agony she saw the knife stabbing down again and again, thudding into Tom’s back, his arms, his head.
She knew he was dead before he hit the floor.
Jill stepped into the dim light, knife held high, dripping blood. She knelt next to Linda and smiled coldly.
“Sorry Lin. Did I kill your boyfriend? Did you think for a moment you were going to get away from me?”
Linda closed her eyes as the blade of the knife, shiny and sticky with Tom’s blood, stroked across her face, down to her throat.
Her fingers clutched at the floor, met thin metal. A clothes hanger. She closed her fist around it.
The bitch killed Tom, was going to kill her any moment.
With a cry of rage she fell backwards, away from the knife, swinging the hanger up towards Jill’s face.
The end of the hook jabbed into the kneeling girl’s eye, dragged down inside the socket, caught behind the bone.
Jill screamed, a high scream as much of surprise as pain.
Blood spurted from her ruined eye, filled her mouth, her nose. Linda felt it hot and sticky on her hand.
She pulled the clothes hanger down again, felt a satisfying rip, heard the scream go even higher.
Jill pulled away, tugging the hanger from Linda’s hand. She staggered to her feet, the metal still swinging grotesquely from her eye socket, blood still streaming down her face.
Linda growled, an animal growl that came from deep inside her, from a part of her she hadn’t known existed before today, and launched herself forward. She gritted her teeth against the pain in her leg, her ribs, everywhere.
She tackled Jill around the knees, taking her down to the ground heavily.
She saw Jill’s head bounce as it hit the floor.
Without giving her time to recover, Linda clawed at the jeans, the black t-shirt, dragging herself forward, upwards.
She grabbed the knife from Jill’s unresisting hand, lifted it high and, with only a moment’s hesitation, plunged it deep into Jill’s throat, a small cry of pain and strange satisfaction torn from her throat with the movement.
Blood welled up over the inch or so of the blade still showing, up over her fingers.
She twisted, pulled, pushed.
No way was the bitch going to get up from this one!
She only stopped when Jill no longer struggled and squirmed. When the only movement in her body was that caused by Linda.
Only then did she feel certain that Jill was dead.
She rolled sideways, falling off the body, turned onto her side and vomited.
When even the spasms of dry retches stopped, she turned back, forced herself to wrap her fingers around the handle of the knife that still stood upright in Jill’s throat. She pulled, feeling the soft sliding of the blade against skin, not looking at the fresh wave of blood that followed the blade as it came free.
With a quick glance towards Tom’s body, and allowing herself only a moment of grief, she pulled herself over to the shadows by the door, grimacing with the painful movement, fighting back the tears of pain that threatened to blur her vision. She tried to blend into the darkness, hiding herself as best she could, still gripping the bloody knife in her equally bloody fist.
She waited.
There were two more due to come back soon.
She would be ready for them.
The bonding session wasn’t quite over yet!
THE EXTREME MAKEOVER OF HELEN WATSON
She stalks her prey in darkness. A predator. A hunter. A killer of unstoppable ferocity and strength. Her hunting ground is the bars and clubs of the city. Her camouflage the short skirt and tight t-shirt of a party girl. The bait in her trap, sex.
Another willing and unaware victim leading her to his car, driving to a secluded spot high above the city. He grins expectantly as she pulls off her t-shirt, her breasts pale in the moonlight, nipples dark and erect. He almost salivates as she slips off her skirt, her panties, and drops all her clothes out through the side window. Another simple, hormone-driven male gasping and dying as she bites into his neck, his throat. She moans in orgasm as she drinks his blood, experiencing an ecstasy sex alone can never offer. Growling with animal lust she tears his throat out, blood spraying the windscreen, smearing the lights of the city below, splattering her body, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. This is hunting for the pleasure of the kill alone.
Calmly she wipes her face and her hands with his shirt. She steps out of the car, picks up her clean clothes from the ground and dresses. She sighs, satisfied, and wipes his blood from the face of her watch.
Shit! She has to hurry if she doesn’t want to be late for work.
Sixteen and plain was not a good place to be. Not at Rosemont High School. Not when the boys were jocks or nerds, and the girls were… well, the girls were beautiful or not.
Helen Watson was not.
Definitely not.
In a big way, in her own mind, the absolute worst place not to be beautiful. Even worse than school.
She stared grimly at her bedroom mirror and could see it all. The slightly too square jaw line. The bump in her nose. The crooked smile. The even more crooked teeth. The eyes… actually she quite liked her eyes. Brown, wide and almost cute with the right kind of eye shadow and mascara. The expensive kind. The kind she couldn’t afford.
“Helen? Are you ready for school yet?”
Her mother, shouting from down the hall in their bungalow. Her mother, divorced, crippled, dependant!
“Yes Mom.” But not really. Not ever really.
She pulled her long, red hair back, tied it hurriedly into a pony tail, took one last look in the mirror, pulled tongues at the hated image that looked back, and hurried out of her bedroom.
She bent over the wheelchair and kissed the grey hair curled tightly on the top of her mother’s head.
“Jenny will be here by half past Mom. She has her own key. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Her mother smiled at her.
Mrs Watson watched her daughter rush out through the door in a swirl of long grey skirt. She sighed. She might not be able to walk but it was her daughter who was truly crippled. Crippled by shyness. Crippled by low self-esteem. Crippled by having to care for her elderly mother.
For the first time since he had left twelve years ago she thought about asking Helen’s father for help. She had hoped to spare Helen any contact with the dubious heritage her father offered. Now she wondered whether that would be her only hope of salvation.
“Oh my god. Here comes Watson. What is she wearing?”
Cheryl Mortimer stared in mock horror at the rapidly emptying school bus and the girl struggling up the steep path towards the school. She laughed, she sneered, she gathered her three closest friends around her, all dressed in the same school football team jackets and tight designer jeans.
Helen tried to ignore them as she stomped past, intensely aware of her big, worn shoes, her long grey skirt, her pale, faded blue fleece that had been a present from her mother four years ago. But she couldn’t avoid Cheryl, stepping into her path, breasts that Helen suspected were more silicone than girl stretching the pink cheerleader’s sweatshirt to near tearing point, pushing the edges of the jacket back to her shoulders.
Cheryl Mortimer was everything Helen Watson was not. Cheerleader, popular, beautiful, and the easiest lay in school.
The last was a well-kept secret known only by her closest friends, and most of the school football team.
Helen knew because she had once been one of Cheryl Mortimer’s closest friends. That time was only a distant memory now, before Cheryl made the cheerleader squad. While she was still busy climbing her way to the top flat on her back.