by Norman Wills
“No, not at all,” replied Steve too quickly, “I think I could handle it.”
“Big men are usually all talk.” Lucy Said, “When it comes down to it they can’t do it. That’s my experience, get so far then beg for mercy. It’s only a game for Christ’s sake, purely hedonistic fun.”
“What are you saying?” asked Steve.
“No bottle, most men don’t have the guts. Not until they’ve tried it once, then they just want more.” Said Lucy, “Anyway, let’s concentrate on what you’re here for shall we? The ceiling needs painting, red I think, and there’s a couple of small cracks need filling in this room.”
A vision of Lucy stood over him teasing him with a cane, suddenly came into his mind. He would love to fill Lucy’s small crack; right here right now.
“Hold on a minute. No guts? That’s a bit of a sweeping statement isn’t it?
“Are you telling me you’re a man with guts?”
“Yes.”
“So prove it you snivelling piece of shit, lick my boots… RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!”
Steve was down on his knees in a flash; his only problem was deciding which one to lick first.
…
…Yes, yes, yes, thank you God, thought Steve, this is actually going to happen.
Steve had let her talk him into being tied to the bed, but the truth of it was that he hadn’t taken much persuading; he’d practically offered himself up there and then thinking the lads wouldn’t believe him when he told them. The reaction would most likely be, “Lucy Kirkpatrick You lucky bastard!” or more likely, “Lucy Kirkpatrick? You lying bastard!” He could imagine the lads cheering his exploits over a beer in the bar at the rugby club later, when he’d revel in telling them exactly what he’d got up to with Lucy. Would they ever believe him? Probably not, but at least he’d know the truth.
When he’d agreed to be tied up all he was thinking about was having his kinky little sex fantasy fulfilled, at last, after so many rejections. Not only that, it was with Lucy Kirkpatrick, and she was making all of the running. Okay, so in his fantasy he wasn’t the one being tied up, but he’d get his chance too, she’d promised. This must be a dream he thought, it has to be. Lucy suddenly reached under the pillow and brought out a gag. Smiling at him provocatively, she slipped the gag over his head and tightened it around his mouth. Steve was not overly concerned at this, whatever floats your boat Lucy he thought. There wasn’t much he could do about it now anyway he was in this for the excitement of the journey, he was just hoping as he looked at Lucy that he’d be able to make the journey a long and memorable one and not the quick drunken fumble it usually ended up being.
Ever the optimist, Steve offered up his usual quick prayer of thanks to the God of sex. This was a prayer collectively written over a few beers one night after training. He knew that seven of his mates were still in the habit of offering up the same prayer on a regular basis; the guys who had managed to remain single.
For this and every other beautiful liaison thou shall ever grant to me,
My heartfelt thanks and gratitude I offer up for free,
I ask only two things O lord in this my hour of need,
Let it be that all my women are a nice tight fit,
And please ensure my condoms never split,
Amen.
She got to work on him then. She brought him to a full and, even Steve would have to admit it, glorious erection. In no time whatsoever he was stood up proud and ready for action so to speak. Steve was as ready as he’d ever been, Lucy was not going to disappoint in any way. After making sure Steve was well tied to the bed, leaning over him and giving him a brief taste of what he thought was to come Lucy reached under the bed and brought out a toolbox. Giving him her most seductive look yet she started taking the tools out of the box, one by one. She showed each one to Steve before lining them up on the end of the bed. These were not the sex toys Steve had imagined they would be when he saw the toolbox. She brought out a hammer first followed by pruning shears, saw, electric drill, heat gun, Stanley knife and chisel.
Steve was now more than a little concerned at his total lack of control, his inability to influence what was happening. But wasn’t that what she’d said being tied up was really all about? Losing control, “you’ve never felt anything like it until you’ve tried it”, those were her very words. So here he was giving it a go, no control, his life in Lucy’s hands. Lucy, the woman he knew well but had met for the first time that day.
He started to sweat, started to test the strength of the bindings that made him so vulnerable. Not to an extent that made him seem desperate, he hoped, but such that she thought he was playing along with the game. He wasn’t playing along with the game. He could take a joke as well as the next man. But this, come on! It just wasn’t funny anymore. Wait until he found out who had set him up, he’d pay them back for this, with interest. He’d set many of his team members up before now. Not like this though, whoever had thought of this had done a really good job. This one would go down in rugby club history, very funny. He wanted to say “good one, you got me, really, can we stop now?” but he couldn’t he was bound and gagged he had no control at all.
The thought then struck him that none of his mates knew he was here, in fact, nobody knew he was here, only Lucy. His heart felt like it was going to give up on him, right there and then. Strangely enough though, even in a crazy situation like this, he was still fully aroused. Even with his total lack of control he was still standing proud, he was definitely still up for it. Lucy had been spot on. Sexually, he’d never felt anything like it. He just needed her to put the tools back in the box, point proven and they could screw each other’s brains out. When they finished whatever debauched sexual activity she had planned they could have a good laugh about her scaring the shit out of him and how he never lost his appetite for it. That was what he was hoping, praying for even. He’d forgive her everything for that. Please Lord let it be that, he said to himself.
When she picked up the pruning shears with a crazed look in her eyes Steve tried to scream but it was useless, Lucy was in control, screaming was pointless. Steve knew then that he was losing his cock, not yet though, and not because of excessive use. Quite the opposite, he wasn’t going to use it at all.
Lucy was in the room with Steve but there was somebody else in there with her as well as Steve. The person with the shears was Lucy Kirkpatrick, but Sally-Anne was guiding her, helping her fulfil what she’d set out to do. Sally-Anne was a different proposition altogether. Sally-Anne was about to float her boat in one of several of her favourite methods. Lucy was there taking advice as the game unfolded.
Before she’d finished with him all the tools had been used and what had been left tied to the bed didn’t look very much like Steve any more. His mother would have been hard pressed to recognise anything of the pulpy, slimy, stinking mess Lucy and Sally-Anne had made in that room as once ever having been her son.
Sally-Anne had been thorough in her advice; nobody could ever accuse her of being anything else. But then they wouldn’t ever get the chance to accuse her of anything, never mind being anything other than thorough. It was a strange relationship that existed between Lucy and Sally-Anne.
…
Come all you sinners,
Come one come all,
Like lambs to the slaughter,
Come live in my thrall.
…
Wow, Lucy. You’re good, do you feel good?
Yes I do. Like you said revenge is sweet. I’m tired though, I feel like a rest now.
Not yet, sweetheart; no time. We need to move his van, get rid of any sign that he might have been here. Just leave him here for now, he isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Lock him in though, just in case we get burgled. That really would be unfortunate, for the burglars.
Lucy showered, and then she checked in Steve’s pockets for car keys and mobile phone. Lucy donned her disguise again and with rubber lab gloves on her hands she slid behind the wheel of Steve’s thre
e-month-old transit van.
Well it’s hardly a Porsche, but then I don’t suppose many decorators use their Porsches for work. Can you see a notepad, anything he would have written our address on?
Shifting the copy of last Tuesday’s newspaper from the passenger seat she found a notepad and pen.
Here it is, Sally-Anne.
Good, put that in your pocket and drive this to the Golden Lion. Park it as far from the road as you can. It’s only twenty minutes on foot so we can walk back. Okay?
Fantastic, hold on tight.
Slow Lucy. Nice and slow, don’t draw any attention to us.
Half an hour later Lucy was back in her state of the art kitchen, making a drink as if nothing had happened.
When shall we move the body, Sally-Anne?
No rush, the door’s locked, leave it until tomorrow. Are you still tired?
No, not now, I’m on fire.
Ring for a take away then. That new Italian, maybe get it delivered, a small celebration.
You read my mind, Sally-Anne.
…
That night Lucy drifted off to sleep, carried along, high above the clouds of consciousness, in the warm embrace of her very own avenging angel. Both were grinning like Cheshire cats, both felt sated by their evening’s work. This had been the first chance Lucy had had of seeing what Sally-Anne looked like, not just hearing her as a voice in her head. When she woke later she wouldn’t remember Sally-Anne’s face; just the memory of looking deep into her eyes and seeing her own reflection smiling back, reassuringly.
Jayne had been there with them as they drifted along. No words were needed to express her gratitude. Lucy hadn’t felt love so strong since before that fateful day when Jayne had left them. All three of them drifted along on a sea of love. It was good to have her back, even if it was for just the one night.
Lucy woke the next morning rejuvenated, happy, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and she felt set for the task ahead. A task that was a pre-requisite of the last evening’s entertainment. At least she wasn’t alone though, that really would have been too heavy a cross to bear.
As a child she had always been tidy in her habits. She had never been the sort of child whose parents would always need to ‘encourage’ her to tidy her bedroom. Lucy had a place for everything and would keep everything in its place. She wasn’t like any normal child in that respect, any normal child seems to enjoy the constant war being fought against them by their parents because of their untidiness. But then Lucy had never really been a normal child, she didn’t fit the rules. She never would.
For Lucy to have left the mess that she was now surveying wasn’t normal. To anybody else looking at what had once been Steve Summers in the cold light of day, they would have to say that making the mess in the first instance was as far from normal as you could ever imagine.
Stage two, Lucy; let’s move the stupid bastard. As if we’d ever be interested in a dumb fuck like him.
Looking at her handiwork, Lucy could only agree with Sally-Anne’s description of her talents. She really was good.
He was a big lad wasn’t he? I’m thinking we should do this in more manageable chunks. Legs, arms, head and a torso should do it.
I’ll fetch the angle grinder.
Lucy’s skilled hands got to work on Steve once again. Within thirty minutes he’d been reduced to six component parts, lumps of meat and bones. There were many more than six, if you counted his toes and his penis, but she wasn’t counting them. They were Insignificant; you could fit them in the palms of your hands. And anyway, she’d taken them while he was still alive, they were hers now.
Torso first, Lucy; wrap it up in the polythene sheet then drag him next door.
Lucy did exactly as Sally-Anne suggested. She wasn’t too surprised at the ease of the process. In her mind she did have justice on her side. Twenty minutes later Steve Summers body, each and every component part, was neatly packaged away. She didn’t know how long it would take for the chest freezer to turn him into just blocks of frozen meat. In reality it didn’t matter to her, she’d moved him from one bedroom into the next. She was disposing of Steve Summer in her second spare bedroom. Disposing was maybe the wrong word, storing him for remembrance sake was what she was doing.
Steve Summers had been innocent of every crime on which any judicial system could possibly be asked to preside. To Lucy, however, he’d been a man, he’d been available, and he’d been stupid enough to believe her. That had been enough reason to convict.
She was able to squeeze him into just the one freezer. Covering him was the bloodied black silk bed sheet he’d been lying on during the attack as well as the rubber mattress protector, which had been beneath it. On top of that she placed a plastic carrier bag. A carrier bag, which now contained his clothes, mobile phone, notepad, which contained Lucy’s address, and the latex gloves she’d used when she’d driven his van away the previous evening. Steve Summer, rest in pieces.
If he’d been too big to fit into the single freezer it wouldn’t have been a big problem. Sally-Anne had made sure there was capacity enough. Lucy had followed Sally-Anne’s instructions to the letter, walking into Lucy’s ‘remembrance’ room was like walking into your local Iceland freezer centre. You would have been disappointed though if you were a vegetarian, this branch only stocked meat, and red meat at that.
Lucy returned to the playroom with mop and bucket, disinfectant, polish, air freshener and new bed sheets. Before the afternoon was through, anybody walking into that room would have thought only of Lucy’s kinky habits. To the naked eye there was no evidence of what had happened only twenty-four hours previously. The only evidence was residing in a freezer next door. And nobody but Lucy and Sally-Anne would ever be allowed in there.
The first thing anyone knew about Steve being missing had been when the owner of the Golden Lion reported a van, which had been parked on his car park, probably stolen, to the police. This had been on the fifteenth of October, two days after his death. The police couldn’t find any sign that the van had been stolen. When Steve’s mobile phone failed to respond they had the van removed from the car park. After a further three days, and with no sign of Steve at his home, the police began to ask questions of his neighbours.
There was no sign of Steve but nobody had reported him missing. The Spencer’s had been more than a little pissed off when he didn’t turn up to decorate their living room. After three days, and with Steve not taking any calls, they sacked him in absentia. Mr Spencer decided he’d decorate the room himself. He hadn’t much liked Steve Summer in any case. He’d only given him the job because he was cheap.
After three weeks the police decided to launch an inquiry into Steve’s apparent disappearance. Three weeks had been plenty of time for him to return from a last minute, bargain holiday he might have decided to go on at the spare of the moment.
With no body turning up, and no one coming forward yet to report him missing, the police had little to go on. It was a mystery for sure, but the police are much more likely, in a capital city, to try solving murders where they have a body than a missing person. He was a missing person who may turn out to be a murder victim, or he may well have run off with some wealthy lady for a life in the sun. Any possible clues were quickly fading away into history, Steve’s trail wasn’t only going cold, and it was positively freezing.
Means, motive, opportunity.
Twenty-Six
Eighteen British magazine covers in the six months since August of 2011, her return to modelling. She was told by one of the editor’s that such coverage was unprecedented. She was setting new records for magazine sales. Lucy’s return was still stroking the nation’s feel good nerves, her picture on the cover of a magazine practically ensured full sale of that particular issue.
She was the girl that Hugh Hefner was willing to pay five hundred thousand dollars to appear as cover girl for Playboy magazine. Hugh Hefner didn’t pursue it for too long though, he knew women; he knew when he was wasting
his time.
Late February 2012, more than twelve months after Jayne’s death, Keith Waterson finally had his day in court.
Motoring organisations the land over were hoping that, with such a high profile case, the courts would at last show their guts. They were hoping that justice would be seen to be done and an example made of the punishments that could be expected for causing death and destruction on the roads. How else were people ever to learn?
But what could the courts do? It was to come to light that he had no alcohol in his blood, he had swerved to avoid a far worse collision, he wasn’t speeding at the time of the accident, he had admitted to being about to use his mobile phone but that he hadn’t connected with anybody at the time of the crash, and he had assisted completely with the police at the time of his arrest, wrongful arrest. These were the facts.
As much as the police wanted the scumbag hooligan to get what he deserved, the courts weren’t there to judge his skills for riot organisation. The law found him guilty of driving without due care and attention and gave him six points on his hitherto clean driving licence. A fine of six hundred pounds was also felt to be sufficient, payable in instalments if necessary. In reality Keith Waterson wasn’t a bad driver, he was only guilty of driving without due care and attention. His mother privately wished they’d locked him up and thrown away the key, not for Jayne’s death, for just being himself, his true self.
Keith was publicly very sorry to everyone who had been touched by the tragedy, and he explained how he would never get over the guilt he felt at being involved, in any way, in the events leading to another person’s death. But the people who knew him knew what he really thought. If you take the risk of driving a fifty plus year old sports car in modern day traffic then you must accept the increased risk when something goes wrong. In Keith’s eyes he was the innocent victim of a very old and unsafe car design.