There was no point in doing anything until she’d done herself a makeover.
After Myra unpacked, it took just over two hours with the scissors and the blonde hair dye. The short bob with the side parting suited her she thought, as she considered herself in the mirror. Then came a good even spread of sun tanning lotion followed by a pair of large white over-the-top sunglasses and a sombrero to finish it off. ‘Your own mother wouldn’t recognise you,’ she mumbled at her reflection, ‘let alone that robbing bastard.’
It was around six, early evening, still with plenty of light outside. A good time to try out her new look, she thought, and get familiar with the surroundings.
The Clipper apartments where Raymond was staying were situated on Carrer de la Fabrica; easy to find with her holiday map. With the sombrero well pulled down, she took the bus. After a noisy crowded, twenty minute drive, she got off. She sauntered along like a normal tourist, taking in a bit of window shopping but keeping a keen eye on passers-by, just in case. Within ten minutes, she’d found it. A bit of a dilapidated building with washing strung out on most of the balconies. Across the road to one side was the Alcatraz Bar. Perfect for nursing a beer or a coffee, while she staked him out.
She was about to move on when a Mercedes-Benz C-Class pulled into one of the parking bays stretched out along the busy road. And there he was, getting out of it with a young woman. Myra ducked down, a natural reaction. That was stupid, she thought. It would attract attention to her. She didn’t have to worry; he would never recognize her. The car had hire plates. Raymond was probably giving himself a little treat of things to come.
He shut the car door and paused. He looked around nervously, taking stock. He was in smart, casual wear. They were both carrying boutique shopping bags. A shopping spree on my money, especially now you’ve got double bubble, Myra thought.
The pretty, tanned Scandinavian thing with long fair hair came around from the side of the car and kissed Raymond. It was definitely a thank-you kiss. He embraced her, then arm in arm they sauntered off to the entrance of his apartments…no doubt for a good, old, thank-you shag, thought Myra.
Early the following morning, just after the Alcatraz opened, Myra ensconced herself by the window. Three coffees and two croissants later, just after 11:30 a.m., Raymond appeared without the girl,. He was dressed for the beach in his T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, carrying a rolled beach towel under his arm.
Myra took the three tabs and paid at the counter; at the same time she watched him cross the road and browse at some magazines and newspapers racks displayed on the pavement. After he had purchased the Sunday Mirror and a tube of Spanish wine gums, Raymond headed for the beach.
At one point to her horror, with only 30 feet between them, he stopped and turned around. He looked at her briefly then shielding his eyes, scanned past her, as if checking for anybody following. Satisfying himself all was clear, he crossed the road and made his way along the front until he stepped onto the sand and took a seat at the thatched Hippo Bar.
A Scandinavian waitress in her mid-twenties came out and manoeuvred her way through the half dozen or so people sitting at tables, to serve Raymond. She glanced at the serving counter to make sure, then stooped and kissed Raymond passionately while he fondled her arse. She was the same girl he had been with the day before.
It was a clear sky again and the temperature was around the mid-seventies. Myra had taken a seat under a parasol at one of the promenade cafes a short distance away.
‘You certainly don’t waste any time, Raymond, but then who could resist you with all that money?’ she mumbled to herself.
By 2.00 p.m., it had reached nearly 80 degrees and Myra was on her second sangria. Being out of the schools holiday season and very hot, the beach had thinned out. The thatched Hippo bar laid quiet with the shutters down, while the fat middle-aged owner together with the cook had slid off for a break. However, that didn’t stop Raymond and his pretty little Swedish number. They were already frolicking on one of the sun loungers.
Ready to make use of her lunch break, she had already discarded her top and was spread-eagled on Raymond, kissing him and giggling. After twenty minutes, it was time for a dip. They both eased themselves up. Myra watched them put all their valuables underneath the lounger and cover them with a towel. Hand in hand, still laughing and giggling, they ran down to the water’s edge.
This is it, Myra thought. It was now or never.
While they were chest deep in the sea with her legs wrapped around Raymond’s waist, Myra made her move. With her sombrero pulled down, she stopped on the beach in passing, to shake sand from her flip-flop. She ducked down, and her fingers feverishly searched underneath the towel until she felt a bundle of keys. Her spirits lifted when she saw the Clipper apartment tag with the door number etched on it. They were the old type of keys.
Myra knew she didn’t have a lot of time, perhaps another fifteen minutes at most with them in the sea. Then, back to the sun-lounger, where they might or might not check under the towel. If they were to flop down into a lovers’ smooch, all randy and dripping, even better. Maybe then, another half-hour before they discovered what was missing. Perhaps another twenty minutes searching in the sand. At the outside, Myra knew an hour was her max.
The communal hallway to the Clipper apartments was dark, which suited Myra. Flat number five, according to the arrow, was down a flight of stairs in the basement. At the end of another dark hallway, she found it.
Myra eased the front door open and instantly smelt the remains of Raymond’s morning fry-up.
Now, where to start?
She needed cash, a biscuit tin with a few thousand quid would be handy right now, but knowing Raymond, he wasn't going to leave a lot lying around. Even a bank statement with a passbook or chequebook would be start.
The first door Myra entered was the bedroom. On her hands and knees, she checked under the divan and then the mattress, but with no luck. Over in the far corner, she noticed a small chest of drawers partly covered by a large linen basket full of washing. On pulling open the bottom drawer, her face lit up. Something made her look down to one side. She saw a pair of sandals she hadn’t noticed before: and they had feet inside them.
Suddenly a sharp pain in her head caused coloured dots, followed by blackness.
Raymond put the base of the lampshade down and felt through her pockets. He grabbed her holiday shoulder bag and emptied her mobile phone, purse, diary and a map of the area onto the bed. The purse revealed a set of keys, a few Euro notes and some small change. Raymond went to his balcony and came back with the rope washing line. He tied her hands and feet tight behind her back so they were pulling against one another, then he stuffed a handkerchief inside her mouth.
Myra came round, laid out on his rug. Her blurred vision slowly began to sharpen until she could focus on Raymond. Holding a large steel carving knife, he’d made himself comfortable on a chair and was sitting there looking down at her. The back of her head was sending slow waves of pain to the front. With each wave, someone was squeezing her head an extra turn in a cider press.
He put the knife to her eye, just in case she screamed, and pulled the handkerchief from her mouth.
‘You awake? That’s good,’ Raymond said. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I found the magazine in the dustbin,’ she quickly said, nervously looking at the blade out of the corner of her eye.
‘Who knows you’re here?’
‘No one, I swear.’ Her answer came without hesitation.
Thwack! He hit her across the face so fast she never saw it coming. Her head snapped to one side and white dots exploded in front of her eyes, and she tasted blood as her lower lip burst, the inner lining had been cut by her teeth.
He looked crazy.
‘I spotted you yesterday and on the beach, Myra. Even through the makeover and that Spanish hat.’ He smiled as he picked it up and flicked it like a Frisbee across the room. ‘Figured it w
as only a matter of time before you made your move; and here we are.’
Myra was shaking; she blinked as she looked at him and tasted blood.
Raymond leaned over and bellowed into her face,
‘Who knows you’re here?’
‘No one! No one, please, honestly … except … Mr Kashani. It’s not my fault. He came round with two men after you’d left. He threatened me with a bottle of acid, said you owed him £900. I only told him you’d run off and left me with no money, that’s all. I wanted to get to you first before he did, believe me.’
While Raymond had been living in Mr Kashani’s halfway house- cum-hostel, he’d done the dirty on this very nasty Iranian landlord. For a bit of extra cash, he’d pushed cannabis for Mr Kashani, part of his discounted rent deal as well as a bit of commission. However, this time, Raymond had kept the £900 of punters’ money.
He’d seen, first-hand, the scarred face of somebody that hadn’t delivered to Mr Kashani. It was also worrying, how he’d been traced to the Earls Court flat. Mr Kashani had many contacts, no doubt in Europe as well.
Raymond looked at Myra’s frightened face. The bitch knew too much; could incriminate him. Because he’d shafted her with the inheritance, she could tell that fat Iranian greasy fuck where he was living. Even grass him up to the police with an anonymous phone call. She could deny any involvement and revert to her true identity, while he’d be in the frame, holding all that money. She could drag him down. He had to get rid of her, and quick.
‘Please, nobody else knows I’m here, please believe me.’ Myra cried with her lower lip swelling up. She felt blood spilling down her chin in a small stream.
Raymond put the tip of the carving knife on Myra’s lower eyelid again. It dimpled the sensitive area and pushed up her eyeball in its socket.
‘Tell me who else knows you’re here, and don’t hesitate. If you hesitate, I’ll know you’re lying and I’ll flip your eye right out of its socket onto the floor. I can do it. Believe me?’ He leaned in, pushing the knife painfully deep until a tear of blood appeared on her lower lid where he nicked the skin. ‘So who else knows?’
‘Please God, nobody. But, there’s a letter.’ Myra gulped. He still had the knife to her eye. ‘There’s a letter, left in my hotel safe. As insurance, in case something like this should happen.’
Raymond pressed the knife again.
‘What’s in the letter?’
‘There’s a copy in my diary.’
He looked at her warily with his cold blue eyes, then reached over and picked it up from the bed. Raymond flicked through the large-size Collins diary then stopped at the neatly folded letter. With it was a downloaded mobile photo of him and the girl from yesterday, getting out the car. He didn’t know about that one. Myra had used her hotel reception Internet and printer for processing.
As he read the letter, Myra watched his face. Raymond’s expression changed to a look of deep concern, as the descriptive story of the murders he had committed and the inheritance deception with his current holiday address was revealed, clearly typed before his eyes.
He pressed the knife again.
‘Where’s the safe? What’s the hotel?’
‘It’s on the resort map, the Pension El Amigo on Vall de Venecia,’ she cried out. ‘Please don’t hurt me, it’s the truth.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Raymond picked up the map and found the El Amigo flag with his finger. It was across the other side of town. He’d have to take the car.
‘Where’s the safe? In your room?’
‘No, it’s in a little lobby off reception. The key’s on the ring.’
Raymond picked up her bunch of keys; it was notably the smallest one, flat and crudely cut.
‘What’s the number of the safe?’ He threatened with the knife. ‘And don't lie, you lie to me and you’ll know pain, believe me.’
‘Number seven, the same as my room number,’ Myra gulped, ‘I swear.’ Her frightened eyes still followed the knife he was holding. ‘The letter with the photo is addressed to the police. I’ve got five hundred Euros in there. It’s yours if you want it. Just let me go, I promise you’ll never see me again.’
Raymond smiled,
‘I’ve got enough to keep me going, Myra, thanks.’
‘Look, you need me to open the safe. There’s a man who sits at a table to monitor who goes in and out of the room for security. There are only around thirty boxes. You’d be spotted straight away going to my safe box. The man knows me by sight. I’m on nodding terms with him. I’d have to go with you.’ Myra was stalling for time. ‘Another thing, if I don’t return the key within seven days, they automatically open it with their spare.’
Raymond took the pistol from the bottom drawer; the last thing Myra had smiled at, before he’d knocked her out. With the oil rag, he slowly buffed up the barrel, while he thought. He’d have to try on his own first. Too risky to take her with him, in case she made a bolt for it, or tried to attract attention. Don’t want to be spotted. If it does look like hassle, then he’d have to take a chance and go to the safe with her. Conceal the gun, hold it to her back, pretend he’s her boyfriend.
Raymond hit her round the face again with the back of his hand, ‘You fucking bitch, for giving me all this trouble.’
She flinched at the sting and fresh blood oozed from her lip. Before she could say anymore, he had stuffed the handkerchief back in her mouth. With the knife, he cut off a length of washing line and gagged her with it. As it cut into her mouth to keep the handkerchief in place, he tied the knot at the back of her neck.
Against Myra’s protests, while she kicked and moaned through her gag, Raymond with great effort dragged her to the large wardrobe then bundled her inside. As the wardrobe door slammed shut, she realised this could be her coffin.
Myra heard the front door slam and the Mercedes start up. She knew she had around forty minutes, just under twenty for Raymond to drive to her hotel.
Myra began to flex the muscles of her thighs and calves. She strained and threw her head back baring her teeth as fresh blood from her swollen lip leaked out of the sides of the handkerchief and ran down her chin. As her bound feet kicked against the wardrobe door the cords on her neck stood out. But it was no good; she was too scrunched up to get any leverage. Hot pain bloomed suddenly in her right calf, tightening it.
She had to be careful. She rested for a while.
Myra managed to turn her weight to one side then kick backwards at the door. But that was no good either, not enough room to give it a full, good thump. The wardrobe rocked away and then steadied itself. After three more futile attempts, she knew the door was a non-runner.
She laid back breathing hard. Her wrists were sore. Every time she kicked, the plastic washing line pulled. It was when Myra rolled slightly; she noticed the tiny slither of light at the bottom in front of her. Thumping away, she’d hit her head against the rear panel. Then she realised. Of course, you prick, she remembered. Cheap wardrobes had ply or hardboard backings. They faced the wall so it didn’t matter.
‘Got to get it away from the wall,’ she muffled. Myra threw herself from side to side rocking it and hoping, with enough noise someone might notice, call the landlord, even the police. She positioned herself and gave another hefty kick at the panel then winced as her wrists jerked at the same time.
‘Fuck you! You mother,’ she muffled again. It rocked heavily to the point of nearly toppling over.
A nightmare thought flashed.
If it falls on its back, I’m well and truly fucked! She took a breather and tried again. Myra screamed with exertion, the rope cutting into her mouth as she flung herself from side to side rocking the wardrobe until suddenly, she lost all sense of orientation as it toppled over and smashed on the Mediterranean stone tiles. The noise was deafening.
Someone must have heard. She breathed in deep snatches through her gag, listening out, waiting for a neighbour to thump on the door, call out.
Thank God, she’d landed right. She could see a strip of daylight above her from a damaged corner. With difficulty, Myra wriggled and turned herself onto her stomach, she kicked back, yelling with the pain as her sore wrists jerked. The thin ply backing held on by panel pins, burst out with each thump until both her feet were poking through. She wriggled herself around with the extra given space then kicked out the other end. Finally, she flipped herself over.
Myra lay there staring at the bedroom ceiling. She was still in her four-sided coffin but at least with no lid.
If he came back now, it would be her coffin. She imagined his last act as an undertaker, making sure she was at peace before re-fixing the lid before manoeuvring the makeshift casket through the hallway into the street. Perhaps, with the aid of a neighbour or a passer-by, helping as an unsuspecting pallbearer, lifting her internment onto the Mercedes roof rack, joking with them about hoping to sell it at the local flea market or car-boot sale.
Then her final trip would be to somewhere untraceable. A secluded cliff top, some quiet bridge or jetty. Probably smashing the ply, so it would fill up quickly. She doubted if Raymond would cross himself as he watched her burial at sea.
Now lying on her back, Myra knew this wasn’t the best position. She twisted herself around, swearing as she banged her head and face in the process until she was resting crouched up on her knees. From there with great effort, as the line stretched and cut deep into her wrists, Myra raised her top half; then painfully rolled head-first over the wardrobe edge and flopped out onto the marble tiles.
She lay there, exhausted, breathing in snatches. Then she froze. The adrenalin was surging back into her. She was thinking how long he’d been gone. Her head jerked to one side as she strained to listen. Traffic noises! Was he back? He’d been gone for what seemed an eternity.
Myra waited, then nothing. She had to get untied and quickly if she was to stand any chance. She started to inch along on her back, the rope cutting in to her wrists as she winced with each move. She continued pushing with her feet until she’d slid out of the bedroom into the hall. At the far end, she could see the front door. Make it to the door, push yourself upright against the door and turn the handle. Get outside, get seen.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 21