by James Crow
George was crying. And shivering, despite the sheen of sweat on his brow. Ali kneed to the bottom of the bed and stepped to the floor. She pulled his socks off. The soles of his feet were white and waiting. She held his left foot, pressed the blade into the nub of his little toe. George heaved against his gag and his crying intensified, his eyes begging her to stop.
To see her pain crawling over him like an army of joy, made Ali’s heart sing. ‘Don’t cry, Georgie, be fucking happy for your wife.’
She went around the bed and contemplated his opened-up nose, the whiteness of the cartilage poking through. ‘I’m going to give you one last chance, George.’ She dropped the razorblade onto his bloodied chest, took hold of the gag with both hands and wrestled it free from his mouth. ‘Tell me who you really are, husband. Tell me what you do that pays so fucking well.’
George screamed for help.
She picked up the blade, returned to his feet, took hold of the big toe on his right foot and placed the blade next to it. ‘Tell me!’
George spluttered and spat and heaved his breath back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Ali. I had no idea. Please, forgive me. I’ll do anything you want. Anything.’
‘Wrong answer.’ She swiped the blade and George screamed again.
She moved to the other foot, held his big toe and placed the blade against it. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’ll tell you. Please stop and I’ll tell you. Please!’
She let go of his toe. The nicks she’d made, on his legs, his arms, stomach, chest, the blood was pooling, thickening. ‘You better make it quick, lover.’
George was seething, sobbing, eyes bulging with the pain of it all. Ali thought it was a beautiful sight. ‘Talk to me, George.’ George’s eyes closed, his chest shook. ‘Don’t go to sleep on me, sweetheart.’ No response. She went through to the kitchen, came back with a tub of sea salt. She sprinkled it over his chest and watched it dissolve into the cuts, but only for a second. George’s eyes shot open. He screamed blue murder and thrashed at his binds. She went back to the kitchen, filled a pan with cold water and emptied it over his chest.
The thrashing stopped. George slumped, panting.
She picked up the salt tub from the bed and rattled it. ‘In one minute, Georgie, in one piss-fucking minute, if you haven’t told me the fucking whole truth and nothing but the fucking truth, so help me God, I’m going to carve some neat little nicks in your useless cock and give you a salty wank. So, speak to me, you worthless piece of shit!’
George lifted his head from the pillow, the face of an obscene clown. ‘I screwed a load of women, Ali. I’m sorry. I can’t help myself.’
‘Liar!’
‘It’s true – my drivers, and –’
‘Your bitches!’
‘Yes. And others, in the business.’
‘What business?’
‘The bank, the bank business –’
‘Wrong fucking answer,’ she kneed up onto the bed between his legs. ‘Been dicking around, have you?’
‘I’m sorry. I know it was wrong. I only want you now.’
‘How fucking considerate.’
‘It’s true, Ali. I love you, baby. I really do love you.’
She straddled his legs and moved up to his groin, his congealing blood a greasy mess between them. ‘Fuck me, then.’
George closed his eyes, whispering, muttering something. He was moving against her but to no effect.
‘No blood left for Mr Pointy, eh? At least you’re trying. I’m irresistible, that’s why. I’m so hot, you know, Georgie. One swipe of my blade and the boys drop at my feet. Mad huh?’
George was crying again. ‘Please, Ali, please, I –’
‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’
She shuffled back a little, took hold of his flaccid cock, stretched it, picked up the razorblade.
‘God no, Ali, please no!’
One, two, three little nicks with the blade and George was begging her to stop. But she couldn’t stop. Another little nick and the smile spreading on her face was joyful. Pure joy as the blood made his useless dick slick. Another nick and another and George was crying again, sobbing like a baby as she picked up the tub of sea salt and sprinkled it over his bloody cock. George screamed as she grabbed his cock and squeezed it, worked it fast, the squelch of blood, the wet smack of her fisted hand as she wanked his useless softness.
‘Get hard for your hot fucking wife, Georgie.’
But George could only thrash and scream.
Loud knocking on the door snapped her to. Thunder rumbled through the cabin’s walls.
‘Is everything all right in there?’ It was Peter.
George screamed for help.
‘Bastard!’ She swiped the blade deep across his cock and gave him something to scream about.
The door handle rattled. Thumping on the door. ‘Mrs Black? It’s Pete, please open the door.’
‘Go away!’
A loud bang on the door, followed by three more. He was breaking the door down, fucking idiot. ‘Go away!’ She swung herself from the bed, pulled her dressing gown on, three more bangs and the door burst open. She ran through the bedroom doorway, closed it behind her. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
Peter, in jeans and white shirt, soaked with rain and blood, machete in one hand. He came towards her, grinning a white smile, his coppertop hair shining wet. ‘I want your girl.’
Movement behind him, the shadow of a child coming through the doorway. ‘Bethany?’
Peter turned to look. Ali sprang forward, snatched the machete from his grip and backed off quickly.
He didn’t seem to notice, instead he went to the child and picked her up and walked over to Ali. She dropped the machete at the sight of the corpse, its face a crisscross of rotted flesh.
The corpse spoke, ‘She’s not here, Master. But I know where she is.’
Ali stumbled backwards, fell against the sofa.
A cry for help from the bedroom.
Peter looked to the bedroom door. ‘Before we leave, my sweet child,’ he said to the corpse in his arms, ‘someone needs help.’ He placed the corpse onto its rotted feet, went to the bedroom door, opened it.
‘Thank God,’ George said.
‘You got that right,’ Peter said. He beckoned the corpse to him and she went with a step and a drag.
George said something that Ali didn’t quite catch. Peter was now beckoning her over. ‘Bring that with you,’ he pointed to the machete on the floor. ‘The poor man’s in a state, he needs setting free, aye?’
Ali picked up the machete and went to Peter, felt great comfort at the arm he placed around her shoulder.
George’s one good eye was staring at the corpse.
‘Do you want to be set free, Mr Black?’ Peter clamped a big hand around George’s foot and waggled it. George yelled out, spitting blood. ‘Tell your wife who you really are, Mr Black.’
George’s good eye returned to the corpse. Perhaps he thought he was seeing things. Perhaps he thought this was the grim reaper. Perhaps it was. Ali laughed.
‘Oh, this is so sad,’ Peter said squeezing her shoulder. ‘It’s not easy to tell you this, Mrs Black, so I’ll come right out with it. George is known in his field as Mr Red, supplier of fresh meat to a booming worldwide trade. Isn’t that right, Mr Red?’
‘Meat?’ Ali said, ‘I just wanted him to love me.’
Peter sighed and squeezed her shoulder again. ‘I’m so sorry for you, Alison, but your husband has been deceiving you all along, aye? He sets up deals with the rich, you know. Picks kids off the streets, cleans them up, makes them disappear to rich folk’s homes.’
‘Disappear? Kids? George?’
George was nodding, tears spilling from his eyes.
‘Tell her how many kids you’ve fucked and sold, Mr Red.’
George sniffed, pushed a clot of blood from his mouth. ‘Thousands.’
‘Thousands,’ Peter repeated. ‘And not only kids, although they bri
ng the best price. Young, old, happy, sad, he takes them all, sends them on ships to foreign businessmen, sold as meat for sex, sex, sexy sex, even to members of our own poxy government, would you believe? Do you know how many kids go missing, never to be seen again? Thousands, and your cunting husband and his set-up take most of them.’
George was sobbing now.
‘However, Mrs Black – Alison, I’m afraid the worst news is yet to come. Mr Red’s biggest deal is the saddest of them all. Your stinking shit of a husband wanted my girl.’
‘Your girl?’
Peter pulled her to him, his touch comfortingly warm. ‘Bethany Black is my girl and this wanker wants to sell her. He arranged the deal five years ago. His biggest pot yet.’
‘But Bethany’s our daughter.’
‘His client paid well for the privilege, Mrs Black.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Your shit of a husband knew your child was special. She sees the world differently from most, sees more than others ever could. Your shit of a husband advertised a retard for sale.’
George let out a pained cry and broke into slobbering tears.
‘A retard? Bethany, she’s –’
‘Special.’ Peter wrapped his arms around her, kissed her head. ‘Your man is a cunt, Mrs Black. As big a cunt as his pervert client. And cunts like that deserve a painful death.’ Hands on her shoulders, he took a step back, hair flaming, eyes gleaming black holes. ‘We’re in luck, Alison. Your husband’s hopeful client is waiting in the wings.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s in cabin 10, across the loch, awaiting delivery of his retard.’
The corpse let out a sigh. ‘We should go to her, Master, before he has chance to take her.’
‘Not until we finish here, my child. Know some patience.’
‘Yes, Master.’
Ali was crying now. ‘All I wanted was to be loved. I married a monster. How could he sell his own daughter?’
Peter’s hands on her shoulders turned her toward the bed, ‘Set him free, Mrs Black, set the cunt free and then I’ll show you true love.’ He stepped aside, pulled the corpse into him, and nodded to the shivering wreck on the bed. ‘Do it, Mrs Black, it won’t be too messy, not much blood left in him, aye?’
George’s good eye stared at her as she stepped forward, machete raised. No more tears, no more begging.
‘He’s nothing but a dirty little cunt. Free him, Mrs Black.’
Three hacks at the elbow and his left arm came free. For the right one she aimed at the wrist and cut through it in two. The feet proved tougher, six hacks for one, eight for the other. Peter had been right, there wasn’t much blood. George bucked a little, closed his good eye, went still.
‘What a horrible man,’ the corpse said. Peter stroked its matted hair.
The machete fell from Ali’s hands and landed softly on the carpet.
‘Come, my child,’ Peter said, ‘I will love you now.’
Ali stepped towards him, loosening her dressing gown. The hand that reached for her was not a hand but a blackened claw, a claw that moved quickly, a swish and her dressing gown fell to the floor. He lifted her onto the bed where she fell back with a slap onto George. Legs parted, she was pulled forward and Peter was there, pushing his big cock into her, loving her, his face a vision of happiness.
‘I am so fortunate,’ Ali said as her stomach expanded.
‘Stringy worms,’ the corpse said.
5
Another scream from across the loch, this the loudest of them all.
Beth flinched at the sound.
Whittle was getting to his feet by the door.
‘I’m his purchase,’ Beth said. ‘My father arranged it all.’
Whittle frowned at the girl, laughed.
‘What do you mean, Bethy?’ Rose took the girl’s hand.
‘I was to disappear to Germany and live in this man’s cellar.’
‘Such a fertile imagination for a retard,’ Whittle said.
There was more than one door to this place. Without a word, Rose led Beth through the kitchen area to the back door. It was locked. No key in the lock. Whittle’s laughter turned them around.
He pulled a key from the pocket of his bathrobe. ‘Roseanne the writer, you will leave. The pretty girl comes to me and I throw you the key. Yes?’
‘Do it, Rose,’ Beth said.
‘Not a chance.’
‘Do it, please. You can get away.’
‘And leave you with a paedophile?’
‘Not just a paedophile, Rose. Carl is a murderer.’
Whittle chuckled. ‘The retard is insane, Rose writer. You will be better off without her. Get out of my cabin while you can. I will take care of Bethany Black.’
‘The boy was just turned nine,’ Beth said, ‘a protégé, required to stay behind and hone his voice.’
‘What boy?’ Rose said.
‘Carl is a priest. A year ago, one of the choirboys he continually assaulted died of internal bleeding. Carl was whisked away to hide, until the dust settled.’
‘And so to Hell I go,’ Whittle said. ‘Be quiet child and come to my arms, I want to taste my . . . my purchase.’ He licked his lips.
Beth broke free from Rose and took a step forward. ‘Carl sings well. He looked after the choirboys for many years.’
‘I told you to be quiet. Come here to Carl, and your friend can leave. It is really as simple as that.’
‘My parents have just died. It really isn’t going to be so simple, Mr Whittle.’
‘Died? What do you mean, died?’ Whittle glared at her.
‘I know this to be true, just as I know the terrible things you have done. The wood spirit, she’s standing right next to you.’ Whittle shot a glance to either side. ‘They know about your dealings, her and Master. And Master wants me more than you do.’
Lightning blinked, thunder roared and Whittle startled. Rose could only stare.
‘Master intends to see to it that you are torn apart, and there’s nothing you can do about that. The very least you can do, is throw me the key. We’ll leave by the back door, and perhaps you could kindly keep Master busy whilst we skedaddle.’
Whittle looked at the key in his hand, a tear rolled down his cheek.
Rose held her breath, willing Whittle to give it up.
Beth held out a hand. ‘Throw me the key.’
Whittle stumbled back into the door and slid down it to the floor.
Come on, you bastard. Try harder, Bethy.
‘Carl!’
The man looked up.
‘Let us go.’
He was shaking his head. ‘I can’t.’
Whittle was weakened. Rose scanned for potential weapons: a frying pan on the hob, a kettle beside it. A meat tenderiser hanging on the wall. Nothing else. Could she really rush him with a frying pan and get lucky enough to knock him out? Could she hell as like, that was the stuff of cartoons or crap novels.
‘Oh sugar,’ Beth said.
‘What is it, Bethy?’
‘The wood spirit, she vanished. I no longer see her.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘It means she’s almost here,’ Beth said, backing into Rose’s arms.
‘How can she be here if she’s gone?’
‘Up until now she’s been reaching out, but now she’s coming for real.’
‘For real?’
Through the broken window, through the greyness of rain and trees, the silhouette of a giant figure appeared by the broken silver birch, and with a lumbering gait, began to lurch towards the cabin. No, not so giant; the figure was Pete . . . and there was a girl sitting on his shoulders.
The force of the blast blew the top off Beth’s head. At least that’s how it felt, as if her skull had burst wide open. When Peter had stepped inside the cabin with a brilliant white smile and his carrot hair in golden flames, the smells of lust and sweat and power came at her in a breath-stealing squall, zipping up her nostrils in s
tunning lines of colour all twisted together to make – joy – joy for him, not for others – and it had blown her mind. The man believes he is Supreme with a capital S. A supreme danger, more like. Yet, beneath the surging waves of blow-your-skull-off joy, Beth smells fear, just a bit, laced through the joy like a wound-up cat – a scaredy-cat.
‘My perfect, perfect, child,’ he’d said, saliva dribbling over his lip and into his ginger beard – a beard that was new. And Peter was . . . what was the word? Pretty? No. Cocky? – yeah, Peter Harding was full of himself.
And when he’d placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, Beth had buzzed like a bee in a jar and nearly dropped the lucky cup. Even when he let go and took a step back he gusted power, and at first the sensation of this intake, which appeared mainly to go up her nostrils, made her brain fizz and pop. Information Station – those were the words that came to mind – hundreds of different computations clicking and connecting and – identifying. She’d stopped breathing at this point, held her breath to halt the intake. Peter remained bright-eyed, grinning white teeth, and his bricks were still flaming, but he no longer gusted at her. When she’d started breathing again the gusting was immediate: scents, sounds (his racing heart), and mood: not the normal perceptions of happy-sad sad-happy; this was different, a yearning sadness rang out from him like the toll of an old church bell. But the bell was cracked. Denial! Denial of – of what? Death? Responsibility? Truth? Yes. That was it. Truth in hidden rooms, locked away never to be seen.
It hadn’t taken Beth long to figure out that Peter wasn’t gusting at all. It was her, she was sucking him in, evaluating, lining up strengths and weaknesses based on his . . . his what? She did not know.
Two years ago, taking stock of any situation was made easier by using a written list. Sometimes the list became long, and that meant longer considerations, weighing up the pros and cons, and then making a decision. Miss Smith in Drama 4 had shown Beth this trick, and eventually Beth had taken it to another level, making lists in her head and holding them there while the pros weighed against the cons, a process that might take ten seconds, ten minutes, or sometimes an hour or more, and the outcomes were always reasonably sound and sensible. But taking stock right now seemed to take just a moment – without any thought or intervention from Beth. The answers were just there. Beth hoped they were the right ones.