Everybody gasped, and now people came running to help. Marcus heard it all, clearer and clearer as his heart began to slow, the heavy pulsating rhythm becoming irregular and weak.
Becky watched her child fall in slow motion; her own movements slowed from the years of mistreating her body, yet spurred on by the empowering forces of motherhood. She leapt for the baby, crawling over the floor to get to it.
“Leave it be, bitch. I want to see what the little fucker does,” the man snapped, but Becky ignored it; she kept crawling, or so Marcus pictured. He heard the man bark at her to get up, to save being on her hands and knees for later.
Marcus’s final credits began to roll, scored by the sound of the police sirens as they approached the shopping arcade. Marcus took his last deep breath and forced his mind back, away from the nightmare scene that had snuck up on him, and pictured his wife and his kids. He pictured the holiday they had taken about 7 years ago. They had gone to the beach for a day and had run around in the surf, played football and Frisbee and all manner of beach games. The day had ended with a BBQ in the sand before heading back to their small rented cottage just a couple of miles up the road. It was a sickeningly perfect day, one which had Marcus not been there to experience first-hand, he would have argued was only possible in movies.
By the time the police and resulting ambulance arrived, Afité had fled, although he was caught a few miles up the road, covered in blood, still brandishing the knife that he had remembered to pick up from the floor. He left behind him one dead police officer, a severely injured infant and a critically injured young woman, who bled to death as soon as the ambulance crew rolled her onto the trolley. Her face had been trampled on and half crushed, along with her ribcage. The resulting post mortem showed investigators that she had died from massive internal bleeding, and the CCTV footage told the story sufficiently to sentence the killer, even without the eyewitness reports that all confirmed how the young lady had begged for her life as Deejay Afité stamped on her chest and head. Even in her dying moments she had begged him to leave her baby alone. She had shielded the infant with her body as best she could, but was unable to keep it safe from every steel toed blow that was rained down upon her.
The two bodies were stored together in the mortuary, the only occupants that day; they were buried on the same day too, one drawing a big crowd, the other just a handful of mourners who turned up on call to see an unnamed woman committed to the earth. Nobody could even hope to understand why they had died, or what an impact it would have on everything.
~
II
Richard
“Hi, Richard. I heard about you and Amanda. If you need to talk, well, I’ll be upstairs between your sheets,” a stunning, long-legged blond whispered in Richard Hamilton’s ear, running her finger along the contour of his jaw as she walked away. He barely heard her above the music or through his alcohol fuelled high. He watched her walk away nevertheless, seeing her make her way sultrily through the crowd, a short skirt barely clinging to the curve of her rear and revealing well-tanned flesh above the waistband until the thin material of her shirt began. She stopped and turned to look at him once more before the crowd swallowed her, enveloping her like the silk sheets in his bedroom. She smiled at him. Was there a wink there? Richard wasn’t sure, but he knew he would follow her in any case. He had dumped his long-term girlfriend of six weeks that morning, and since then he had been on the prowl. He was 19 years old and richer than the rest of the people at the party put together. There was no way that Richard would ever turn down a long legged twenty-two year old who was hornier than a nymphomaniac at a Sexaholic Anonymous session.
She wasn’t perfect, he would admit that. Compared to most of the women he had been with she wasn’t much more than average, but she would do for the night. Besides, he knew damn well that there were others more attractive than him within his line of sight. Sure, he was a good looking guy, but he wasn’t buff. Toned maybe, but lingering scars from a bad case of acne in his early teens was still visible in the light of day. Thankfully he had found that money and intelligence was an effective combination when it came to getting laid. He smiled to himself as his own arousal began to take control of him. He could feel it change him, like a beast. He could hear his heart pumping, the background noise dull, and soon all he could think about was the ways he would ravage her. Exploring every cleft of her naked body, massaging her breasts as his tongue lapped between her legs. He could feel the delicate sheets running over their naked flesh and it made him shiver.
“Who was that, man?” Damien Wilders asked him. Richard and Damien had been friends for years. They both came from rich families through unrelated endeavors and they had had the misfortune to be thrown into the same hellhole of a boarding school together. They had been the only two who by the time they left school at 17 that hadn’t been raped at one end or the other by the prefects who had governed their dorm rooms each night.
“I’ve got no idea, but I’ll tell you in the morning.” Richard smiled at his friend, the only real one he had, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow before downing his beer and heading towards the stairs. It was his party, his house, but then again there was always a party at his house.
Nobody even noticed he was gone.
*
“Wake up… Hey, wake up,” Richard commanded, shaking the sleeping naked beauty that lay next to him.
She was a picture of perfection, her hair still immaculate even after the wild night of lovemaking they had had, her face just as flawless without the make-up as it had been with it. Richard grabbed her bare shoulder. The warmth of her creamy skin felt silky against his hand. He let it linger and then after a slight pause, as if contemplating his impending action, he squeezed and shook her harder until her eyes fluttered open. They were light aquamarine and sparkled with or without the sunlight. She looked at him, her brain at first not registering where she was. She looked around without moving her head and realised immediately that she was not home: the bed covers were lighter and crisper than her own, plus the walls here were a deep blue and dotted with various posters, while her own room was a mix of cream and red. Also the window was on the wrong side of the room, which was twice the size of hers. Realising whose place it was always seemed important to her as it allowed her to decide whose responsibility it was to make the first move.
Turning her gaze back towards her Romeo, she smiled as her memories of the previous night came flooding back in the same way the pleasure had surged through her body, curling her toes in the most literal of ways.
“Good morning,” she said as if she had been with the man forever.
“Hi, listen, it’s getting late; you’ve gotta go.” Richard’s words were blunt and cold. He jumped out of the bed as he spoke, and she realized then that something was wrong; Richard had been lying on top of the bedcovers and was fully clothed.
“What?” she asked, sleep still fogging her mind.
“You gotta go, I’ve got things to do and you can’t stay.” Richard didn’t even look at her, but rather grabbed her discarded clothes and stuffed them into an expensive looking sports bag that he had found in his cupboard. He bent down, gathered the underwear, a silky red bra and delicate thong that he feigned to place in the bag but instead slipped into one of the knee level side pockets on his trousers. Another memento of a good night he couldn’t quite remember the finer points of, although he may well refresh his memory a little later on, if the camera had worked. He had been trying to get the angle right for months now but had not been able to find that perfect spot.
“You’re kicking me out? What about last night? What about the things we said?” she asked, completely shocked not by the rejection from this rich playboy, whose reputation she knew about, but simply from the blunt force of it and the suddenness with which is arose.
“Yeah, like I said, I’ve got stuff to do, places to go, people to see. You know how it is. So please, get out of my bed. I’ve laid out some clothes for you to get you home;
something fresh that I had picked out for you.” Without saying another word he turned and left the room, leaving the door open as he went, walking down the long, rather gothic looking hallway without looking back or even slowing his gait to wait for her.
She threw the lavish sheets from the bed, not even feeling the cool morning air brush against her skin, ignoring the tingles of arousal as her nipples hardened in the cold light of day. Her thighs were still sticky with their lovemaking, but she pulled on the designer brand jeans and tailored shirt without even thinking about her underwear. Rage assumed control of her emotions. Shoes pulled onto bare feet she burst from the room onto the landing, which seemed neverending. The thick carpet was a burgundy colour and caught her footsteps before her full body weight was even applied. She ran down the hallway without even pausing to look or even consider what was behind the many doors that she saw, nor did she stop to glance at the artwork that adorned the walls of this once regal home that was now, after an unfortunate accident, completely at the mercy of the orphaned heir of an oil fortune built up through generations of hard work.
All of Richard’s ancestors had worked to make their mark on the company. His great grandfather had started it all, before handing it down to his eldest son. The following two generations produced only one child each and so the company was passed down the generations, but Richard had broken the mould. He chose not to work for the company, not to begin at the bottom of the ladder and learn his craft and the science that was the oil business. Nor did he choose to go through life sitting in the boardroom. Instead he had been drawn by the silver screen: acting, directing, he wanted to do it all, and if some circles were to be believed he had a talent that would have been near impossible to hold back had he been committed enough. He had sold the company off not long after he received his inheritance and ensured that the Hamilton name would be taken care of long after he was dead and buried. Like most young children who come into great riches, the idea of Hollywood was put on the back burner, replaced by partying, celebrating, and witlessly throwing his money around without thought of the future, his own or that of his guests. Tomorrow was a lifetime away. That was one of his favorite lines with the ladies. At least with the ones who weren’t too drunk to forget it in the morning.
She found the stairs and ran down them in as controlled a manner as she could while all along rage bubbled away under her skin. It felt as if the speckling of necessary fat that covered her body was boiling, ready to split her skin open and spew forth, engulfing everything it touched with a hot, fiery anger that would destroy the entire household if it wasn’t gotten under control.
“Just who do you think you are?” she screamed across the large hallway. Her voice echoed around the now empty space. Richard stood by the door, holding her coat draped over on extended arm, bent at the elbow like a butler awaiting further instruction.
“I think I’m a busy man, I told you that. Here is your coat; you’ve got your things. It was fun but now, please… run along.” Richard swept his arm through the open door as if showing her the way, his words void of feeling
“You PIG!” she spat at him, the fire rising from her belly. “How dare you, just because you’ve got money…” she started.
“Hey, love, you wanted the goods last night and you got them; believe me, I gave you the good stuff. Now be a good girl and don’t cause a scene or embarrass yourself any further. What did you think would happen?” Richard choked back a laugh but couldn’t stop a small cough-like sound from escaping.
The noise was small, but it was enough to push the girl over the edge. She may have only been seventeen and in high school herself, and yes, she had lied to him, but she was no joke, and he had no right to laugh at her. Her anger boiled over and she lashed out. With fingers curled at the tips, she slapped him hard across his face. Her nails dug through the soft surface of his well-cared for skin, gouging deep tracts from his ear diagonally across his face to his mouth. She screamed at him but all that came out was a random jumble of all the hateful words she knew.
“You bitch!” Richard screamed, striking out with one hand, his intention not to hit but rather to keep a distance between them while the other clamped against the burning, stinging flesh of his face. His strike caught her in the face, striking her square on as she lunged for him again. He felt her nose move, the cartilage cracking under the forceful impact of their opposing momentums. She cried out, blood immediately spurting from both nostrils. Her lips also absorbed some of the strike, but they remained unblemished. She fell backwards, and tripped over the threshold. She wheeled her arms as she tumbled into the early morning air, trying to stay on her feet before tripping down the steps. She managed to keep her balance until the last moment, whereupon she fell into the graveled earth. Sobs of tears streamed down her face and mixed with the free flowing blood. Tears stung her face and burned in her nose. A few moments later, her bag landed in the gravel behind her, hurled from the doorway not with anger but with frustration. Richard stood staring down at her, his eyes wide with shock while his lips were thin and pulled back over his teeth in a snarl.
The door slammed shut behind her as she dragged herself back to her feet, and when she turned to look back up the steps, the house was once again quiet. It looked much colder in the light of day, without the noise of mingling guests, dance beats and free flowing liquor. Even in her pain, her instant resentment and hated of the rich man that had given her so much pleasure only to take it away with so much pain was put to one side, and she considered how lonely Richard must be.
Once the door was closed Richard stormed away, stamping up the stairs like a toddler having a tantrum, kicking anything that came within range, acting out of pure frustration. His face didn’t hurt anymore, but he could feel it pounding away in rhythm with his heart, and felt the skin tightening as it began to swell. He threw the door to the main bathroom open, denting the wall with the force of it.
“Fucking bitch!” he screamed at that room, hearing his rage echo around, bouncing off the pristine fixtures and fittings as he fumbled through one of the many fully stocked medicine cabinets in the house in desperate search for some iodine. He found the bottle and grabbed a large wad of gauze, not bothering to separate the sheets from each other, choosing to tape whatever he had in his hand to his face. He placed the gauze on the sink and closed the cabinet doors. He jumped when he saw his reflection: the four gouges that ran down his face were deep, the groove in each on clearly visible. Blood began to bubble to the surface again, and wiping it away didn’t serve much of a purpose. The rage was there, and it rattled the door of the cage in which Richard had it locked. Every day it grew a bit harder to control, to keep hidden.
Richard fumbled with the cap of the iodine bottle, his face beginning to sting more and more with each ineffective rotation the cap made in his hands, before finally, in another fit of rage he launched the bottle across the room. Throwing it full force like a baseball pitcher at the bottom of the ninth with two out but bases loaded. It passed through the frosted glass door of the power shower, leaving a cartoon style hole the exact shape of the bottle before the rest of the glass crumbled away in a motion that was so slow it only added to the rage Richard felt. It seemed that time itself had started to mock him.
He taped a near inch thick pad of gauze to his face and went back downstairs. It was only 10:45 but he went straight to the liquor cabinet and grabbed the first bottle he saw: vodka. Removing the cap, Richard drank direct from the bottle; he coughed and choked as his lungs burnt with a warming fire. He took a glass and filled it to the brim, before he walked through to the kitchen. He had a cleaning lady and a cook who looked after him and the house; Lisa Atkins. She had been his nanny (for lack of a better word) since he was a young boy. She had become part of the family long before his parents died, but it was Sunday and so Richard was left to fend for himself.
Despite knowing his way around the kitchen with a good degree of competency, Richard’s breakfast consisted of vodka and little else. Th
e left side of his face throbbed and burnt, keeping the rage he felt at the forefront of his mind, with common sense and self-control locked away somewhere in the basement.
“Fucking cunt!” he snapped aloud, swallowing the last third of the glass in one cavernous gulp.
After leaving the kitchen, Richard wandered through the house holding the vodka bottle in one hand and the glass in another, taking alternate swigs from both. He moved across the large hallway. Now void of all furniture, it was used as the main party hall; it provided easy entrance and exit for the guests while also keeping them away from the areas of the house he preferred to keep private. Richard stumbled across the hallway, already well on the way to lunchtime inebriation. There were two doors ahead of him, and although both gave access to individual sitting rooms, Richard always chose the one of the right, closest to the front door. It was well decorated with two plush lounge chairs that took centre stage and faced a modest sized plasma TV against the left hand wall. The walls were a rich cream colour while the floor was both heated and tiled. A large rug separated the TV from the chairs, and in days gone by (when there had been a sofa in the room) there had been a coffee table pinning the rug in place. There was a window on the wall opposite the door, although Richard had covered it with heavy drapes as he tried to eliminate the light in what he liked to think of as his movie room. Beside the window and spanning both the wall opposite the door and the one immediately to the right as you entered was a custom made L-shaped bookcase, only it was filled with DVDs rather than books. Richard would sit for hours in this room. There was always a movie playing. Most of the time he didn’t watch what he played, but he found it comforting. He enjoyed the classics, sci-fi, horror, comedy, and action, and while thrillers were his genre of choice he had certainly been known (when he was certain that the house was empty) to watch the occasional romantic comedy. Pacing the room like a fighter in the locker room, just waiting for his turn to be called through into the ring, Richard finally felt his rage begin to subside as alcohol took over his body. Richard soon grew bored: even the idea of a movie didn’t appeal to him that morning. He left the room and just stood in the entrance hall for a few minutes before heading up the main staircase to his right.
Highway To Hell Page 3