Twisted

by Robin Roughley

Pulling the e-cig from his pocket, he took a quick puff and blew the vapour out on a sigh of contentment. 'I'll have you know at my last medical I had twenty-twenty vision.'

  'And how long ago was that?'

  When his phone began to bleat he saw the look of disappointment flicker across her face. 'I'll ignore it,' he said.

  'You know you can't do that.'

  Lasser hesitated before sliding the mobile from his pocket, when he saw Bannister's name flashing on the screen, he sighed.

  'Duty calls?' Medea asked.

  'It's Bannister.'

  'Well, you know he'll only keep ringing until you answer it.'

  Lasser knew she was right, as far as his boss was concerned, when you worked on the force it meant you were available twenty-four seven. Pressing the answer button, he slapped the phone to his ear. 'Evening.'

  'Where are you?' Bannister's nasal drone crackled in his ear.

  'Just sitting down for a meal, in fact I can see the waiter bringing it over now.'

  Medea looked at the plates on the table; she'd eaten everything apart from a piece of lettuce and half a tomato. Lasser had virtually licked his plate clean; his red napkin lay on the empty plate like a bloodstain.

  'Right well, I'm afraid you'll have to forgo sustenance, besides you could do with losing a few pounds.'

  'Hang on, I'm off duty…'

  'No such thing, Sergeant, besides DI Chadwick is in the Highlands for a week trying to track down Nessie so you'll have to do.'

  'But…'

  'Now, get over to Wigan General, another woman's been attacked on Woodhouse Lane, and apparently the assailant was chased from the scene by a have-a-go hero.'

  Lasser sighed, resigned to his fate. 'How is she?'

  'Shaken, but otherwise in one piece, one of her girlfriends raised the alarm and superman swooped out of the shadows to save the day.'

  'Do we have a name?'

  'Sarah Palmer, she's being checked over in A&E so get your skates on.'

  'Come on, A&E on a Saturday night, she could be there for hours.'

  'You've got twenty minutes.'

  The phone beeped, the screen flashed, Bannister vanished, 'Bloody great,' he snarled.

  Medea was already on her feet, slipping on her jacket. 'Come on, he won't be happy if you're late.'

  Lasser snatched out his car keys. 'Jesus Christ, anyone would think I was the only copper who worked weekends.'

  'He asked you because he trusts you, which ultimately shows a level of respect.'

  Lasser had another pull on the fake cigarette, this time in frustration. 'Somehow I doubt that.'

  'Well, I can stay over at yours tonight, and you never know you might be back in a couple of hours.'

  'Well, don't hold your breath,' he sulked.

  She slipped her arm through his as they made their way towards the car. 'Is it the same guy?'

  'It sounds like it.'

  'Well, at least this time there are witnesses.'

  Lasser snorted. 'Chances are the woman was drunk and I can guarantee her friend will be too traumatised to remember anything useful.'

  Medea gave him a wry smile. 'Ah, Mr Pessimist is back in town.'

  Leaning down he kissed the tip of her nose. 'Sorry.'

  3

  Slamming the door, he rips off the denim jacket and skims it across the cluttered room before slumping down in front of the computer. The left side of his face feels numb, his ears ringing; fury cuts through his head as he waits for the laptop to fire into life.

  'Calm down, Robert,' the voice in his head whispers. 'No harm done.'

  Robert rubs the palms of his tacky hands on the front of his dirty jeans; the tension mounting as the small blue circle revolves on the blank screen.

  'Almost caught,' he whispers in disbelief, the two words rampaging through his fevered brain. He'd been seconds from disaster, moments from being ensnared. The thought is too horrific to contemplate. Grabbing the bottle, he takes a huge gulp before slamming it down in front of the screen. His pale reflection stares back, the fear still swimming in his eyes, the sight curdles his stomach, twists his nerves to breaking point.

  'Robert, you're not listening.'

  'Why didn't you warn me?' he snarls.

  'I can't help you if you refuse to listen.'

  Robert ignores the voice and stabs at the keys, a moment later the screen fills with the grunt and groan of hard-core pornography. The man is wearing a leather mask, the woman tied to the bed in supplication; Robert feels a sense of calm descend. As his pupils dilate, he licks his parchment lips, his right hand fumbling with the buttons of his jeans.

  'Must you do that?' the voice sighs in disgust.

  Shaking his head, Robert tries to clear his mind, tries to block out the voice and concentrate on the here and now. Though his brain feels faulty, his thoughts disjointed. All he can conjure is an image of the bitch with the phone, the sneer on her face as she threatened to call the police. Looking at the screen, his burgeoning erection begins to shrivel, the magic isn't working. It's as if she's put a block on his senses, opened him up and cauterised the nerve endings until he feels nothing. His right hand moves in a blur, the frustration growing. Sweat trickles down his forehead, sliding down his cheeks like tears of regret. On the screen, the woman strains at the bonds trying to twist her head away as the man reaches down and grabs her by the hair forcing her around, her mouth stretched wide in agony. As he moves forward the erection quivers in his left hand.

  'Disgusting,' the voice huffs.

  Salt leaks into Robert's eyes and he gasps at the sudden sting, his erection becomes flaccid, non-existent. Grabbing the bottle, he takes another gulp, the amber liquid searing his throat. Wiping a trembling hand across his brow, he tries to steady his breathing, tries to calm his senses. The image on the screen unfolds with monotonous inevitability, the grunts and groans increase in volume, the woman simpers, pleads and begs, he watches now with disinterested eyes. All he can picture is the woman with the phone, trying to bring the wrath of others down upon him.

  'Her name, Robert.'

  He tilts his head, suddenly interested. 'What did you say?'

  'Her name is Erin, remember?'

  Robert smiles.

  4

  Lasser eyed the smokers standing beneath the Perspex shelter. It was almost midnight and they were crammed together like concentration camp victims awaiting the next train to purgatory. Some wearing pyjamas and dressing gowns, one woman pulling hard on a cigarette dressed in what appeared to be a baby doll nightie. Pulling out the fake cigarette, he took a few supercilious drags, the vapour streaming from his nostrils as he pushed his way through the main doors. As expected Accident and Emergency was besieged with a motley crew of Saturday night causalities. One man sat slumped in the corner of the crowded room, a Bombardier Best Bitter towel clamped to his head, a rivulet of blood trickled down his hollow cheek. One pitiful eye cracked open, the other swollen shut – hidden beneath a swirling mass of black and blue.

  Lasser stopped and looked down. 'Hello, Dave, in the wars again I see.'

  'Piss off, copper,' Dave grumbled in response.

  Lasser shrugged and made his way through the walking wounded to the Triage reception.

  'Excuse me; I'm looking for a Sarah Palmer.'

  The nurse glanced up; dark smudges of fatigue beneath her weary eyes.

  'Are you a relative?'

  Flipping out his warrant card, he held it up to the glass screen.

  'Cubicle four, turn left at the end of the corridor and she's down at the bottom on the right.'

  'Thanks for that,' pocketing the wallet, he headed across the room.

  Halfway along the passage someone bawled at the top of his voice. 'I'm telling you it was an accident, I just slipped, and now I can't get it out!'

  Lasser grimaced and carried on walking. At the end of the corridor a woman in her mid-twenties was leaning against the scuffed magnolia wall, her head tilted as if studying the ceiling tiles, a man stoo
d facing her, his face blotchy with anger.

  'Sarah Palmer?' Lasser asked.

  The man turned, the woman pushed away from the wall. She was wearing stonewashed jeans and a sparkly top that left her shoulders bare, her fair hair hanging in a damp mass of curls and waves. 'No, I'm Erin Nash, Sarah's friend.'

  'Who are you?' The man asked, standing protectively in front of Erin as if he expected Lasser to attack.

  'Detective Sergeant Lasser, I wonder if I could have a word?'

  'Look, this has been a traumatic night for my wife…'

  'Oh for God's sake, Graham, give it a rest.'

  He spun towards her. 'Don't tell me to ''give it a rest'', you could have been killed, I mean, have you any idea how serious this is, Erin?'

  She thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans and glared. 'I'm not an idiot; I don't need you to state the obvious…'

  'Yeah well, this is the last time you go anywhere with that bloody woman.'

  Lasser watched as the colour drained from her face. 'Are you trying to tell me what I can do, Graham? Because if you are then you can sod off right now!'

  Graham took a deep breath, his lips pursed as if preparing to address a small child or someone with limited intelligence. 'Look, if she wants to get herself dragged down some Godforsaken alleyway by a rapist then that's her lookout, but I'm not having you…'

  'You've never liked Sarah, have you?' she spat.

  Lasser sighed. 'Maybe it would…'

  'Is it any wonder?' Graham stabbed out a finger. 'You go out for a quiet drink and look what happens, I mean, what the hell were you doing in Scholes? That place is full of drug takers and scumbags, yet there you are in the roughest part of town, walking home on your own because that bitch dumped you!'

  'Keep your voice down,' she hissed.

  'Why should I? It's about time Sarah Palmer knew some home truths, she's a slut, and…'

  Erin lashed out, her hand cracked into the side of Graham's face; he rocked back on his heels, his eyes wide in disbelief.

  The cubicle curtain suddenly lashed open, a barrel-like nurse with a dodgy, eighties perm and thick ankles looked at the two of them, her face stamped with disgust. 'If you can't be civil then I suggest you go and argue somewhere else. Failing that I'll call security and have you both thrown out.'

  Lasser could see a woman sitting on a consultation couch, legs drawn up her head resting on her knees, dark hair covering her face.

  'I'm sorry,' Erin mumbled, her cheeks flaring red with embarrassment.

  Graham glared at the nurse. 'I will not be…'

  'Just show some respect!' the nurse snapped, before snatching the curtain closed.

  Graham Nash looked apoplectic with rage, his hands opening and closing like mechanical grabbers at the funfair.

  'Look, why don't we go and get a coffee and you can tell me exactly what happened?'

  Erin looked at Lasser and sniffed back the tears before nodding. Graham tried to take hold of her elbow but she snatched it away and strode off down the corridor with her husband hurrying to keep up. Lasser sighed; any hope of getting back to Medea within the hour vanished, he thought of DCI Bannister and frowned – tosser.

  'So, you're saying the man who helped you simply disappeared?'

  They were standing at the entrance to the hospital, sheltering beneath the glass canopy as the rain hammered down; the car park resembled a small boating lake.

  Erin nodded. 'As soon as he heard the sirens he just set off walking. I shouted after him but either he didn't hear or chose not to.'

  Lasser frowned, is it a train, is it a plane…? 'And the man who attacked your friend, can you describe him for me?'

  Graham glanced at his wife and then looked away chewing feverishly at his bottom lip.

  Erin closed her eyes. 'He was about five-nine, longish-black hair and he was wearing a tatty-looking denim jacket and scruffy trainers.'

  Lasser looked at her in surprise. 'When you say long hair?'

  She opened her eyes and shivered. 'Shoulder length and his face was scarred, you know like old acne.'

  'And what about the man that chased him away?'

  'Sorry, I haven't a clue, by that time I was almost hysterical and it all happened so quickly.'

  'Right not to worry, the main thing is you're both all right.'

  Graham snorted and Erin threw him an icy look.

  Lasser ignored him. 'Earlier your husband said you were walking home alone?'

  'That's right we'd got separated and it was getting late, so I decided to head to the taxi rank.'

  'It's not the first time though is it, Erin?' Graham thrust his hands into his coat pockets, brow corrugated in anger.

  'Not now, Graham,' she sighed.

  Her husband ignored the warning signs. 'I just can't believe she'd dump you like that. I mean, why the hell didn't you ring me; you know I'd have picked you up?'

  'And given me a lecture in the process,' she spat.

  'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

  Erin shook her head and sighed. 'Look, just leave it.'

  'Oh, so it's wrong to be concerned for my wife, is that what you're telling me?'

  Lasser fiddled with the fake cigarette in his pocket. 'Look, Mr Nash, I understand your concern, but it's important that we gather as much information about the attacker…'

  'You think I don't realise that?' Graham bristled. 'But you don't know what Sarah Palmer's like. To be brutally honest I'm amazed this hasn't happened sooner…'

  'You bastard!'

  Graham turned his back on Erin, dismissing her. 'My wife will no doubt defend her to the hilt, but that woman is nothing more than a whore…'

  Erin landed on his back, blonde hair whipping across her face, red nails raking down his cheek.

  Lasser shot forward and grabbed her around the waist, dragging her away, kicking and spitting.

  Graham staggered forward, his hands flapping above his head as if to ward off an attack of killer bees. 'Jesus, woman, what do you think you're doing?'

  'Sarah's my friend!' she screamed.

  The smokers under the canopy looked over and Lasser heard a couple of them laugh, the sound cutting through the rain.

  Keeping her arms trapped by her side, Lasser suddenly wished he'd ignored Bannister's call. By now, he could be curled up in bed with the woman of his dreams, instead of standing in the pissing rain separating a couple who seemed to have problems that went way beyond tonight's events.

  'Some friend,' Graham spat, and then touched his cheek; his fingers came away smeared red.

  'Right, why don't you both try and calm down, this really isn't helping.'

  Graham thrust out his chest and pointed a finger at Lasser. 'Don't you dare tell me to calm down, she's my wife…'

  'Not for much longer,' Erin strained forward and Lasser tightened his grip, watching as Graham's face curdled.

  'What did you say?'

  'I can't stay with a man who doesn't trust me to do the right thing. I mean, you always make out you're this understanding guy, good old Graham, but I know the truth. It's not Sarah you can't stand, it's the thought of me having any friends that bothers you.'

  He took a backward step, his eyes wary. 'Don't be ridiculous, you have plenty of friends.'

  'I used to have, Graham, but not anymore thanks to you.'

  He flicked a look at Lasser as if embarrassed by his wife's outburst. 'Look, now isn't the time or place to be discussing this…'

  Erin barked out a laugh. 'That's just typical, you want everything done behind closed doors don't you, well not anymore. I'm sick to death of listening to you moaning every time I want a night out.'

  'Well, is it any wonder when something like this happens?'

  Lasser eased his grip. 'Could you give me your home address please?'

  Graham dragged a hand across his face in frustration, 'What for?'

  'We'll need to speak again, preferably when you've both had chance to calm down.'

  'Thirty W
arwick Road,' he snapped.

  'Is that the one that runs behind the park?'

  'Yes, yes, now…'

  'Right, well, thanks for your help, Erin, it's much appreciated.' Lasser turned and stepped into the rain, he'd taken three paces when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

  'I won't be going back to Warwick Road, if you want me I'll be at number eight Pembroke Avenue.'

  Lasser looked at her in surprise, pulled out his notebook and scribbled down the address. Graham stared at them both, his face in meltdown.

  5

  Bannister tossed the pen onto the desk before pushing up his shirtsleeves. 'It doesn't sound like anyone we know,' he was studying the statement, a frown on his face. 'Is she sure about this?'

  Lasser stifled a yawn, it'd been half past one when he reached home and Medea had been asleep, curled beneath the duvet, her black hair spilling across the pillow like a raven's wing. When he'd slid in alongside her she'd sighed and pulled his arm tight around her waist, bliss.

  'Well, she seemed pretty switched on to me.'

  Bannister grunted and eased back in his chair. 'What about the knife?'

  'No sign of it.'

  The frown deepened. 'What do you mean; according to Erin Nash the attacker dropped it before he did a runner?' he jabbed a finger at the statement.

  'Spenner was first on the scene and he said he made a thorough search of the area and came up with nothing.'

  'Spenner?'

  'And Rawlins.'

  Bannister drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. 'So, where did it vanish to?'

  'Well, Nash says the attacker dropped it and then the other guy kicked it into the gutter…'

  'So, you're saying it was washed down the bloody grid, is that what you're telling me?'

  Lasser could see anger flickering in Bannister's eyes. 'No, I think the masked avenger picked it up and took it when he did his disappearing act.'

  'The reason being?'

  'I haven't a clue.'

  Bannister pursed his lips and sighed. 'They were lucky, Sergeant.'

  Lasser knew what he meant, three woman attacked in the space of a month, the first two raped and battered but neither of the victims had mentioned anything about a knife, which meant their boy was upping the stakes, losing the plot.