I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t think there seems to be any anger in his body language. No, he doesn’t look filled with rage, but rather a man pleading his case.
Kat steps out, wrapping her arms around herself, popping a hip and looking utterly done with him already. The thread of satisfaction I feel at his rejection is probably a bit pathetic, but it’s there anyway.
She’s not going to let him in.
Because she’s mine.
I stay where I am as the cold settles around me, trying my best not to think of Darren’s hands on her. Darren’s mouth on her. Darren being someone she wanted.
He pleads for so long that even I’m rolling my eyes. Can’t blame the guy, though. I’d beg if she left me, too.
To give her her due, she listens to his pleas. I’d have slammed the door in his face long ago. When she leans forward and places a hand on his chest, I clench my fists tight. Dejection pours over him like a bucket of water with the finality of whatever she says. Like he’s a deflated balloon, and she’s stolen all the breath from him. And then she steps back, and the door closes on their relationship for good.
I watch him gather himself before kicking the wall full force. Darren lets out a yelp and starts limping toward the end of the alley. Making my way back to the bar, I can’t help but laugh.
Martha’s tip leads me to start with the police officers who worked at the local precinct during my summer in that cottage. Retired. Dead. Still working.I worked through the list until I saw a face that made my guts turn to ice.
Despite the years and my experience turning men like him to pulp, seeing him shocked me to the core.
That’s what brought me to standing outside of his quaint little bungalow. It’s wild, really, how such an evil man can live in a house that looks fit for Postman-fucking-Pat. It even has goddamned window boxes. Though they look a little unloved. It could be because it’s on the cusp of winter, or maybe his late wife dealt with them. Probably as a way to avoid being in the house with him as much as possible. The house stands on a quiet lane at the edge of the village. A village where people haven’t bothered with doorbell cameras.
Thank goodness.
I watch him through the window as he scratches his balls and then uses the same hand to eat a custard cream. What a pig.
He’s fatter than I remember, his stomach hanging from the white vest he wears and practically eating a swath of his boxers. Guess not having a wife to look after him means more packets of biscuits for dinner than he’s used to. The years have softened his body and slackened his face. Let’s hope his mind is still intact.
Well, I can’t hang outside like a bad smell all day. Best get this show on the road.
He hasn’t locked up yet, so getting in won’t be any problem. I pull on my mask and gloves and set out to get some information.
And revenge.
The handle depresses with the faintest of clicks, and I pause, looking back through the window. His white hair is still rim lit by the TV. Perfect.
I’m in, and he doesn’t even shift in his chair, his head starting to loll as the news bores him.
As I step closer, a wave of cold dread washes over me, like an iron gate has fallen down and clamped me in place. Suddenly, I’m eight years old, and the floor of the cottage is rotting carpet that digs into my knees. Cuffs bind my arms behind my back, his cuffs, because I’d tried to get away. My chin aches where he’d thrown me onto the floor, and the carpet had claimed a layer of flesh.Stay down. Stop your bloody crying, lad.He smells like tobacco and sweat, and the other men’s laughter echoes from behind me.
I’d twisted my face toward my dad, thinking that he might save me. The idiocy of childhood, believing somehow the monster in my home would suddenly become a saviour. I begged him.Please. Dad. Tell himtoleave me alone.
My dad looked down at me, and for a moment, I thought that he might rescue me. Instead, he reached out to another boy, who reluctantly took his hand. Then I was left to PC Ashworth’s pleasure.
I come back to myself as the news ends, the exit music cutting through my past like a well-needed scalpel.
There’s an ache in my jaw where I’ve clenched my teeth.
The house smells like stale food and even staler armpits. Sour and unloved. Likely doesn’t wash much without someone to make him go do it. It’s amazing how many men turn into feral animals the moment they don’t have someone to hold their hand through life. Wilful ignorance. There’s little that excuses a man to manage a successful career, but be unable to take a fucking shower.
Ah, well, he won’t have to worry about doing that again.
I take the cord from my pocket and stretch it between my gloved hands, pulling it taut.
He doesn’t even hear me coming.
The cord is around his neck before he can say glurgggghhhh.
But he doesn’t say it, while both of his hands go to his neck. Got to give it to the old codger, he’s stronger than he looks, fear only compounding his strength. Not that it’ll help. I have years of pure rage driving me on, and the advantage of surprise. His fingers scrape at his throat until they slacken. It’s then that I release him. Hopefully in time.
