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He ignored the pounding as he pondered, running it over in his mind. It would just be so perfect if it was the key to the flat next door but he knew how improbable that was. It was far more likely the key to some forgotten tenant’s parents’ house –
probably miles away in the country or something.

‘IF YOU DON’T OPEN THE DOOR, I’LL KICK IT IN!’ the voice boomed and Ben looked from the key to the door. A second later it shuddered in its frame and he heard a muffled curse from the other side.
Well you wanted a distraction,
he thought. He took a swig from the bottle of bourbon then walked over and opened the door.

An Italian man who looked about twenty was crouching outside, prodding experimentally at one of his boots. When he heard the door creak, he quickly stood up, puffed out his chest and affected a menacing stance… but not before Ben caught the slight wince as he put his weight down on his foot.

Ben took in the leather jacket, the slicked back hair, thick with oil and the clipboard tucked under one arm.
Debt collector.
The thought was instantaneous. He had to stifle a grin as he enquired whether the man’s foot was alright.

‘It’s fine,’ the man snapped in a nasal whine and locked eyes with Ben, trying to stare him down. Ben stared back impassively.

‘Can I help you?’

The man looked immensely irritated at Ben’s unwillingness to lower his eyes and darted a quick glance at the clipboard.

‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ he challenged. His demeanour and body language had Ben stifling another laugh. The man was clearly gagging for a fight but that didn’t really bother him. Despite the fact he was fairly bulky and clearly spent a lot of time in the gym, Ben wasn’t impressed. There was something about the man that just suggested he was trying too hard. Ben toyed with the idea of showing him in; maybe showing him the contents of his duffel bag; see how tough he really was.

‘Are you, mate?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No I’m not,’ Ben paused and savoured the moment before asking the question that he knew from experience all collectors hated. ‘Why?’

‘Well if you’re not him, I hardly think it’s any of your concern buddy. Who are you?’

Ben couldn’t resist the smile this time. ‘Why do you want to know?’

The collector’s eyes blazed anger. ‘You think you’re smart do ya? Huh? How do I know you’re not him? You got ID.’

‘No. Don’t you believe me?’

Ben heard the creak of the next flat’s door and saw the lady walk out carrying an empty bottle of wine. She kept glancing across at them as she walked and Ben felt the collector’s presence just drifting away as he watched her body shift beneath her flannelette pyjamas.

‘Look buddy,’ the collector took a step forward and jabbed a finger in Ben’s chest, ‘stop fucking about. Are you Stephen Jacobs?’ The man’s nasal whine was rising in volume and Ben looked back at him with sudden anger blazing in his eyes. For a moment he’d nearly forgotten the man was present. ‘What, you think you’re a tough guy, huh? You looking for a fight? Answer the fucking question.’

In his mind, Ben could see himself just backing down: apologising, saying he’d had a bad day, inviting the man in;
I just have to get my ID; it’s in the duffel bag over here…

A slight smile began to twitch at the corner of Ben’s lips.

‘Are you Stephen Jacobs?’

‘No he’s not.’

Ben snapped out of it and saw the lady from next door standing just a few feet away.
God, she was so beautiful and so hideous all at once,
he thought as the meat hook glinted seductively in his mind.

The debt collector was scowling at the lady, clearly irritated by her interference.

‘He only moved in a day ago. Stephen Jacobs left nearly three months ago now. This is close to the fucking tenth time I’ve told you wankers this.’ There was a pulse in her temple, just the slightest hint of a bulging vein and Ben’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it. Suddenly he was transported back, the vague resemblance transforming through the one gesture into a spitting image of
her.
The same pulse that would jump at her temple as she approached with the hand hidden behind her back. That low gravelly voice emerging from the clouds of smoke, so removed from her normal one as she rasped,
who’s been a naughty boy…

‘Who are you?’ The collector seemed edgy and off-guard and was half-turned as though undecided on who he should focus on.

‘Who I am is none of your business.’ Her face was getting red now and Ben felt like he was falling headlong into blackness, spiralling down into the loop of:
who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy, who’s been a naughty boy…
He felt like he could cry.
You shouldn’t do that to Mummy…

He wanted to hurt her; to cause her pain but he couldn’t because she was raging and when she raged, she was a sight to behold; a force of nature and he was so young and small there was nothing he could do…

‘Who are you? What right do you have to be bothering people who haven’t done anything, huh? Do you have ID on you? I wonder if your company would be interested in knowing the tactics you use? What do you think?’

Ben was clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides.
It’s not her, it’s not her…
he thought desperately but it wasn’t working. Everything was beginning to be suffused with a red glow.

For a second it looked as though the collector was going to jump across and throttle her. His face flushed bright red and a judder of repressed rage shimmered through his frame. If she noticed it, Rachel
– it’s Rachel, it’s not her, it’s Rachel
– didn’t seem to care and Ben was enthralled watching her.

Although her anger wasn’t quite as overt as the collector’s, the gleam in her eye suggested that if the man did try and attack her, he would receive a quick knee to the nads for his troubles.

‘Look lady, this is none of your business…’ the collector began through clenched teeth.

‘None of my business? Do you know what time it is? And you’re out here yelling away. People are trying to sleep you know. Maybe I should call the police. See if they think it is any of my business. The man told you he’s not who you’re looking for. I told you Stephan Jacobs is long gone. Are you a fucking moron?’

The collector sputtered in outrage and took a step toward her just as a cab turned into the driveway, bathing them both in its headlights.

With a muttered, ‘Fuck this shit,’ the collector turned and stalked off, shooting a glare at the Indian man behind the wheel as though it was all his fault.

Ben found himself alone with her and was both terrified and exhilarated at the same time. He watched her standing there gulping down air and flexing her fingers. He could feel himself stiffening as he imagined striding over, imagined knocking the knife from her hands, clamping a hand over her mouth; dragging her into the flat… but she didn’t have a knife, not really.
Because she wasn’t her.
But the resemblance was great and he could still make her pay, add another to the Red Room to settle the account, wipe that self-righteous anger from her face but…
No that would be stupid. Not out here, people could see and he wasn’t going to do it again, he was starting a new life and…

The red was creeping across his vision again, solidifying into walls and his dick was lengthening and now she was smiling at him and it was a smile like those ones she wore at the apology breakfasts and he could see she was going to walk over and it would be so easy, it was like she was giving herself to him and the meathook was there in his mind just waiting and he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist, not now.

‘Thank-you,’ he barked and slammed the door, scrabbling across the floor for his pills. He needed control. He needed the images to disappear. To rid himself of her advance, the dead, angry look in her eye, the hand hidden away there behind her back…

But as he wrenched off the lid and dry-swallowed two of the pills, he knew that he wasn’t looking to stop it now. He was only wanting to delay it. Control it so he didn’t do something rash. Because now he knew he would do something. The anger was rising in him, rising above the layered guilt and shame. The anger and the hunger for revenge and there was really no longer a choice anyway. Because as the red walls formed this time, it was plastered there above the empty meat-hook. The white label reading number 12. And once the Red Room had named its victim, Ben couldn’t help but obey.

* * * * *

W
ell fuck you too,
Rachel thought for a second before the anger dissipated and she blushed bright red as the door slammed shut in her face.

Oh fuck, she’d done it again. Fucking flown off the handle at something that wasn’t any of her business. Shit, no wonder he’d beat a hasty retreat. Probably freaked the shit out of him. He’s probably sitting in there now wondering who the fuck is this psychotic woman next door.

She just hadn’t been able to help herself. There was just something about debt collectors that really, really pissed her off. And especially the ones who came looking for the fucking bloke who’d used to live next door. Rachel would love to know exactly what sort of shit that guy had been in.

The collectors invariably, after finding no-one at home, wended their way to her flat. And to call these guys hostile was an understatement. It was right off the bat, straight into it, giving the impression it was all your fault. Like you had the person hiding in your fucking backyard . She was just so fucking sick of them and when she’d seen the smarmy fuck hassling the new guy; it had been like a red rag to a bull.

It hadn’t helped at all that his appearance had coincided with her realisation that she’d forgotten to call the landlord about the hot water service that day and consequently was brooding on the cold shower that awaited her once more in the morning.

Just trying to do him a favour
, she thought, still fuming a little.
Could have at least spared a second to say thanks…

But he did say thanks
, the voice reminded her.

That stumped her for a while.

Well he could have said a proper thanks
, she retaliated as she stomped back through the door into her flat.

* * * * *

He was in the Red Room now, lowering number three from her meat-hook. She was one of his favourites; her resemblance was uncanny and his erection pressed hard against the cool, leather apron he wore. She hung over his shoulder, limp and unresisting as he hiked over to the table and slapped her down, all pallid and cold. 

He buckled her into the restraints one by one, his eyes roving over her sheer gown to where his tools lined the bench.

As the last of the restraints tightened around her ankle, she burst into life, colour flooding her pale flesh as she bucked tight against them. Opening her mouth, she screamed and screamed.

It was music to his ears.

This was the best part. Taking them was fun but this was better. Outside the Red Room he had to hurry; he had to be careful. He couldn’t let them scream like this but inside he could do as he pleased. No-one would hear them and they were always ready and waiting. He had them forever. He didn’t know who cleaned the Red Room when he was gone but when he returned they were always waiting again, neatly aligned on their hooks. Always ready for his revenge.

But as he made his way to the bench and played a hand over the lined up tools, he knew something was wrong. As the delicious screams played out, as enjoyable as any choral arrangement, his eyes kept drifting back to the shiny, new meat hook and when they did it sent quivers running through the Red Room’s walls.

He shook his head to clear it and reached across for the bloodstained hacksaw, his free hand reaching beneath the leather apron, clenching around his cock as he imagined the coming spray of red…

…But when he turned back, the far wall was gone and instead he was in front of a window, its blind half-raised, peering in at the lady on the bed.

Rachel…
He whispered it as he stroked, his eyes drinking in her curves beneath the flannelette of her pyjamas. His mind imagined the whispers as he cut them free of her body. She was obviously a restless sleeper as she’d kicked back the covers and was sprawled, tangled slightly in the fitted sheet that had lifted from the corner of the mattress. She was so beautiful and in the dim gloom, her resemblance was even greater than number three’s had been and Ben both hated and loved her at the moment. He could see the vibrator lying near the foot of the bed and it was transporting him back to the calls of his mother.
Benny, mummy needs you, Benny, mummy needs you…
and he’d always go, even though he knew he’d later be punished for it and as the washing flapped gently against the back of his head, Ben was cumming.

He stiffened as his ejaculation spattered fresh ropes over the congealed ones of yesterday. Unaware, she slept on, her legs splayed lewdly, as Ben’s eyes gradually refocused and his desire ebbed back to a controllable level and suddenly she wasn’t quite so beautiful, she was hideous and he was panicking slightly because he had been a bad boy –
he shouldn’t do that to mummy
– and he knew he would be punished for it. He felt a strange urge to head for the bridge again, to climb up and tuck himself away safe beneath its girders.