Hell To Pay (7 page)

Chapter 19

Paul Conlan's oblivious to the danger as he stands there on my doorstep, tongue hanging out like a lizard’s. Scruffy swine hasn't even made an effort. Tonight, his pungent body odor is a cross between rotting fast food and unwashed sweat (does he ever take a bath or use deodorant?). The reek makes me want to jump back inside the door, slamming it shut to stop the stench from snaking its way inside. He's still wearing the same manky jeans he's no doubt been wearing all day, whilst he's been applying the thumbscrews to old women and beating up kids, or whatever a rent-a-thug does these days.

When his eyes latch onto what I’m wearing: latex full-length zip up boots that hug the contours of my legs and a red corset, his face is a mixture of surprise and something else that makes me want to puke until my throat bleeds, lust. Stupid prick thinks I'm going to put on a show for him. He has no idea how repugnant he is.

"Alright, darling," he says.

When we go through to what passes as a living room in the fleapit I've rented, the fat bastard's eyes are trained on my butt all the way.

"Can I get you a beer?" My voice is a drawl.

When he plonks his fat butt down on the couch, it creaks under the strain. I pity poor Alison having that heaving and panting on top of her every night.

"Aye, but don't be too long, darling. Don't want to get lonely."

In the kitchen, I grab a Bud from the fridge and pour myself a glass of a fizzy fruit juice that will pass for wine.

Once I've opened his bottle of Bud, I take some Rohypnol that I've hidden in the sugar jar and drop it into his drink. Thanks to countless campaigns warning people to guard their drinks against being drugged, I know he won't be able to taste it.

When I go back into the living room, he's sprawled on the couch, arm draped round the back.

"Nice place you've got here," he says, patting the couch indicating where he wants me to sit. Ignoring him, I stay standing and hand him the Bud.

This place isn’t nice, it’s a dive. It's the first one I found that didn't want references, a security deposit and a sample of DNA. My attempts to make it look homely haven't gone much further than placing two lava lamps on the tables and scattering a few pink cushions in a feeble attempt to make the place look lived in.

"The place is a dump, but at least it's watertight," I say. "The last place I was in had a hole in the roof. The landlord told me to put down saucepans and buckets to catch the drips. Can you believe that?"

As I blabber on, he doesn't even attempt to feign interest in what I'm saying.

He downs his Bud in two gulps then rubs his greasy paws together.

"Let's no fuck about here, darling. We both know why we're here."

Circling my lips with my tongue, I rasp. "I need you to do me a favor first." My voice sounds grating to my ears.

He raises a hairy eyebrow.

"I've got something for you in the bedroom."

"Oh, aye?”

His leer’s a foot wide.

I lead him on through.

"There, over on the bed."

He waddles over.

"Where?" He's confused. "I can't see anything."

“On the bed.”

It's as he's leaning over the bed, trying to see something that isn't even there, that I reach under the bed and pull out the Taser. Alerted by the noise, he turns round in time for me to zap him in the chest with it.

As thousands of volts surge through his body, he drops onto the bed and his whole body goes into spasms. Watching him reminds me of a puppet my grandfather used to have. He'd make it jiggle up and down for me and Shug. I never liked that puppet.

A few minutes later, his hands are above his head and he's handcuffed to the bedpost. I've used two sets of handcuffs to make sure he's incapacitated and I've tied his feet with strong rope. Even with the drug I slipped him, I'm taking no chances; he's a strong guy.

"You might recognize me now," I hiss. "My hair was this color when we last met."

I've changed into my jeans and ditched the wig. My long red hair tumbles down my shoulders.

By his reaction the dumb bastard clearly has no idea what I'm talking about.

Shaking my head in exaggerated disappointment, I say, “You don’t even remember me and the time we spent together? There was three of us.”

Tutting, I stroll over to where he’s trussed up, naked apart from his pee stained boxer shorts, his curses drowned out by the gag I’d stuffed into his gob (well, I don’t want the neighbors to hear) and I lean over so he gets a good view of the breasts he’d mutilated with a knife. The skin graft didn’t take and now I'm left with marks from where he tried to cut off my nipples: the sick fuck clearly has mommy issues.

"You don’t recognize your own handiwork, Paul?"

I spit the words into his face. I’m rewarded when he flinches. For the first time I can smell something other than B.O: the heady stench of fear. The stink should repulse me, but I feel something else: gratification.

"You know who I am now, don’t you?"

For a brief moment, I remove the gag so he can speak.

"Fuck you, bitch."

His speech is slurring, and in spite of the defiance in his voice, I can tell the reality of his situation is hitting home. His erection's gone. 

"That's not very nice."

I march over and punch him in the balls. His roar of pain is cut off by me putting the gag back in place.

'If you can't say anything nice, then maybe you shouldn't say anything at all. Capice?'

He glares at me.

"25 William Wallace Road, ring any bells?"

No recognition. Maybe he’s raped so many women and murdered their families that they all fade into one. Better give him a wee reminder.

"Maybe I should tattoo 'Rapist' across your stomach like Lisbeth Salander?"

There's a lack of understanding on his face. He's not a reader, which comes as no surprise.

A wide grin spreads across my face and I make a big show of looking round the room.

I whistle through my teeth. "Damn, I don’t have a tattoo kit. What’s a girl to do?"

I tell him to wait there, which makes me chuckle because it’s not like he can go anywhere.

Marching over to the kitchen, I pull a knife from the block I bought especially for our little games. Gripping the knife makes me feel strangely powerful. Is that how it starts, the desire to hurt someone? The thrill of having someone at your mercy? Do you get drunk on the power you wield?

Maybe this is how Conlan felt when he used a blade to carve crisscrosses into my breasts as I howled behind my gag, before passing out with the pain. But, I’m not a monster like him; I’m getting revenge for what he did to me. We are different.

Holding up the knife, I make sure the glint catches in his startled eyes.

The memory of what he did to me makes the bile rise in my throat and I have to leave the room until the nausea goes. Flopping down on the couch, I picture my parents as I last saw them and in an instant my self-pity is swept away in a torrent of hatred for this pathetic excuse for a man.

I stand up and almost skip into the room where my prey awaits. This is my place, my rules. I get to decide what happens here. I'm in control.

There's a frown on my chops as I eye the bloated monster before me. He’s not such a big man now, tied to the bed, in his pee-stained pants.

"Honey, I’m home," I chirp.

As I watch him struggling against his binds, I remember how I struggled to get away, but all my attempts were futile. I remember the helplessness I felt; the complete loss of control. One thought overtaking all others: I'm going to die here in the one place I’ve always felt safe.

Seeing the pitiful state he’s in, maybe I should pity him, but, he showed me no pity. When I stared into his eyes as he abused me, there was nothing there but cold, hard stone. I was a nothing to him and he got off on my pain.

"You killed my parents."

I say it in a matter of fact way as if I'm talking about the weather. I'm damned if I'll show him any emotion, bar hate.

If I’d hoped for a slither of remorse on his part, any flicker of regret, I was a mug. There was nothing there behind his eyes but his own fear.

I move the knife towards his face, letting him see it, fear it as I had and then just as I move it towards his eye, I let it trundle to the floor. His body heaves. Then his cockiness returns.

Behind the gag, he sneers at me for not having the balls to hurt him; to stick the knife in him until he bleeds.

His beady eyes follow me as I stroll over to where my curling tongs are plugged in.

Holding the tongs up, I fight the temptation to use them like a smoldering iron and burn out the same eyes that viewed me with such distaste as he raped me, so that he can’t look at me any more. Instead I hold them above his forehead. The tongs are so close I can smell his singeing eyebrows. His eyes are wide with terror as he tries to wriggle away from me, but there is no escape.

"Tell me who was with you that night. Tell me who paid you and your mate to pay my parents a visit and I might let you go."

Underneath the gag, he shakes his head, so I use the tongs.

There's a hiss as the metal burns his cheek and I hold them there. His body buckles as tears sting his eyes and the smell of scorched flesh fills the air.

"Tell me, or I'll do it again."

This time I move the tongs downwards and hold them poised above his groin.

"You better watch; I'm so clumsy. I might drop them."

There's a tinkle of laughter in my voice, but it's put on. Let him think I'm a fully-fledged nutcase, capable of anything. Then he'll spill and tell me what I want to know.

I've already decided that I won't kill him. It'd be far too risky. If I get caught I wouldn't be able to go after the man behind it all because I was pretty sure Conlan and his partner in crime wouldn't have done what they did without being paid.

"Tell me, or I'll use these on you. Imagining them burning into your skin. The pain will be excruciating."

It works. Underneath the gag he whimpers and there's pleading in his eyes.

Placing the tongs on the heat mat at the bottom of the bed, I remove the gag. "Well."

"Shaun Yates. The other guy's called Shaun Yates." His voice is hoarse from yelling underneath the gag. When they'd gagged me, I'd screamed too. But they hadn’t asked me any questions; gave me any hope at all that it would end. Not like I’m giving Conlan.

"Where can I find him?"

He hesitates, so I pick up the tongs and hold them up for him to see. "Do you want me to fry your sperm? Do the world a favor?"

He winces because he knows I'll do it.

"He'll kill me if I tell you."

"And, I'll fry your balls if you don't. What's the most likely thing to happen first?"

I pick up the tongs and he freaks.

"Alright, alright." He's one of the doormen at
The Dollhouse
in town."

It was a lap-dancing bar, but everyone knew it was a front for prostitution and drugs.

"Now, will you let me go?"

He's pleading with me.

"Only if you tell me who paid you and why. What were they looking for at my parents' house?"

His podgy face is the color of concrete. "I can't tell you that. He'd kill me."

My lips curl up. "Oh, but if you don't, I'll kill you now."

"You're a psycho bitch. But you're not in this guy's league."

He doesn't say it in a sarcastic way. His lips are trembling and there's so much sweat pooling on his forehead he looks like he's been in a sauna.

"I wouldn't be too sure." I pause to check my watch. "The Roofies should be kicking in about now. We're gonnae have so much fun."

My tone's light, as though we're at a party, as I replace the gag. He's not going to tell me who he’s working for and what they wanted, so it's time for me to extract my revenge.

When I'm sure the drugs have kicked in - Conlan is staring up at the ceiling as though he's fascinated by something up there - I get busy with the knife.

Using a knife to cut into human flesh isn't easy, because despite being tied up he won't stay still, but somehow I manage it.

A noxious smell snakes its way up my nostrils and glancing down I see he’s soiled himself. For the first time, I feel a niggle of shame that this is what I've been reduced to.

Later, as I survey my handiwork, I say," this is what it feels like to be helpless."

There's no response from him; maybe he's passed out with the pain or fallen asleep. After using a knife to carve RAPIST into his stomach, he'd bled like a pig.

Before I leave, I go round the apartment wiping prints off anything I might have touched. Once I’ve made sure I've left nothing behind, I close the door for the last time and shove the keys through.

Hurrying along, I find a telephone box and phone for an ambulance, disguising my voice by pinching my nose and putting on an accent. I tell them that someone's hurt and that they need urgent medical help, and then I hang up.