DAVID

Unfinished Business
by S C Cunningham

OPENING CHAPTERS;

HM Belmarsh Prison

He wanted her dead. She needed to know why.

A few months after David’s arrest Tara’s lawyer organised a prison visit. He was surprisingly happy to see her, considering she was the reason for his incarceration. Squirming uncomfortably in plastic bucket seats, they sat facing each other through the grimy glass partition that connected their visitor cubicles.

The putrid stench of onions and urine hung in the warm recycled air. Green lights flashed on microphones, distorted echoes crackled from speakers. Ceiling-mounted cameras whirred overhead. David looked up into a lens and gave a slow salacious wink. He was enjoying this; it was his turn to be watched.

Sadly for him, he was not alone with his angel. Three bulky wardens stood on guard, two behind David and one behind Tara; backs rigid, arms crossed legs apart. Silently waiting for any sign of trouble, stealing cursory glances at the classy blonde. She wasn’t the norm for Her Majesty’s Belmarsh. It seemed lover boy David swung both ways. Warden Jones would not be happy.

Warden Jones was not, he stood behind David seething… so this is the bitch.

Catching the warden next to Jones, leering at her legs, Tara tugged nervously at her skirt, pulling it down over her knees. She looked anxiously over her shoulder for support, but the jittery, overweight, lawyer, stood at the door hugging his brief case, anxious to leave… of no bloody use to anyone, what the fuck am I doing here?

She had gone with the intention of screaming… why, you bastard, why? But the minute she saw his handsome face and lounge-lizard body sprawled leisurely across the seat in front of her, she froze, unable to speak.

He seemed tanned and fitter than ever, he could have been at a bar, chilling, hanging with his boys. Where was the pasty, haunted, prison-deluded look she’d expected… what is this place, a holiday camp?

‘Darling Tara, it’s so good to see you,’ he beamed, eyes flirting, scanning her body, reading her like a book, a book he knew well.

She felt faint, unable to breathe, closing her eyes she was back in his flat, a year ago, naked, bound star shaped to the bed, drowning in the red wine he poured down her throat, fighting for her life, his laughter ringing in her ears.

Panic pumped her chest, sapping her confidence, draining her energy. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on today, on why she was there, on the noises off, of slamming doors and distant cries, on the scratches and smears in the dirty glass between them… breathe in and out, in and out.

With knuckles clenched tight in her lap, she dug fingernails into skin; forcing her mind to still, to concentrate on the pain… he can’t get to me here. I’m safe… breathe in and out, in and out.

They sat in silence, staring at each other. He tilted his head sideways, watching her, as if analysing an unusual specimen in the lab. Beaten, she lowered her eyes… this is a mistake.

Nothing had changed; he still had control, she was still his angel. He smiled, giving a quick ‘I told you so’ glance to the incensed Warden Jones behind him and snapping into the chatty, jovial David, as if friends meeting at a bar.

‘So come on, how the hell are you darling T? Have you missed me?’

She watched him, he didn’t look psychotic or mad, on the contrary, he was beautiful, charming, intelligent, and seemingly, if she didn’t know better, the perfect man.

Her recollection of their time together was hazy, distorted. She had been drugged, held hostage for three days, rescued, hospitalised, and once back to near normal, tried to bury the memories. But listening to his soft low voice, watching his mouth, following his hands, images began to surface. Skin on skin, fingers, tongues softly touching, she shook her head to chase them away.

A sudden image of him naked, smiling, bending over her, entering her quivering body, flashed through her mind, she almost gasped out loud with the shock. Covering it with an awkward shuffling of her chair, she tried to look composed. But he caught the flush of her cheeks and smiled.

‘I would offer you a delicious glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape,’ he whispered softly. ‘I know it’s your favourite.’

More memories cascaded in, suffocation, drowning, panic, the taste of bile, she couldn’t breathe. Putting a hand to her mouth she held back the retch in her throat. He ignored it.

‘But we don’t have that vintage in here darling T,’ he reached out as if to touch her.

She snapped back in her chair, its legs scraped noisily on the lino floor, the wardens stepped forward. He raised both hands in innocent protest, they stepped back.

‘Hey, hey, hey, shhh… little one…’ he beamed, enjoying her fear.

‘Don’t worry my angel, I can’t get to you right now, I’m a little tied up,’ he raised his shackled hands to the glass.

Lowering his voice. ‘But I will my darling, I will… you will taste me again, have no fear.’

They stared each other out, again in silence. Unable to hold her nerve, her eyes flickered and she looked away, he laughed.

‘I am addictive, aren’t I T… hard to resist,’ his eyes shone with amusement, his half-smile calm and controlled.

‘It’s ok, don’t worry, I know it, it’s been like that all my life. People just can’t get enough of me,’ he sighed, turning with a wave of his hand to Warden Jones behind him.

‘Isn’t that right Jonesy boy?’ Jones stared straight ahead, trying to ignore him, incensed. His fellow guards sniggered.

Raising a finger to the window, David slowly traced the outline of Tara’s face, gently stroking the surface of the glass as if caressing her. She turned away in shame; the memory of his touch goose bumped her skin, bile returned to her throat.

No matter how much it disgusted her, she knew deep down that the sex had been consenting, not taken, not forced, but desired. The evil bastard had made love to her, and she let him. Her stomach heaved.

‘I know you want me,’ he whispered low. ‘You want me, don’t you Tara, you’re getting wet I can sense it,’ he beamed, licking his lips.

The lawyer shuffled behind her, unsure whether to interrupt.

‘I will be gentle angel,’ his voice soft, as if lovers.

She closed her eyes and mustered up the strength to speak.

‘W… w w why?’ she stammered, her eyes pleading. ‘I need to know why David?’

‘Because I can fair lady, because you are mine, because you’re on my list… silly girl, now your interfering friends have been added,’ he laughed. ‘I’m gonna be a busy boy when I get out.’

‘Two minutes,’ barked Warden Jones, Tara jumped.

David laughed.

‘A little nervous aren’t we T, you need to relax more,’ he sat back to survey her, savouring her unease.

‘Hmmmm….’ pressing the side of his forefinger against puckered lips; he eyed her like a piece of art.

‘You look a bit peaky dear… you’ve let yourself go, you’re still wearing black I see, your wardrobe never was very imaginative.’

She sat up in her chair and sub-consciously smoothed hands through her hair and over her lap. This pleased him; he leaned closer to the screen.

‘Don’t worry, I still love ya…’ he smiled, drawing a large heart in the dirt of the glass.

The wardens became alert, eyes followed his hands. He kissed the tip of his finger and placed the kiss in the centre of the heart. Watching her reaction through splayed fingers, he slowly opened his hand and pressed it flat against the glass.

She didn’t see it at first; finally the large black letter T tattooed into the palm of his hand came into focus, its grotesque devil-forked tail trailed the skin of his wrist. She jumped in shock. With a half smile, he whispered.

‘You see, I keep you close my darling T…’ lowering his hand, he cupped his cock, and gave it a seductive squeeze.

‘This is my wanking hand, I think of y….’

‘Time’s up Howard,’ spat the warden behind Tara, opening the door for her to leave. ‘Miss Warr, time to go.’

‘Ahh what a shame, just as we were warming up,’ he sighed, leaning back in his chair, open legged, showing the extent of his hard-on beneath tight trousers.

‘Good bye Angel, see you soon, we have some unfinished business…’

He stood and stretched his legs, his bursting cock at Tara’s eye level through the screen… the bastard? Warden Jones pulled him towards the door. Turning back he wasn’t finished with her.

‘I so had you begging for more, remember?’ he sneered. ‘You do remember T, don’t you, our nights together?’

Something snapped, she stared up at him incensed… how could he be so fucking arrogant?

‘No!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t … that’s why I came here…’

She stood and leaned into the glass.

‘… to make sense of it all… but it was a mistake, you just like fucking with people’s minds, you’re sick, and NO, we won’t be seeing each other again, because quite honestly David, you weren’t that good.’

Her lawyer sniggered, nervously. David’s malevolent face whipped around and stopped him in his tracks.

‘Times up Madam,’ barked her warden. ‘Leave now please.’

‘Ah, you see,’ a fake smile covering his anger. ‘That’s where you are wrong… you’re mine and I’m coming to get you.’

The lawyer quickly led Tara out of the room; she ran down the corridor and vomited into the nearest rubbish bin. David’s voice ringing in her ears. It had been a mistake to visit him.

Chapter One

One year later
An old warehouse, Isle of Dogs, East London

He so loved being him, he got away with murder.

‘Bless me father for I have sinned again… and again… and again,’ he chanted in time to the music.

Mozart’s soothing tones swirled the beams of the musky old warehouse. Arched rafters, blacked out windows, twenty square feet of white canvas flooring and four imposing spotlights created the gladiatorial feel of a boxing ring.

He stood blood-splatter-naked, centre stage between two operating gurneys, humming to a violin solo and conducting the air with his scalpel.

‘Where’s David when you need him? The stupid boy is useless.’

Pristine white sheets covered the victim’s faces; one lifeless cold, the other still, but breathing.

Scrooge curious rats tip-toed the edge of the scene, heads high, noses twitching to the iron sweet perfume of blood warming under hot lights.

Licking cocaine tinged sweat from his upper lip; he took a deep breath and hunched his broad glistening back over the hollow carcass. Gently easing the scalpel through the fine layer of tissue, he teased free the final organ. A tremor ran across his tensed hand, it was not like him to be nervous… losing my touch, David would love that. The scalpel shook; a beam of scorching light caught the blade and reflected directly into his right eye.

‘Fuck!’ he moaned, squinting shut, jerking back from the pain.

The tip of the blade dipped and sliced into the very membrane he was trying to avoid; a gate of congealing blood oozed open,

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ he shouted, scattering rats to dark corners.

Merlot red juices decanted onto his perfect canvas, filling the body cavity.
He chased up the liquid with wads of tissue, blotting furiously, cursing the bloody mess. It needed to look perfect; David’s voice rang in his ear… tidiness is next to godliness… imperfection is for the weak.

He didn’t have time for this, the clock was ticking. If they’d fallen for his game they’d be here soon, sirens blaring.

He picked up his phone and punched out a text...

David dear boy, where r u? Tut tut… have started without u, again!

He pressed send.

‘Tut! Tut! Fighting back are we?’ he sneered at the white sheet covering the patient’s face.

‘A little late for that isn’t it dear boy?’

In time to the music, with the flamboyance of a conductor, he waved his arm through the air, landing on a silver tray, perched on a hospital trolley. A row of glistening newly harvested body organs spread across its surface. With the tip of his scalpel he nudged the fatty heart out of the way and playfully jiggled the end of a shrivelled penis.

‘Hmmm… not a lot left to fight wiv, mate,’ he mocked.

‘Lost ya balls ‘ave ya?’ he jiggled some more.

‘Not such a big shot now, are we? Mind you, your dribblin’s improved,’ his laughter echoed the room, rats scurried to dark corners.

Hunched low over the table, his gym pumped torso splattered with blood and sweat, he re-focussed on the dissection, rubber-clad hands returned to work, cleaning up the masterpiece.

One more organ to remove before he started on her.

David’s dirty work, David’s unfinished business.

Chapter Two

Sunday morning, Tara’s Apartment, Chelsea, London

Tara’s computer screen lurched into life with a high pitched ping, letting her know a chat box message had opened from her internet dating site lurvtruk.com.

K9-2L wrote;
Get yer kit off n’webcam on, am long n’hard for u baby

She jumped, spilling the mug of lukewarm Earl Grey tea over her favourite sloppy pyjamas.

‘Fuck, shit, bollocks, shhh… ugar!’ she yelped, breaking the tranquillity of her revered Sunday morning papers ritual.

A second ping.

K9-2L wrote;
Am gonna throw u against the wall, n’pussy bash u til u drop

‘Bloody hell… ok, ok, keep your hair on!’

Weaning herself off swearing was proving difficult for Tara. Would she ever get out of the habit of cussing like a fishwife and start behaving like the genteel lady her mother had paid a small fortune in education for? No, probably not.

But why should she? Swearing was so wonderfully satisfying. The crisp, concise consonants spat under breath, with just the right nuance, always made her feel much better in any trying situation.

She was also lazy, why take the time to string a polite sentence together when the point could be made in one delicious succinct ‘bollocks!’ And after the year from hell she’d had, she deserved at least one vice.

She knew exactly where the bad habit had started - habit being the operative word. In her youth, she’d attended a convent boarding school in the leafy home counties of England. The nuns forbade the use of swear words, and like everything she was ordered not to do, red rag to a bull, she would go out of her way to do.

If only they had just ‘asked’ instead of ‘ordered’, life at the convent would have been so much easier. Rules were not her thing, especially those dished out Gestapo style, for little or no reason. It seemed all the fun stuff was banned; no reading magazines, no watching television, no phone calls, no conversing with boys, no crossing of legs (what were they supposed to do, sit with their legs open?)

From the tender age of eight she remembered the wonderful feeling of power gleaned from the simple act of scurrying past a nun in the corridor whilst muttering a string of the forbidden swear words under her breath.

Normally, the nun in question had wrongly accused her of some mischief or other, therefore fully deserved the torrent of devil prose.

‘Tara Warr, not you again child!’

An innocent Tara would stop in her tracks and look over her shoulder towards the sound of running footsteps and guilty giggles, the real culprits having ‘done a runner’… what now, can these nuns ever get it right?

Finding herself caught last man standing in the wrong place at the wrong time was commonplace for Tara. Snitching on peers was never an option, so she would keep quiet and take the punishment. She wondered how the hell the nuns got it so wrong so often, Miss Marple they weren’t. You would think with God on their side they’d at least have some success in catching criminals, but no. Thank goodness there were no sisters in the police force. It would be safer in jail than out.

‘Heavens preserve us child, you have the divil in ya, and that’s the truth. No supper for you, to your room NOW and toothbrush that dormitory floor until you can see your divil face in it.’

Being an Irish order they always pronounced Devil as Divil, which made him a lot less frightening.

Tara’s revenge at the injustice would be a ‘High Chaparral’ scene in one of the many long dark school corridors. She would be rushing from one classroom to the next and spot an offending nun gliding towards her. They would remain in silence as their paths crossed with a swish of robes and waft of incense. When the timing was just right, she would bravely chant under her breath the longest list of swearwords she could muster … fuck, shit, bollocks, cunt, bastard, whore, bugger, smelly pants, bloody hell, jiminy cricket… she’d learned the last one from the gardener, and had no idea what they all meant but they felt good all the same.

She would walk on by, body clenched tight with excitement, beaming ear to ear, mentally punching the air with a ‘yes’, having got away with breaking a cardinal rule. Leaving the bemused nun tweaking the volume control on her hearing aid, wondering if she was imagining things… what did that child say?

The nuns may rule the roost but the girls had small effective ways of keeping their dignity.

It was now twenty years or so later and she still hadn’t grown out of the guilty pleasure of disobeying the ladies in blue, she swore like a trooper.

Sweeping her hand across her lap, she chased the droplets of tea away before they could seep through pyjama material. Too late, the cold damp liquid soaked her skin… yuk!

‘Shit, shit, shit…’

A further high pitched ping echoed the room.

K9-2L wrote;
Gonna gobble you til u cum, eat u all up, again and again and again

‘My my, cyber lover is impatient today… does he ever get enough?’

Chapter Three

Twenty three years earlier
Heddington Hall, Boys Boarding School, Berkshire, England

At the end of choir practice young David had been summoned to the Headmaster’s study. His small frame shook as he fiddled with his tie, neatened his fringe and tip toed nervously down the long dark corridor to the Heads private quarters.

Taking a large gulp of air, he filled his lungs to bursting point and ran as fast as his spindly legs would carry him, holding his breath all the way. The cloying smell of floor polish mixed with candle wax made him retch – a reflex that stayed with him for life. He was proud that on a good day he could reach the end of the passageway, the Heads doorway, in three gulps, other boys needed four; fat-boy Bartie needed five.

He knew what was in store, but was powerless to stop it. No one ever said no to the Headmaster, Lucian Samell or his playmate, Father Michael. This was their world and they ruled it with fear; fear of the whip, of the wrath of God, of burning in hell, of parents knowing vile secrets. Fear and shame kept the silence; silence gave the Headmaster and Father Michael power.

He was eight and three quarter years old, but one day when he was big enough, strong enough, he would reverse that fear and make them pay. He kept a list of those that had hurt him; their names were etched on his heart. The certainty of revenge gave him the strength to live through the pain - strength beyond his years.

He stopped midway along the corridor to check his socks; one had slipped to the ankle. He bent down and pulled it to the knee, neatly aligning the folded cuffs. Appearance was all important to the Head. For whatever reason you were summoned to his study, whether it be for punishment, reward or ‘special time’, you had to look smart and wear your Heddington Hall uniform with pride. You didn’t want to upset him and add a flogging to the ‘special time’.

Happy that he looked smart; he carried on running, his shiny black shoes clip-clopping against polished stone, lateness was another reason to be whipped.

As he neared the Head’s study he started the chant under his breath.

‘One day I will be bigger, I will be badder… I will be bigger, I will be badder,’ the words kept tears from his eyes.

He reached the heavy oak door and stood nervously before it. Steeling himself to be brave.

‘I will be bigger, I will be badder… I will be bigger, I will be badder.’

He puffed out his chest and stood tall, ready for the game to start. He wouldn’t be beaten, he would get through it by storing up the damage for sweet revenge.

Stepping forward, he heard a low childlike whimper from behind the door. Another boy was already in the room, how could that be? He normally had special time alone with the Head, except for Father Michael of course, who stood silently in the corner watching.

Although initially fearful, David was now grateful for Father Michael’s presence; his noises off were a welcome gauge of when the game was coming to a close, of how much more pain he had to endure.

As a rule, whilst the Head humped David’s small frame stretched over the large oak desk, the priest’s heavy breathing could be heard from the shadows. It would slowly build to a crescendo, followed by the muffled cry of a pained animal, and then silence.

Seconds later, he would be heard scurrying out of the room with a swish of cassock and a waft of old hymnals, the heavy oak door leading to the school chapel slamming shut behind him, cutting off all responsibility for the scene he’d just witnessed - the sodomy of a defenceless boy by a cowardly, perverted, greedy old man, a man entrusted by parents, pupils and society to raise their young.

Father Michael never spoke, never touched David, but the all-important clunk of that door meant the special time was coming to a close. Soon after the Head would also cry out, release his seed and the pain would finally stop.

He would take a tissue from a box on the desk, clean up juices seeping from David’s buttocks and abruptly dismiss him from the room, with a quick ‘Our Father’, a vow of secrecy and more threats of death, fire and damnation if he told anyone… why is the moment when they cry out so important to these men… how can they enjoy giving pain… why can’t he talk about it… why is it a secret… does God approve... he is all seeing, all knowing, why doesn’t he stop them?

Checking no one else was in the corridor, David pressed his ear against the doorframe, straining to listen. As the cries grew louder, his heart pumped hard, the boy was being beaten. What had he done to upset the Head? It must have been bad; the whack of leather on skin could be heard through the door. The boys pleading voice was deeper than David’s, he was older.

Suddenly the cries stopped, the door flew open and David tumbled head first past a disgruntled Headmaster into the dimly lit study, clambering on all fours, panicking at being caught.

‘S s s sorry Sir, sorry Sir... I didn’t mean... I…’

‘Get up you stupid boy, chop chop,’ the Headmaster bore down on him, giving him a kick in the shin.

Wearing a black kimono covered in large pink flower print and waving a horsewhip, his rotund body looked ridiculous.

‘What are you doing listening in hallways?’ he quickly scanned the empty corridor and slammed the door shut.

‘Naughty boy, stand in the corner and remain silent whilst I deal with young Patrick Butler here.’

Eyes darting, taking in the room, David got shakily to his feet. The room was dark, curtains drawn, candles lit. An older boy, probably a sixth former, was strapped naked, face down, across the Headmaster’s desk. Red welt marks covered his back and buttocks. His uniform folded at his feet, a neat pile of socks, pants, trousers, shirt and tie, immaculately folded atop shiny black leather shoes.

David couldn’t see his face, but grimaced at the pool of snot and tears gathered beneath the sobbing boys head. He ran to the safety of the nearest dark corner. A shuffle of brown robes moved in the shadows behind him, Father Michael was already in residence.

‘Not there boy,’ shouted the Head, pointing with his whip. ‘The other corner, you fool.’

‘S s s sorry Sir… sorry.’

‘Stop saying sorry Howard,’ barked the Head. ‘It’s a sign of weakness.’

‘S s s so… yes Sir,’ he corrected, feeling his way along the dark walls to the next corner.

He leaned back against the cool stone, enthralled with the scene before him; it was his turn to watch, to be a voyeur like Father Michael. Excitement bubbled inside; for once he wasn’t the victim.

‘Now where were we Butler dear boy, how many was that 25 or 26 lashes? I’ve lost count… Oh dear, we’ll just have to start again,’ he smiled raising the whip.

‘1... 2... 3...’ Patrick screamed with pain, his raw skin tearing under the impact of each blow.

‘Are you watching dear boy?’ he turned to David, mid hit.

‘Let me introduce you to Butler, you two have a lot in common, it’s time you met. My very ‘special’ boys. You’ll get to know each other intimately, what fun we will have… 4’ he smiled, slamming another blow.

Squinting at David in the dark, he continued the beating whilst he spoke.

‘5… Are you getting hard in your secret place Howard?’

‘Errr… s s sir… I d don’t know,’ David stumbled, not knowing what to reply, what would make the Head happy?

‘Of course you know boy. Don’t be so pathetic, take your clothes off, let me see… 6.’

Patrick cried out, David flinched, the Head carried on.

‘Fold them neatly Howard, chop chop, tidiness is next to Godliness…7.’

‘Y y yes sir…’

‘You will pleasure me later and Butler will watch, if he doesn’t pass out like last time. Pathetic I say, PATHETIC, do you hear me Butler, PATHETIC….’

David shivered in the shadows, wide eyed and tingling. Patrick was beautiful, big and strong, he had more muscles than the Head… he is big enough, why doesn’t he stop it?... does he like the crying out, is he part of the game or is he terrified like me?

If Patrick was powerless, what chance did he have?

Chapter Four

Present day
Sunday morning, Tara’s Apartment, Chelsea, London

Her computer pinged yet another chat box message.

K9-2L wrote;
I’m waitin… tool in hand, hard as steel

She resented the interruption; she looked forward to her Sunday morning newspaper fest.

K9-2L wrote;
Gonna open ur legs n’ gobble u up.

Her scruffy pillow-hair head and nose perched reading glasses had been peacefully immersed in the all too common story of an overpaid, underachieving footballer caught snorting cocaine in a den of iniquity off the backside of a transvestite, judge and two hookers old enough to be his grandma (in defence of hookers, players were so young nowadays grandmas weren’t that old).

The footballers current heel-tottering WAG, Chaynelle, was avidly defending his character; seemingly oblivious to his repetitive indiscretion syndrome - his wallet blocking the view.

She wondered if her own footballer had ever used a hooker… surely not… he’s beautiful, stylish, famous and loaded, he of all people would not need to pay for it… would he?

‘It’ was on tap at the drop of a cocktail stick with any number of micro-skirted, orange tinted, hair extended, floozies - hungry to get their claws into a slice of celebrity.

But with her ex, deliciously handsome Franco Rossellini, a girl would pay to be with him… and he’s worth every penny, she sighed, wishing they were still together. She missed him. Franco wasn’t a stereotypical pretentious footballer. He preferred to live under the radar. Had class, read books, collected his own dry cleaning, did charity work, happily signed autographs and was picky who he played and partied with.

She scanned the rest of the paper, it was full of delicious inane trash; stories of scandalous affairs, deceit, sex and money; plots that sell papers. There had been a spate of hookers selling their sensational exposés to the media, no one else’s business, but Tara loved it, it took her mind off her own nightmares.

Why do rich, beautiful, world-at-their-feet men need to pay for sex? Is it convenience, laziness, a power-kick, women-loathing, cheaper? She made a note to ask Josie, her expert on prostitution.

Tara’s friends, Josie, Helen and Seb, and her enemy, David (Helens geeky younger brother) had known each other from school days, their boarding schools based in the leafy suburbs of Berkshire, England. They had remained close, grown up together and now resided in the magnificent hubbub of London town.

Tara worked in advertising, Josie in the city, Seb in film and Helen in… absolutely nothing… unless you counted the art of spending cash a career. Orphaned as teenagers, Helen and David lived off their substantial inheritance.

The glamorous girls met regularly for lunch, to giggle through the latest gossip, the cost of designer shoes, their disastrous love affairs and the complicated science of men. But a year ago their fun-loving, cosy little world came to an abrupt halt. Childhood secrets surfaced, lies unravelled, Tara ended up in hospital and David in prison.

After ten years of child abuse at the hands of his Headmaster, and a further ten years of plotting and planning his revenge, the mentally volatile David kidnapped the woman he loved, his Angel, Tara, and prepared her for death.

She had no idea that she was on a penance list of names that would pay with their lives for the loss of his childhood innocence. In David’s eyes, when she’d spurned his schoolboy advances she had abandoned him to the abuse, and now as an adult she abandoned him again each time she took a lover.

David had painstakingly stalked her every move for years. Renting a flat above hers, he set up cameras through floorboards and filmed her. He drugged her drink and visited her at night as she slept, they would have sex without her knowledge. She was David’s precious angel; if he couldn’t have her no one would. His plan was to slowly ruin her life, as she had his.

She lost her lucrative advertising job at Harvinger Larvsen, and her lover, footballing superstar Franco Rossellini, when pornographic photographs David had taken of the lovers went viral.

At her lowest ebb, he trapped and kidnapped her, keeping her chained for three days. As he was about to cut her up, scalpel in hand, her friends led by Franco’s chauffer, ex SAS sleuth Michael, charged his flat and saved the day. She ended up in A&E, and he at Her Majesty’s pleasure, HM Belmarsh Prison.

To complicate matters, whilst the saga was unfolding, bi-sexual tour de force David had seduced school friend Seb to trap Tara, the two men becoming lovers.

Josie, after years of living a lie, admitted to her friends that she was not a successful ‘something in the city’ as they’d proudly thought, but a high class whore called Josephine.

Helen, who’d boredom-bonked her way through every male in London (the rest of Europe and parts of central America), started a torrid affair with male fatigued Josie, and they moved in together. Leaving a gobsmacked Tara on the side-lines, not quite sure which she found more uncomfortable, the thought of Josie whoring with dirty old men or minge munching best friend Helen… ewe.

Now, a year down the line, Tara was rebuilding her life, trying to forget David Howard had ever existed.

She had lost her job, Franco, her mother wasn’t talking to her (which was actually a godsend) and Seb, Josie and Helen were now gay, but hey, as long as they were happy… if no longer Josephine, should Josie now be called Joe?… what a very flexible name.

An image of the girls writhing around in a hayloft crept into her mind, she squeezed her eyes shut, hunched her shoulders and shook the image out of her head. Would she ever get used to it?

Another ping brought her back to reality, her chat box vibrated, eager to be answered; maybe she should charge K9-2L… a further question for Josie, what’s the going rate for sex chat lines?

K9-2L wrote;
I’m waitin… hellooooooooo

‘Ok, ok,’ she shouted, uncurling from the sofa.

Her legs, damp with cold tea, ached with cramp; she stretched out, pushing against the stiffness.

‘Urrgh, old age!’ she muttered, shuffling across the room to her desk. ‘Thirty three… going on ninety three?’

The collection of newspapers slid with a whoosh from her lap to the white wooden floor, creating a carpet of grey text and grainy photographs. A shiver went down her spine as she stood over them; it wasn’t so long ago that pictures of her own bare arse had been splashed across the tabloids.

Thanks to David, her affair with Franco had been well documented by the British media. He’d sent numerous sordid pictures of the lovers in action to gossip hungry newspapers, he didn’t like sharing his angel with Franco.

As Franco ticked all the boxes for a media target; handsome, wealthy, respected sportsman, squeaky-clean image, loving son of an aristocratic Italian family, the public ate it up, and the paparazzi hounded them.

Luckily, it wasn’t long before another poor fool in the public eye messed-up and stood in line for his fifteen minutes of shame-fame, providing the nation with fresh entertainment.

Conservative MP Lord Battasliegh had foolishly attempted to pay for his gay lover’s mortgage and penis enlargement on constituency expenses. Lady Battasliegh, dutiful wife of thirty years, had no idea that her husband was gay, yet alone had a pocket-sized paramour and a cute little love nest in a Brighton mews, but the operation did explain the bumper box of nappies she’d found in the boot of her husband’s Jaguar, and there she was suspecting that he had a secret love child.

Every cloud has a silver lining. Their gardener, having had a long term furtive fondness for Lady Battasliegh and an utter loathing for the obnoxious MP, was more than happy to step into his shoes with armfuls of flowers and moral support… moreover, the marital home’s award winning country garden rockery had featured heavily in the background of several BBC news bulletins, causing the nation to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at its splendour. Lady Battasliegh and her lover were chuffed to bits, the petunias looked fabulous and the gardener was offered his own television show.

The MP’s downfall toppled Franco and Tara from front page status; they soon became yesterday’s news, fish and chip paper. But the damage had been done. Tara lost her job and her man, allowing David to keep his angel all to himself.

Who would have thought that Helen’s sweet little choirboy brother, with his skinny knocked knees, saucer brown eyes and long dark lashes, would turn into the stalker from hell. That the shy pint-sized urchin she’d protected from a bullying sister and cheered on through bitter-cold sports days and dreary school plays, would grow into a six foot six monster that wanted her dead.

He was now in prison, and until two months ago she had been staying with an aunt in the country, but enough time spent hiding away feeling sorry for herself, it was time to get back in the saddle, back in her old flat and back on the market.

Ping. She had started with internet dating.

K9-2L wrote;
Cum on girl, cum out to play, u no u want 2

Settling at her battered table she squinted to read the text.

K9-2L wrote;
Wakey! wakey! rise n’shine blondie.

‘If he could see me now he’d run a mile,’ she giggled.

She wasn’t quite the dishy blonde bombshell her dating site blog had led him to believe. More like an aging, scruffy, short-sighted old dog, with last night’s make-up and shaggy hair coiffured by Edward Scissorhands - on acid, in the dark.

His biography photograph had shown him as a ruggedly dark handsome Italian, with a cheeky grin, six foot four inches of muscle and scruffy brown hair. It claimed that he was an ex rugby player who, due to injury, now worked in marketing.

What was it about marketing that made her eyes glaze over with boredom? And what was it about Italian men that made her body perk up with interest?

Urrgh! She would have to pretend her webcam was still on the blink, she didn’t have time to wash hair, put on make-up and get sexily dressed from the waist up.

She nudged her reading glasses into position, pulled the chair snug into the desk, held her hands hovering over the keyboard and wriggled her fingers with anticipation - a maestro ready to perform.

The tingle of excitement crept over her... hmmm, how shall I get his juices going today?

She hit the keys with speed; a stream of words gushed out before she realised the curser hadn’t moved; nothing had been typed in the reply box… urrgh! not again, what’s wrong with this bloody machine?

Grabbing the mouse she jiggled it backwards and forwards in an effort to bring the cursor back to life but it sat stubbornly still, teasing her with its lazy pulse… timing, puhlease, I’m trying to get laid here!

The mouse batteries were new, maybe she typed too fast for it to keep up.

‘For fucks sake you little shit, don’t do this to me now, my Italian stallion is hot to trot… urrgh!’ she shouted at the screen, willing it to life…I really must stop bloody swearing.

The computer had been playing up recently, with pages crashing and the cursor either freezing or throwing a fit, seemingly with a life of its own. If she didn’t know better she would say that someone was controlling it – but that was ridiculous.

Suddenly the cursor miraculously appeared, racing around the desktop like a deranged fly. Settling on the chat box, it input the letter ‘K’, and then hovered over the ‘send’ button, replying to K9-2L’s message on its own.

‘Hey! who’s in control here?’

Blueyz wrote;
K

His reply came back fast, he was eager.

K9-2L wrote;
Want u NOW.

She wriggled the mouse but the cursor jammed again, refusing to budge.

‘Urrgh,.. why, why, WHY?’ biting her tongue from swearing.

Typically, the machine had just past its three year warranty date… surely they should last more than three years, rip-off merchants?

Blowing her fringe out of her eyes with an exasperated sigh, she thumped her elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand and waited for the computer to defrost, defreeze, defecate… or whatever the technical babble was for releasing a cyber blockage.

Finally it moved to her touch.

‘Ahhh, that’s better, we’re off!’

She wrote with speed, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Blueyz wrote;
Whadaya want big boy, r u nice n’ hard 4 me?

K9-2L wrote;
U know wot i want… turn ur cam on...

Blueyz wrote;
Webcam still not working... but take me through it nice n slow, I’m in the bathroom of ur office, the door is locked, I’m wearing stockings n suspenders, bent over the sink, no panties, u r standing behind me, I’m watching u in the mirror, now whotcha u gonna do?

K9-2L wrote;
I’m gonna get on my knees, twist around, slide between ur legs n sit with my head up between ur fyz…

She giggled, his English was good but he never could spell thighs, with modern message jargon it didn’t matter, anything went.

K9-2L wrote;
… gonna spred em wide n hold ur arse while my tong serches ur clit, gonna lick, roll, flik til is bursting, engorged, fat, beggin 2 cum.

‘Good Gawd, his lingo’s improving,’ she giggled.

Engorged was a big word for him… he’s probably using spellcheck.

They had not met, yet they were sharing intimate fantasies and private secrets that she had barely admitted to herself let alone anyone else. The ‘not knowing’ her cyber-lover freed her inhibitions. He had made it clear that they would never meet; his life was his work, he had no time for relationships and lived overseas, a ‘pen pal’ was all he needed. Which suited her down to the ground; she was just dipping her toe back into the relationship market, getting back on that horse.

After experiencing the wrath of David and her unhappy bosses, Tara had gratefully accepted a redundancy package and taken on the self-imposed torture of writing a novel. She had always wanted to write, but never had the guts, choosing instead the umbrella safe 9-5 job option.

Facing death had given her the kick she needed, life was too short, she would write a bestselling thriller.

The romantic idea of being a novelist, leaving behind petty office politics and the hamster wheel of London commuting, of working at her own pace with no anal retentive boss peering over her shoulder, appealed to her.

But what the hell was she thinking? Writing was harder than she’d ever have imagined; slow, tough, frustrating and bloody lonesome.

On one of her lonelier days, facing a bleak blank page with zero inspiration, missing the office buzz, banter and social schmoozing, she found herself joining ‘lurvtruk.com’, an internet dating site.

What could be the harm, everyone was doing it. She would just sign up and see what happened, she didn’t need to actually meet any one, just read their messages, if any. A bit of fun, they can’t all be desperate, perverted, dangerous, losers surely?

After filling in the tedious forms to create her profile, she added her photos, a little bleary and out of focus, which softened wrinkles, but they would do.

Three weeks later she needed a private secretary to handle the mayhem, 5,000 hits, 360 favourites and 298 mails – which after her year from hell was a much needed bombardment of attention.

Initially it was shocking, she felt a strange mix of desperation and guilt at being open for the world to see how lonely she was, but once she started reading the mails she realised that most of them were actually human; kind, shy, funny, lonely... normal.

Like her, they were just trying to reach out and connect, feel important to someone. They didn’t want to sit through fiercely embarrassing blind-date dinner parties’ setup by well-meaning friends or drunkenly trawl bars and clubs to find companionship. They had plucked up courage, put their heart on their sleeve and jumped into the world wide web of lost souls searching for one another.

Maybe there was a place for the lottery of Internet Dating after all. Her confidence grew and she found herself rushing to the computer ten times a day with guilty schoolgirl pleasure, eager to see who had made contact. Of course there was the odd prat, but she soon learned to circumnavigate those.

The username was the first giveaway for a total plonker; ‘cumallnite’ or ‘hard4u’ just didn’t bring to mind someone to invest a lot of time into, introduce to your friends or risk your health on. Their heart didn’t seem in it… another organ maybe. She couldn’t resist advising that they were possibly on the wrong website.

Of course the sexy chat would eventually come into the mix, as it had with K9-2L. But not until you had got to know each other first, shown your Mother Theresa, caring, loyal, dog loving, bring-home-to-mother side. Too soon with sexy chat was a turn off – the equivalent of cyber premature ejaculation.

She was a little concerned at the number of women on her ‘viewed by’ list, but put it down to them sussing out the competition, girls will be girls, even in cyberspace... or had she inadvertently ticked the ‘woman looking for women’ box? She was lousy at form filling.

It was only a computer screen (when it worked!), armed with an all-powerful delete button, what damage could it cause?

Chapter Five

Lunch at Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London

Tara waited patiently at the table, her girls were late again.

She sighed… ewe, probably exchanging juices in a hotel room somewhere, grimacing at the thought of Helens head bobbing furiously between Josie’s spread thighs. Although they shared Helen’s luxury pad in Knightsbridge, the girls had a thing about hotel rooms, something to do with their first sexual experience together... go figure? such a waste of money.

‘Urrgh’ she moaned aloud, scrunching her eyes, hunching her shoulders and shaking her head at the thought.

Minge munching definitely wasn’t her thing. Why couldn’t she go there without a cerebral melt down?

‘Urrgh,’ she shuddered to reboot.

She had hoped the relationship would be a school-girl-crush phase and wane after a while. That they would eventually tire of the labia worship thing, and swap back to the feel of a bona fide man.

But no, alas, it was more than a quick inquisitive girl on girl fumble, her two best friends had been dating for a year now and seemed to fall more and more in love, or lust. Three being a crowd she felt left out, a spare prick at a wedding. The girls had an intimacy she couldn’t compete with.

Since Tara’s self-imposed exile to the country and Josie’s move to live with Helen (giving up her lucrative life as a high class hooker, understandably, Helen didn’t like to share), she had seen less and less them, as with every new couple, they were loved up in a world of their own. Old friends were surplus to requirements.

Tara admitted that initially, she had found the relationship tough to accept, especially as the girls had both been utter man-eaters before discovering the joys of labia worship, but as long as she didn’t have to see any of the touchy feely stuff in front of her, she was fine.

Helen took advantage of Tara’s prudishness and enjoyed winding her up with lascivious displays of affection at every opportunity, accusing her of being in denial.

‘You’re a coward Tara Warr, you secretly want to have a go, but you’re a scaredy cat ... frightened you’ll like it, end up cropping your hair, wearing doc martin boots, and have I love KD Lang tattooed on your forehead.’

She enjoyed accusing Tara of being a closet lesbian at every sniff of lesbo opportunity. Tara, wondering if Helen may be right, would stare off into the distance trying to go there for a nanosecond, to conjure up naked female limbs rolling around in hay... why hay?

But no, an eye squint, a shoulder scrunch and a head shake … nope, definitely not.

‘Nah, absolutely no chance, I can’t even picture it. No springy haired, anchovy smelling, minge munching for moi thank you very much.’

She definitely loved men, although God knows why, they were decidedly bad for her health.

‘If you’re missing the feel of a man, just use a strap on,’ suggested Josie, trying to be helpful.

‘Yuk no, how ridiculous is that, some woman kneeling over you waving a rubber donga in your face, I’d be mortified… How do you know she’s not gonna get over macho on me, lunge too deep and surface in my throat? No thank you, a pink plastic appendage can’t replace the feeling of being entered by the real thing...’

Again, she would stare off into the distance, her voice taking on a whisper. Man on girl action she definitely could visualise.

‘... the look in his eye, the smell of his skin, the raw animal sound that comes from the back of his throat as he slowly eases all the way up... that little catch in his breath… priceless!...’

It had been a year since she last had sex… you could tell.

Josie would clear her throat, bringing Tara back to the present; she missed that feeling too, but didn’t dare tell Helen.

‘... a bird simply couldn’t do that for you, not equipped for the job I am afraid...’ Tara would continue.

‘... it’s like, I could never be a veggie, missing Peking duck and crispy bacon would kill me... call me old fashioned, but not until dildos have been vastly improved into some sort of virtual reality cyber thingy that can emulate the warm, sexy, soft skin, the feel, sound, smell and wetness of a man to perfection will I swap a cock for a strap-on.’

‘Ahh, but there is no way a man can lick you out like a woman can,’ informed Helen. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing hun,’ she sighed, beaming at Josie.

Tara cringed, squinted, hunched and shook her head.

‘Ewe… stop,’ she’d push her palm in Helen’s direction. ‘You just haven’t met one, they are out there… so, ok, agreed, some of them get it gigantically wrong... oh so wrong... but surely it’s up to us to show them how,’ she defended.

‘Remember how you were with blow jobs, until you realised that no blowing was actually involved. You gave one poor guy an air pocket and his wotsit went blue…You just had to learn hun.’

Josie giggled, immediately getting a dig in the ribs from an indignant Helen.

‘It was only the once, I could never get those darn BJ’s right, I thought about it too much, got myself in a pickle,’ Helen defended.

Tara would smile, they’d agree to disagree. It was time for her to move on, get over it, her friends were satisfied, consenting, labia loving lesbians, she should just be pleased that they were happy... little did she know.

‘On the bright side, I guess it leaves more men for moi.’

She would punch them lovingly, although not too lovingly, careful to be more manly than girlie, or should it be the other way around... urrgh.

‘... but I sure do miss our girlie chats, we don’t talk the science of understanding men anymore, I miss those times.’

She resented the fact that girlie lunches had become dull, like going to a steak house with a vegetarian - don’t mention the meat. The dynamics had changed, and unlike ‘straight’ relationships, you weren’t allowed to take the piss out of each other, no gay jokes. She concluded that lesbians were far too serious… or maybe she was just plain jealous of her friends closeness.

The sun poured in through large French windows, casting its hazy magic across the room. Cutlery and glasses glistened, centre pieces of bright yellow flowers posed proudly atop white linened tables. Waiters and diners cheerfully greeted each other. She loved London when the sun was out, people actually smiled at each other.

Tara sat at their regular window spot, looking out onto the busy Chelsea street. She glanced at her watch.

‘Where the hell are they? Why can’t they ever be on time?’ she muttered, returning to her newspaper, flushed with billy-no-mates embarrassment. Aware people were looking at her sitting alone... it’s so bloody rude. Her fingers impatiently rapped the table top.

Suspecting they would be late, she’d grabbed the last newspaper left in reception, the Financial Times. Far too high brow, but it made her look uber intelligent. Rustling the pages to life, she focused in on the text burdened front page... ooops! it would help to have it the right way up.

Flipping the paper over she glanced around hoping no one had noticed the dumb blonde studiously reading the FT upside down.

Luckily, only one old gent was staring. His napkin perched cheerfully atop his rotund belly, strands of hair stretched defiantly ear to ear over his shiny pate. He was looking so lasciviously at her crossed legs that she doubted he would have cared if she had had the IQ of her shoe size.

She uncrossed her legs and tucked them neatly Princess-Di-style under the chair, pulling her skirt sharply over the knees as she did so. With the view terminated, he turned his attention back to his deeply boring Caesar Salad; the wife obviously had him on a diet.

Losing interested with the paper, her eyes wandered to the coffee shop across the street, one of David’s old stalking venues, her body shivered. Even though he was locked up in prison, she felt sure she heard the click of his camera shutter, a noise that haunted her dreams.

Click, Click. Click, Click.

It was a year since the abduction, a year since the three days that plagued her, just three small pathetic days, seventy two hours that changed her. It had actually started before then, in school.

Looking back, if only she’d handled it differently, seen the signs, life may have turned out differently for the beautiful little scrap of a boy, different for all of them. How could she not have noticed he was being abused?

She put his shy awkwardness down to ‘a phase’, not helped by his bullying big sister. She should have paid more attention, listened to him. Instead, when he’d written, opening his heart to her, she’d sent a pathetic polite one pager, spurning his schoolboy crush and wishing him luck in life… condescending, thoughtless, cruel… and what crap timing, the same week his beloved mother died in a car crash.

With no one to turn to is it any wonder he cracked. The boy was raped on a daily basis, frightened and alone. To survive he made a childlike promise to the devil, in exchange for protection he would murder his tormentors. He became increasingly distant, violent, void of empathy or remorse, whatever it took to cover the pain and find the strength to survive and eventually kill. She would have done the same, those men deserved it… maybe she deserved it.

Twenty years later he hadn’t forgiven her part in his story; it was her turn to pay. She felt compassion for the boy but feared the man he’d become. He stalked, kidnapped, drugged and raped her…very nice, just a day in the life of Tara Warr.

It didn’t sound so bad if you said it quickly, but it had knocked the life out of her. She became reclusive, lost her confidence and, just when she needed him most, her boyfriend Franco.

The realisation that life was fragile, a wrong turn and you were gone, that evil can step in at any time, rocked her inner core.

She turned inward, lost hope, worth, the point… she just wanted to stop, to get off the band waggon, to take a few pills and quietly die. Put an end to the nightmares, anxieties, shakes and demons. She fell into depression.

Death crept over her like a blanket; she became obsessed with it, discovering a whole world of information on the internet that helped you to commit suicide.

The aim was to find a way that was fool proof; she didn’t want to risk failure, to live out her years as a vegetable, in a coma or other such grief that befell the failed suicidist, to be on the wrong end of a sick joke, ‘hey, you thought your life was shyte before, well get a load of this, you’ve got locked-in syndrome’.

When it came down to it, bottom line was, she just wasn’t brave enough.

Time played a trick on her. Whilst she was working out how to end it, life’s boring shallow minutia trundled on regardless; bills still needed paying, dust needed cleaning, loo rolls needed buying, roots needed colouring, legs needed waxing, the bin men still came on Wednesdays, computers still crashed and socks still went missing.

The doctor put her on anti-depressants, she had dozens of therapy sessions, the Private therapists told her how wonderful she was and the National Health therapists told her to pull her socks up. Before she knew it months had passed and she’d been tricked into staying alive.

With the help of doctors and right medication mix, obsessing on suicide became a temporary state of mind, the two stubborn human instincts finally kicked in, survival and hope. She wasn’t totally free from the sadness, she would need to keep an eye on it for the rest of her life, protect herself, know the signs, it frightened her how fragile the mind was, how easy it was to be tipped over into depression. She resolved to stay away from stressful situations, and find humour in situations rather than panic, humour dissolves fear.

She accepted a redundancy pay off from her job, spent seven months healing in the country with a sweet old aunt, Mary Warr, started writing a novel and was now a year down the line, out of the depressive fog, back in her old flat, almost her old self, grateful she hadn’t found the ideal suicide stratagem - time does heal.

Or so she thought. For the past few weeks David had managed to seep back into her dreams. The nightmares had returned, although strangely, they were not frightening, they were passionate, dark, uncomfortable, fantasies. It disgusted her; she would wake up covered in sweat, feeling ashamed and dirty. He was locked up in prison, how could it feel so real?

She scanned the coffee shop window to ensure he wasn’t there... stupid girl, he’s behind bars, probably rogering some poor defenceless inmate… he is out of your life, get over it!

She preferred to remember David as a young boy, it was less frightening. If only she had done more, but what? He was a beautiful cherubic child, and had grown into a tall, dark, jaw-droppingly handsome man, oozing confidence from every pore. A sexual tour de force, men and women adored him; he had no trouble attracting lovers. Living off his parent’s inheritance, he and Helen had everything on a plate. His life should have been so different.

Her therapists said that due to his time at Heddington Hall, he associated self-esteem with sexual power. Love to him was violence, pain and fear, something he learned to fake, to use as a weapon and gain control.

To survive the abuse young David needed to regain control, to rule some part of his life the Headmaster couldn’t touch or soil. He started by pulling the wings off insects, and then moved on to the ‘god like’ dissection of animals in the school science lab. Finally, using the only bait he knew, sex, he seduced, trapped and killed those that hurt him, thus regaining power, dignity, and self-worth.

His sister had her own demons, although strikingly beautiful, Helen lacked confidence and constantly craved affirmation that she was good enough. Jealous of her young brother’s beauty, fearful from day one that he was mother’s favourite; she bullied him relentlessly for years.

Tara had never voiced it, but suspected that Helen had been part of David’s problem, if she had been a supportive older sister instead of a bullying one, the truth of his abusers may have been ousted in time to stop the rot.

Her head ached with questions; she had spent three lost days with David in a drugged haze. She needed to understand what had happened and why, to put it behind her. She craved the carefree, shallow life she had a year ago, BD, before David.

A commotion came from the reception area, snapping her out of her daydream. Tara and the rest of the restaurant turned to follow the noise... why is Helen flying across the bar area dressed as a gladiator warrior?

Daddy’s little rich girl obviously had too much time on her hands. Having seen the uber cool boys and girls rollerblading in Hyde Park, Helen persuaded Josie to take up the sport as something fun they could do together. They had not yet managed to hone their skills to perfection but no matter, the sexy tomb raider gear looked hot; kinky dominatrix meets sporty action woman.

Shoes packed neatly in their matching back-packs, Helen had persuaded reluctant Josie to ‘blade’ the journey from the park to the restaurant for lunch, to show off their new found talent to Tara. Unable to navigate tricky pavement kerbs, they travelled by road, ensnaring an angry snake of white vans, taxis, buses and motor bikes, running behind them.

The journey, more Benny Hill than sexy Tomb Raider, was finally over. Helen had not yet mastered the ‘off’ position, as the concierge opened the door she flung herself from the pavement into the safety of the Cellini’s busy reception area, with a squeal of delight.

‘We’ve made it!’ she whooped.

Josie followed a little more sedately, managing to successfully engage the ‘off’ position by ramming her blades into the reception desk. Clinging on gratefully to the very kind coat lady, she got her balance.

‘I am never doing this again,’ she mumbled, glancing over her shoulder at the hovering police car that had been following them for the past ten minutes.

With the girls safely inside, the snarling traffic dispersed to the abusive chorus of tooting horns, waving fists and verbal expletives, directed at the restaurant doorway. The police drove on by.

‘Bloody hell Hel, I thought we were gonna be arrested.’

Helen didn’t hear her, unable to stop she flew banshee-like past the coat lady, across the bar, skirted the aghast Maitre d’ (his lobster linguini order held high overhead), through the kitchen swing door, ending up in a heap at an amused Sous Chef’s feet. Miraculously no one was hurt.

Tara held her head in her hands, all thoughts of David gone, the girls had arrived.

Chapter Six

Lunch at Cellini’s, Chelsea, London

‘Girls, look at him, he’s puce with anger, he’s been looking for an excuse to ban us for years, do you have to give him one? I quite like coming here,’ giggled Tara, from behind her menu.

Helen had received a standing ovation from cheering diners as she emerged ruffled but triumphant from the kitchen, thwarting the fuming Maitre d’ from demanding they leave.

‘Those three are a bloody nuisance,’ he snorted to his smiling coat lady, she loved the girls, they always looked so sophisticated, and tipped generously.

‘I’m running a sophisticated establishment here, not a bloody madhouse,’ puffing out his chest and tugging the hem of his snug fitting waist coat, he strutted off to deliver the, now cold, linguini.

It would be difficult to ban the girls, the staff and the owner, one of Josie’s loyal ex regulars, adored having them around, they added a bit of glamour, frisson, to the room. Always some form of excitement or other at their table. Diners had been known to ask to be seated next to them, but his small mindedness didn’t see the value.

Helen and Josie eventually surfaced from the ladies loo looking flushed, their blades and back-packs safely checked in with the coat lady.

Hugging Tara they slumped, relieved the ground was no longer moving, into their seats and tucked thirstily into their wine.

‘Well he’s absobloodylutely right, it’s bleedin stupid. There’s no way I’m ever effing doin that again,’ moaned Josie, her cockney accent stronger when angry. ‘Anybody wanna buy a pair of almost new blades?’

She knocked back her wine and banged the empty glass down hard on the table.

‘I’m black‘n bleedin blue,’ she offered her glass to Tara, who sat by the ice bucket. ‘More drink please hun... I’m gettin a bleedin taxi home’.

‘You can’t give up that easy, you were doing so well,’ Helen grinned wickedly, leaning over to stroke her thigh. ‘Besides you look bloody sexy in your outfit.’

Tara grimaced, not again, praying they wouldn’t go all slushy on her, she would be sick. Maybe she wouldn’t have the oysters today.

‘Sexy!’ fumed Josie, slapping her hand away, she wasn’t in the mood.

‘Sexy! I don’t know what ‘effing planet you’re on Hel, but I spent most of my time on my arse, and when I did manage to stand up I moved as gracefully as a farting baboon. Going snail’s pace down the Earls Court Road, with a bunch of juggernauts, white vans and the number 74 bus up my jacksey is not a good look Hel… not in any muff-diving manual. We’re in our thirties girl, blading is for the young… get over it.’

Helen and Tara sat open mouthed listening to this very unusual tirade from their normally calm, cool, cockney sparrow. Josie gulped more wine, not finished.

‘I’ve smashed knee caps, am covered in bruises, been followed by the wooden tops, nearly arrested, my girlfriend decides to make an entrance from a Benny Hill movie and I am in danger of being banned from my fav restaurant, all in one morning… yeah, very sexy! Angelina eat yer heart out.’

‘Wooden tops,’ enthused Tara. ‘I remember them, Bill and Ben and Little Weed.’

‘No T, not the kids programme,’ whispered Helen. ‘She means cops, the police were following us… just a little.’

‘Just a little!! Wot the hell is that, sorry officer, I was just a little holding up the west end of London, you gonna lock me up and throw away the key, a little?’ red faced, still not finished.

‘That gear…’ she nodded her head at the offending back pack, propped on the shelf behind the coat lady, an innocent elbow pad sticking out from a pocket.

‘….that gear,’ poking an accusing finger. ‘Is goin on effing eBay, pronto,’ another swig, she was definitely pissed off, she’d never used eBay.

‘Ooooooh, you are so sexy when you’re angry, I love it... and you’re all mine, mine, mine,’ giggled Helen, running a hand up Josie’s leg under the table, she leaned in to kiss her. The restaurant noise hushed to a whisper as diners noticed.

‘Uuurghhh, girls can we move on now puhlease!’ interrupted Tara, thrusting menus unceremoniously onto their laps, putting a stop to the show.

‘Enough of the roller blade saga, am famished, lets order. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, you two are so bloody rude.’

They apologised as per usual, and as per usual she forgave them. She had been holed up in the flat writing for weeks, going stir crazy, and needed a fun injection of girl’s banter; nothing was going to ruin it.

They gossiped their way through a bottle of white and excitedly dissected the new menu, it was good to be air-headedly girlie again, Tara couldn’t help smiling.

As wine reduced resolve, they agreed to forget diets and have a full blown feast, banning anything remotely healthy. They would finish with shared portions of Apple Crumble, Crème Brule and Eton Mess, followed by a sample of each cheese on the board and a tasty little desert wine.

‘Gawd, I’m stuffed just thinkin about it, where’s the waiter?’ Josie searched the room.

‘Did anyone take notes? I’ve forgotten what we’re orderin it’s so much… blimey, Henry VIII here we come,’ she leaned back and patted her stomach. ‘I love food!’

‘Love food, love sex I say,’ offered Tara. ‘Henry may well have been great in the sack… certainly satisfied enough wives, until divorce proceedings kicked in, that is… losing their heads was not a good look.’

Josie rocked back with laughter, she had missed Tara’s off the wall banter, and was pleased to see her returning to form.

‘Ahhh, s’good to see you girl, we’ve missed you,’ she toasted Tara’s glass.

‘How’s the book going T, written a best seller yet?’ asked Helen, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

‘In a word NO,’ barked Tara. ‘Don’t ask!’

She had wanted a day off from thinking about the book, but couldn’t resist having a moan.

‘It’s crap, I procrastinate for hours, do anything I can to put off facing that blank page… cooking, ironing, cleaning… I hate cooking… everything I own has burn marks… and the flat is bleached to within an inch of its life. Then I write loads and delete it, I write some more and delete that... then the computer crashes… I haven’t backed up, so I lose everything, then I wait a few days for the engineer guy to resuscitate the damn thing. I could swear a gremlin comes in and shakes my pages around, I keep finding paragraphs out of synch…’ the girls gave her a sideway glance. ‘I’m being sabotaged.’

‘I’m not blaming my tools,’ she huffed. ‘Look, it’s bloody hard and bloody lonely and I don’t know if I am any good anyway…’

Helen wished she hadn’t asked, the rant continued.

‘… I pick at food all day and don’t bother washing. I’ve put on ten stone and stink to high heaven. Whoever thinks writing is glamorous is so wrong, you live like a mushroom, smell like a pig and have sleepless nights of self-doubt… bollocks, am going back to advertising, to nibble on mushrooms, work with pigs, and have sleepless nights shagging my way to the top.’

The girls sat staring at her, she wasn’t joking, they hadn’t seen her in a few months, and didn’t realise how tough she was finding it.

‘Maybe becoming an authoress isn’t your thing hun,’ suggested Josie, trying to be helpful.

Tara looked at her, an uncomfortable silence fell across the table.

‘Are you suggesting I give up?’

‘No, am just sayin…’

‘You think I’m a useless writer don’t you,’ Tara interrupted. ‘Don’t you?’

‘No, no T, just that…’

‘It’s ok, you can say it, I can take it,’ Tara’s voice quietened.

‘Hush, hush… I aven’t even read your stuff you silly mare,’ Josie soothed. ‘Just sayin, when sumfin ain’t fun no more, maybe you should walk away?’

‘I agree T, if it’s such hard work why bother?’ offered Helen.

‘Err duh! Cos I need to earn money, cos I’m unemployable, cos my last job went for a burton when I had an affair with a client, cos my naked body got splashed across the front of the newspapers, cos my sorry arse got kidnapped by a psychotic killer, cos I nearly died… cos I mistakenly thought I was best placed to write a psycho thriller…’

Josie and Helen exchanged nervous glances. She hadn’t talked about the incident for a long time.

Silence.

‘… but, your right girls,’ she softened. ‘I should give it up,’ she took a deep breath.

‘Phew! I feel much calmer, thank you,’ she smiled, relieved at coming to a decision.

‘I love talking to you guys, you always sort me out. What was I thinking, an author, I can’t even spell, what a load of bollocks,’ she toasted them.

Helen and Josie looked at each other and shrugged.

‘That was easy, anytime you need to talk yourself out of something, you just let us know,’ smiled Helen. ‘Happy to oblige,’ she joined Tara’s toast and clinked glasses.

‘So, you were writing about David?’ Helen quizzed.

‘I thought you were writing a cookery book,’ admitted Josie, sheepishly.

‘No, hun, I was living like a mushroom, not writing about them… see, shows how much you guys know, I hardly ever see you these days. I don’t like being the token straight gal in this threesome… my book is about a killer, I guess it was a way of getting over David, but I ran out of storyline at chapter one, not a good start. I need some excitement in my life, some inspiration.’

Beep Beep - Croak Croak, Beep Beep - Croak Croak

Her annoying frog ringtone rang from the bag at her feet. Retrieving the mobile, she squinted at the screen to vet the caller before answering. It was Seb, a warm smile spread across her face.

‘Bonjour you,’ she purred into the phone. ‘Hey, have you got a job going, I’m giving up the authoress business.’

Seb was a good friend and a talented fashion photographer. It was funny how easily she accepted him being gay, but not her girls.

‘But you’ve only been doing it five minutes,’ Seb replied.

‘I know but I’m crap at it, I can’t spell, so…’

‘That’s what editors are for… hey, who are you with, where are you?’ he interrupted, not his normal chatty Irish charmed self. His voice clipped, making her uneasy.

‘Errrr... I’m with the girls, at Cellini’s, why? What’s wrong, you sound stressed, why don’t you come on over.’

‘David escaped from prison Tara,’ there was no easy way to say it.

The blood drained from her body, she slumped back in the chair and put her hand to her mouth. Sensing the mood change, the chatting girls hushed to watch her horrified face.

‘Three months ago, I only just found out, the officials kept it hush hush. There have been some developments the police want to talk to us, particularly his next of kin, is his sister with you?’

Seb was shaking; she could hear it in his voice. He was doing a lousy job of trying to sound calm. Seb had been having an affair with David until the day he was caught cutting into Tara.

‘But don’t panic T, they found his body in a fire in Mexico, he’s dead, they need to talk to Helen, is she with you?

Tara didn’t hear his last line; she had passed out, dragging the ladened white linen table cloth with her to the floor.

For the second time that lunch the girls had caused a commotion, first the police car, then the ambulance.

Chapter Seven

Three months earlier
Mexico

David kicked shut the hotel room door, grabbed Jonesy’s boyish face and sunk his tongue deep into his mouth. They tumbled, legs, arms, suitcases akimbo, back onto the luxurious bed of the Honeymoon Suite. They had made it to the safety of Mexico, everything was going to plan.

Being on the wrong side of the law excited Jonesy; hungry to fuck he scrambled out of his clothes. They had finally done it, all the planning, waiting, double-dealing had paid off. They were free, on the run, horny as hell and loaded with cash. Fumbling with his zipper he pulled out his bursting for attention cock and slammed David’s hand to the base of it.

David laughed at his eagerness, but wasn’t in the mood. He smacked the cock aside, grabbed Jonesy by the throat and pushed him back against the head board with force, keeping the squirming body at arm’s length.

‘Whoa, easy big boy, relax we have all at the time in the world,’ he teased, giving Jonesy’s nipple a flirtatious squeeze.

Jonesy stared wide eyed with shock; he loved it when David got rough, he wanted to get fucked, now… hard.

‘That flight was fucking hell, thought they had sussed us in customs. Shit, I need a hot bath and a slutty cocktail,’ David grinned.

‘How’s about I make us a sip-drip-n-get-laid, a David Special?’ he grinned, releasing his hold on Jonesy’s throat.

‘Tequila, lime and Champagne… vitamins, bubbles and a kick start to your engine… perfect!’

He leant down to lick the pink bulging rim of Jonesy cock, and immediately repelled, grimacing.

‘God Jonesy, you stink!! Get in that bathroom now!!’ He camp mocked. ‘I’m not going anywhere near that thing until it is squeaky clean... yuk! Year old blue cheese has seen better days!’ Skipping off the bed he walked to the minibar.

‘No one will find us here; we are free, Jonesy boy, free!’

Offended, Jonesy examined his depleting cock and sniffed his fingers.

‘Free maybe, but on the run forever,’ he grumbled. ‘I have given up my life for you, you bastard.’

Wounded by the blue cheese comment, he covered his shrinking manhood with a pillow, kicked off jeans caught at the ankle, and slunk back onto the bed, a spoilt child. Sullen faced he watched David prepare the cocktails. A twinge of reality-check fear crept over him.

In the past 48hrs he’d lost count of how many laws he had broken, he’d watched a man die, walked out on his job, his home, his life, his country and was now on the other side of the world, in the middle of nowhere, on the run with a serial killer. He had never been west of Cardiff… shit, what the hell am I doing?

Panic pumped his heart out of his chest. What if David didn’t need him anymore? What if he had served his purpose? What if David wanted to be with that woman, the one that visited him in prison, the one he always talked about… Tara, bloody Tara… ‘a rat’ backwards, how bloody apt.

‘Never leave me Dave, never... promise me?’ he pleaded, crawling to the edge of the bed, imploring puppy dog eyes boring into David’s back as he juiced limes.

David smiled, why was Jonesy so pathetic?

Luckily the slut cocktails had the desired effect, Jonesy’s fears were soothed away, he stopped whining and started giggling. After a hot shower they had a marathon sex session, enjoying the freedom of fucking when, where and as loud as they liked – no hiding from wardens and inmates.

They alternated shagging, feasting, dozing, shagging, feasting, dozing through the night, and most of the following day, not once leaving the hotel room. David had made sure the room was well stocked with food and drink. He had also booked a special treat for their second night. They would take a private speed boat for an early evening cruise; picnic, drink champagne and make love on the waves whilst watching the sunset, thus completing one of Jonesy’s fantasies.

Fulfilling Prison Warden Simon Jones’ wish list was one of the many promises David had made to gullible Jonesy whilst planning their escape. David had been a model prisoner. His posh voice and pretty public schoolboy looks could have set him up for a rough ride, but his sly sultry ability to make everyone feel ‘special’, had cons and guard’s eating out of his hands, within weeks he was everybody’s favourite and landed a cushy job in the laundry room.

The secret lovers would huddle in a corner, away from surveillance cameras and fuck hard against the deafening noise of pounding washer dryers. All the while David whispering into Jonesy’s ear, teasing promises of the luxuries they would have; the places they would visit and the money they would spend when he was free.

David had spotted him early on as a likely low self-esteemed candidate to enslave. Initially he proved difficult prey, a suburban goody-two-shoe, too worried about getting caught and losing his job, but once he had tasted David, he became a malleable puppy.

As with all his victims, David studied Jonesy, learnt his dreams, what made him tick. Through listening, flattery and the good old Achilles heel of mind blowingly great sex, he slowly took control. David was good, addictive, and he knew it - a hard drug to turn down.

Jonesy became an eager co-conspirator. Using David’s stashed inheritance funds he was in a perfect position to fetch, carry and implement their escape plan, risking his job, freedom and the trust of family and friends. Being a Newcastle boy, family, particularly his mum, was important to him, but David’s seduction technique proved stronger than blood.

They walked out of prison one morning, in broad daylight, as two guards at the end of their shift. Boarded a plane on fake passports and were supping champagne in first class before the authorities realised David was missing. The body of a warden had been found in his cell bunk, his neck broken.

The excited warden had been expecting a blow job. Jonesy watched nervously from the doorway, keeping a look out. David set to work. It was a clean, quiet effective job, no blood, no mess, just the satisfying snapping sound of a head being yanked 180 degrees.

Stripped and tucked into bed, David stood over the body for a few seconds surveying his work… shame, no time to open up, what a waste of a good dissection.

Jonesy loved being around David, the buzz of danger, the power he exuded over the other cons, the respect from the guards, the thrill of getting caught. But most of all he loved being the ‘chosen one’ to share David’s bed, the mind blowing, heart pumping, pass-out, horny sex.

He had had a few girlfriends and eventually planned to do what his mum expected of him, get married and settle down. Sex with inmates was no big deal, part of prison life; it livened up a dull work day. But David was something else; his mesmeric voice and touch had you losing your mind.

Jonesy was totally under his spell, brainwashed, brainfucked, and adoring every bloody minute. For the first time in his predictably dull existence he felt alive, attractive, needed. David could make you believe anything was possible, and with him it was.

Over the months of preparation, they playfully put together a wish list of things that Jonesy had only ever dreamed of. The Jonesy’s Most Wanted list; swimming with Dolphins, owning a pair of handmade shoes, buying his mum’s council house, building a miniature railway, not talking about that Tara woman, joining the mile high club, having a pint with his hero, Alan Shearer, owning a pair of Directors Box tickets at Newcastle Football Club.

David had promised to do everything on the list and more. Newcastle’s Directors Box may have to wait a bit, sneaking in and out of the country for a footy game may be tough, but Shearer could be persuaded to pop out of the country for a pint. Jonesy glowed in the attention, no one had ever shown such interest in him before, he was flattered.

The mile high club was the first dream to be ticked off on the flight out of Heathrow. Making love on a speedboat in the middle of the ocean, drinking champagne and watching the sun go down was next.

Chapter Eight

Clutching the picnic basket, Jonesy sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his sandal clad feet with childlike excitement, the game was about to start. Working for Her Majesty at Belmarsh Prison had its moments, but hanging out with one of her more violent, mouth-wateringly hunky detainees in a five star hotel, off the coast of Mexico, was infinitely more attractive.

David hadn’t mentioned her once since their escape, and now they were about to tick off another of his wish list, life didn’t get much better than this, he was in heaven. It was hard not to boast-text his friends back in blighty, but David had banned mobile phones.

Dressed in shorts and T-shirt, they sneaked out of the hotel and walked hand in hand along the private beach, a warm breeze chased prison cell cobwebs and tickled sun starved skin. They approached a ramshackle pontoon that reached out from the shore, tethered to it was a luxurious forty-eight foot superboat, its formula one nose pointing out to sea, eager to race the waves.

As they walked up the rickety old jetty, Jonesy gasped, realising the toy was theirs to play with.

‘Oh my Gawd... it’s beautiful, a dream machine. Bloody hell Dave, it must’ve cost an effing fortune,’ he dropped the picnic basket and grabbed David, kissing him hard on the lips.

Not wanting to be seen, David’s eyes darted along the beach; he squirmed out of Jonesy’s arms and quickly herded him toward the boat.

‘It’s all yours Jonesy dear boy, now get us out of here; we’ve got a sunset to catch.’

Jonesy leapt aboard, sat on the Captain’s chair and started the engine, it purred instantly into life. Puffing his proud chest, he drove the beast far out to sea, whooping with joy as they bounced the waves.

David tucked the basket under the seat and slid in behind Jonesy standing at the wheel, wedging himself between the Captain’s chair and Jonesy’s tight arse. Jonesy leaned back and playfully wriggling his buttocks into David’s lap.

As land and prying eyes fell far behind, David peeled off Jonesy’s T-shirt and threw it flamboyantly out to sea, Jonesy squealed with delight as wind and sea spray chased over his pasty white skin.

David reached down, flipped open the basket lid and pulled out a long thin knife. With a devious smile he cut into the material of Jonesy’s Bermuda shorts, slicing down each side, until they came away in his hands.

‘Hey wotchit lover boy, they cost an arm and a leg!’ yelped Jonesy, loving the drama. David was the most exciting, dangerous, intoxicating person he had ever met, he was besotted.

‘With the millions we have stashed away we can afford a few pairs of shorts my dear,’ snarled David, licking the sea salt from his victim’s ear. He threw the flapping material out to sea with a coyote howl.

Jonesy beamed with delight. Wanting to go faster he pushed hard on the throttle, the beast responded immediately, its powerful frame lifting up out of the water as it chased over the waves with ease. This was the life, the warm wind blasting his naked body, his muscle pumped lover teasing his cock.

With the help of a fellow inmate’s book, ‘Working Out In Small Places’ by Charles Bronson, David had remained as fit as a butcher’s dog in prison. Although blessed with a handsome face and the body of an athlete, his power lay in his hypnotic sexual energy, which he had fine-tuned and used to full advantage.

David was a mentalist, he took the time to study his victims; listen to their chatter, gather personal detail, learn what turned them on, what made them tick emotionally and physically. Soon all were putty in his hands and fit for his bidding. He had discovered the power of sex by the age of seven, his headmaster, priest and peers had schooled him well.

As per usual he performed his magic; circling his warm tongue down Jonesy’s ticklish neck, zig-zagging wet kisses across shoulders and spine, nibbling pale soft skin. His spray-cold fingertips reached around to Jonesy’s chest, tugging and tweaking hard nipples, the bitter sweet pain turned Jonesy on.

He then trailed fingers down between Jonesy’s legs, cupping his balls and teasing his rigid cock. Jonesy was in heaven, how easy it was... god, soooo predictable... bored, bored, bored... he stifled a yawn.

Tiring of the game… enough already, it’s time, he pushed Jonesy forward, spread his cheeks, spat on the crack and entered hard and fast.

Jonesy winced, drawing breath through gritted teeth, he bit down on his bottom lip.

‘Some lube woulda been nice… will pack it next time,’ he moaned.

‘Relax baby, relax,’ whispered David, close into Jonesy’s ear. He eased in further and slowly pumped.

It didn’t take long for Jonesy to join the rhythm, with an open mouthed groan his head lolled back and eyes rolled skyward, cries of pleasure lost to the wind. The plunging swell of the waves slammed him into David’s lap, they rodeo rode over and over again.

‘Yeehaw... ride’em cowboy,’ Jonesy called to the winds.

David’s beautiful face set hard, showing no emotion as he fucked and fucked, over and over, silent anger building within. All sound cut off as his eyes focused on the steering wheel where Jonesy’s white knuckles hung on for dear life.

His mind flashed back to an image, when as a boy of seven, his own white knuckles clung tight for dear life, his small frame stretched across the Headmasters desk. Unable to speak, he would silently pray to God to stop the pounding pain, to make the musty old man cry out, the sign that is was over… for now.

Sheets of spray whipped Jonesy’s skin... this is the best sex ever, if I die now I die happy... the Devil heard him.

On an upward thrust, David felt Jonesy start to climax; he withdrew his cock, avoiding the muscle tightening spasm he knew was coming. Never be inside someone when they hit trauma.

Jonesy howled with joy into the wind, his eyes closed tight, head thrown back, letting the pleasure wash over him. He didn’t see the knife plunge into his heart, but he felt it, then again … and again … and again. Disbelief widened his bulging eyes, his mouth gaped open... but he said he loved me?

David took hold of Jonesy’s jaw, twisted it to meet his and pulled him close. He grinned and spat the dreaded word ‘TARA’ into Jonesy’s pained eyes. They glazed hurt with understanding; his use had expired, he was the forfeit, Tara the prize.

David smiled. ‘Ahh at last you get it.’

Putting his mouth over Jonesy’s, he took a deep breath and caught the warden’s last breath.

‘What a way to go... coming!’ he sniggered, dropping the lifeless body to the floor.

He took over the steering wheel and calmly closed the throttle, the boat obediently slowed to a stop. Whistling cheerfully, he checked no other boats were around and tipped Jonesy’s body neatly over the side.

‘In-coming!’ he shouted, as it sunk below the surface, swirls of bloodied water chased its entry point.

‘Recycling at its finest dear boy, the sharks get fed, the evidence destroyed... bloody good housekeeping I say... Headmaster would be pleased,’ he smiled skyward, giving a wink to the Devil.

‘…and you have a new plaything. You’ll lurve him, he’s very grateful and he gives excellent head, I’ve trained him up well for you. Don’t tickle his feet though, makes him pee.’

He flipped open the picnic basket and pulled out a glass and bottle of champagne... then the bottle of bleach, scrubbing brush and gloves hidden below. He’d stolen them from the Hotel’s house-keeping trolley that morning.

Jonesy had served his purpose, but was now excess baggage. On their arrival, David had checked into the Hotel alone, no one would remember a second man ever being there. As far as the staff were concerned, David was travelling solo.

‘Thank you Jonesy me’old mate.’

He spoke to the waters below the boat, mimicking Jonesy’s Geordie accent. ‘Shame, you’re missin such a luverly sunset. I’ll give Tara your love shall I? And by the way mate, I hate being called Dave, alright chuck, got it?’

‘TARA,’ he shouted to the sea, he had promised not to mention her name, but hey, nothing old jealousy Jones could do about it anymore. He raised his tattooed hand above his head and reached up.

‘TARA, TARA, TARA,’ he howled to the sky, screeching seagulls circled overhead.

‘I’m coming to get ya girl, get ready to rumble.’

Chapter Nine

Present day
Franco’s Apartment, Chelsea Harbour, London

The gang; Seb, Franco, his chauffeur Michael and the girls sat around the coffee table in Franco’s stunning penthouse apartment; tasteful, comfortable and understated, not the norm for a footballer. Their wonderfully camp mother-hen, Anton, hairdresser extraordinaire, was coordinating drinks dispersal, as per normal.

‘The sugar shafting shit,’ grumbled Anton, pinky finger skyward as he poured milk into piping hot cups of tea. ‘I thought we’d heard the last of dissection Dave... good grief, dahling’s, it’s all too much!’

David was the reason they were last huddled around Franco’s coffee table, the night they saved Tara’s life. They stared quietly into their cups, each reliving their own frightening memories: his evil had affected them all.

‘How the hell did he get away with it, he was banged up for multiple murders, surely he would have been in a secure wing?’ Seb asked Michael, who, due to his time in the SAS and friends in the police force, tended to know more about these things than the others.

‘He did what he always does, he used his cock,’ spat Michael, an unsubtle dig at Seb for being a victim to David’s charms, they had been lovers at the time of the Tara’s abduction.

Tara flinched. Michael carried on.

‘He persuaded some cock-besotted prison warden to get him out, with promises of a life of luxury, YMCA heaven in Mexico. The police are after the Warden as well, Warden Jones… Simon Jones... they’ve been trying to keep the lid on it, the Warden is an embarrassment to the authorities, he’s still missing.’

A picture of a uniformed prison guard on his knees pleasuring David jumped into Seb’s mind. He had to smile, he was a jammy bastard and the best ever fuck, shame he had psychotic killer tendencies.

‘With the money David had squirreled away, they could have lived a life of luxury on a beach somewhere,’ continued Michael.

‘He would have been mad to come back here, right?’ whispered Tara, white as a sheet, curled on the sofa, nursing her tea cup.

She couldn’t stop shivering, after passing out in the restaurant, and waving away the ambulance, mortified with embarrassment, she and the girls had taken a taxi to Franco’s flat. He sat beside her on the sofa, a protective arm around her hunched shoulders. It felt good to be near him, a rush of memories flooded over her, she wanted to cry, but not for the reasons they thought.

Franco felt the same, he adored Tara, wanted to marry her, but during her three days of captivity, he lost her. After her release from hospital she became distant, reclusive, hated being touched. He didn’t know how to handle it. The doctors assured him that she just needed space, her safe little world had been blown apart, and it would take time and patience to get the old Tara back.

He stepped back to give her space and they drifted apart. But nothing had changed for him; he still adored her and vowed to wait as long as it took to get her back, the bastard David would not win.

Franco, not normally a violent man, generally considered a gentleman amongst his footballing peers, wished David had returned to London. If the justice system couldn’t handle him, he would. In his book, murdering a killer was justifiable.

‘Yeah, mad, even for him,’ soothed Franco through gritted teeth, rubbing her shoulders, trying to stop the shivering. ‘He was lucky to get out of the country, besides there’s nothing for him here.’

Michael looked over at Helen.

‘Except maybe his big sister,’ holding back the venom, he had no time for the selfish bitch, she was David’s blood, he didn’t trust her.

All eyes turned to Helen, nausea waved over her... thanks little bro, getting me in trouble again.

‘Well sister dear, has he been in touch?’ Michael’s eyes bore into her.

‘You must’ve known he’d escaped, as next of kin the prison authorities would have contacted you,’ he saw Helen as a spoilt rich bitch, needing constant attention. The type that rushed around taking what everyone else had, too frightened to stand still for fear of seeing how empty her life was.

‘Leave Hel alone,’ defended Josie. ‘You know she hated him just as much as we did,’ she looked to Helen for confirmation.

‘There’s no way he would’ve come back for her, and there’s no other family, their parents are dead. So stop yer bitchin, he’s gone and that’s it, good bloody riddance I say.’

Helen smiled, enjoying Josie’s show of support. She turned to Michael looking him hard in the eye.

‘You’re right, they did contact me, but I didn’t want to worry anyone, Tara didn’t need the grief, what was the point in stirring up trouble? There is no way he would have risked coming anywhere near us, he’d get caught,’ she ignored Michael’s raised eyebrow and mock laugh.

‘I hated the bastard, I am glad he’s dead. Although I sure do wish I knew where all his money was hidden… I get to inherit, yippee!!’

Silence as they took in her words, not the words of a grieving sister, maybe Michael was mistaken.

‘More tea Vicar?’ camped Anton cheerfully. ‘Oh well, whatever… bothered,’ he diva posed, with the flat of his hand held at arm’s length.

‘He’s the Devil’s little problem now, not ours... or shall we have something stronger... whiskey anyone?’

Chapter Ten

Seb and Michael left Franco’s apartment together. Seb held the door open as they stepped out onto the noisy street, away from the others they could be candid.

‘I don’t believe any of that crap,’ spat Michael. ‘That bastard is alive and well, just waiting to return, you mark my words, he has unfinished business.’

A rush of excitement washed over Seb, the thought of seeing David thrilled him. Why the hell was that, the man was a shit? He turned away hoping Michael wouldn’t notice his flushed face, too late, no flies on Michael.

Silence fell between them as they walked down the Kings Road, both deep in thought. Impatient shoppers bustled past, annoyed at their slow pace.

‘What makes you think he’s alive, the police say he died in that fire, they have a body,’ questioned Seb, unable to look Michael in the eye.

When Tara went missing, Seb and David were enjoying a torrid affair. Michael suspected David of kidnapping Tara, so he approached Seb to help track her down. At first Seb didn’t believe his lover could be a suspect, until he stumbled across a sordid picture collection in David’s den - David liked to record his work.

In the heat of the chase Seb and Michael ended up having a passionate one night stand. Seb often wondered why it had only lasted a night, but being proud and new to the gay scene, he didn’t ask. Besides, he had a lot of catching up to do, and had hit the London clubs with gusto, enjoying every sweaty, spunky minute of it - he shagged for England.

Seeing Michael again brought back memories, he took a sneaky sidelong glance, ten years older than Seb, he was still a gorgeous hunk of raw muscle... hmmm, wouldn’t mind a revisit, the sex was great?

‘Bodies can be falsely identified, people can be paid off, I bet the tooth they found was planted by David... he probably yanked it out of his own head, the bastard, and left it for the police to match his DNA. The rest of the jaw had been smashed to pieces, too far gone to identify. Life is cheap, especially in Mexico,’ Michael replied.

‘If what you say is true, what will he do next? Surely he would be mad to come back here.’

‘It was a cosmetic surgery that he burnt to the ground, you plonker, he’s bought a whole new look, and destroyed the evidence, I tell you, he’s on his way back, new passport, new identity, easy as piss... he’s probably here already, watching us.’

Seb’s heart leapt, he looked around, scouting the crowd... could it be possible?

Michael sighed and shook his head at Seb’s naivety, at the wonderment in his eyes... the idiot still has feelings for the bastard, what a plonker… moth to the bloody flame.

‘Yeah, well, he had better not come back here; I’ll smash his lights out,’ boasted Seb, trying to sound hard, checking out faces on the street.

Michael pretended to believe him. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, well aren’t we the action man,’ he grabbed Seb by the nuts, pulled him into his chest and gave him a smacker of a kiss.

Bustling shoppers, tut tutting, gave them a wide berth.

Chapter Eleven

He followed her as she left Franco’s. She hadn’t recognised him. Neither had Seb and Michael twenty minutes earlier, they walked straight past him as he leaned against a lamppost, pretending to study an AtoZ map of London. He watched them snog, feeling aroused, remembering how good Michael tasted. Seb was pleasing, but Michael was special. This was fun; the months of pain had been worth it. He was inconspicuous, free as a bird.

He braved standing behind Tara as she waited at the kerb for the traffic lights to change. A small crowd of pedestrians gathered, pushing them closer together, so close he smelt the familiar smell of her apple shampoo, it made him smile, she hadn’t changed, she was still his beautiful angel. He closed his eyes and breathed her in.

Lost in the moment, he reached out to stroke her silky blonde locks but a gust of wind smartly blew the hair across her back and away from his fingertips. He grinned and looked up, the Devil was keeping an eye… tut tut! not yet dear boy.

Sensing she was being watched, Tara turned around and anxiously looked over her shoulder. He flinched, his hand caught mid-air. Had she seen him? He turned his wrist and pretended to check his watch. She stared straight through him, with no flinch, no recognition as she searched the crowd. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The traffic stopped, the lights changed and the small crowd herded off the kerb, bringing Tara with them. He stood alone on the pavement, watching her walk away.

Looking up at the sky and winked at the Devil.

Let the games begin.