Blood Prize (4 page)

I
sobel tried to duck away from the wet leaves that evaded her scarf and attacked the only exposed portion of her face. She retaliated; flaying an open hand at the intrusion. She hated the wind. It penetrated through every layer of clothing, freezing her skin.

What the hell happened to spring?

As she tried to imagine gorgeous sunshine warming her face, the youthful countenance of another filled her vision.

“Good morning, Isobel.”

The young man stumbled in his haste to open the door for her. She gnashed her teeth and tried not to frown. Men acted so foolishly in her presence. ‘Your eyes are like jewels; you’re so beautiful’.

Bullshit.

Rampant hormones made her attractive to men. She knew what they wanted; what all men wanted.

She looked for her reflection in the glass door and winced.

Damn freak.

She recalled her mother’s comforting lies. ‘You’re petite, my dear. Not tiny’.

What a load of rubbish.

She weighed only thirty-nine and three quarter kilos. Even as a woman of nineteen, strangers treated her like they might a ten-year old.

She remembered standing naked in front of her bedroom mirror; never feeling beautiful, never feeling sexy; just hoping for a transformation; a miracle. She conjured many tall, curvaceous women, always imagining herself bursting with confidence, but when her eyes opened, there stood the same ‘twig’ with the tiny breasts and the protruding ribs.

She felt almost ill comparing her imagined self with the fleshless body beneath her clothing; a creature whose skinny legs created a gap between her thighs, a hand’s width apart. This made her pubic bone seem larger than what she considered to be normal. She looked prepubescent, with almost no pubic hair and noticeable weblike veins flowing under her translucent skin.

I’m grotesque and horrible.

She glared at the young man as he opened the door for her.

“Look, I’m paying you to be a technician not a dim-witted doorman.”

Isobel ignored his mumbled reply and entered. She allowed herself a moment to take in her surroundings.

God, I love this place.

The old Sydney Road building remained a link to her past; to her parents. It once accommodated a small furniture factory, with some offices and a showroom in the front upstairs portion and a production line operating on the ground floor.

Her father and his partner converted the two storeys of decaying red brick, exposed hardwood beams and rusty corrugated iron, into a high-tech fabric-testing laboratory.

“Excuse me, Miss Kite …”

Damn it … Leave me alone. I don’t want your attention.

Isobel headed towards the back of the building, avoiding all conversation with speed. She maintained an angry expression as she proceeded, ignoring everyone in the room. As she reached the rear of the building, she allowed her eyes to follow the low ceiling and exposed pipes to where they turned upwards, disappearing into the heights of the interior. She began to relax. Here, her staff tested fabric strength and durability; it felt like a second home to her.

She mounted the steps to the mezzanine platform, which ran along the back wall of the building. It once housed spare parts and unused equipment, but she cleaned it up, glassed in the front and added the necessary equipment for an efficient office.

Efficient …?

She frowned at the thought. She couldn’t stand the accountancy side of the business, nor could she stomach the endless river of administrative duties.

“You’re late, Isobel Kite.”

The woman standing by the door smiled, but meant it as a rebuke.

“We’ll need to work through some of these figures before my appointment at the bank.”

Isobel tried to return her accountant’s smile.

“Look, Mrs Cooper, is this really necessary? I’ve given you all of the paperwork and I’m really busy this morning.”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is. You can’t put this off any longer, Isobel. We need to talk about your financial situation. Frankly, these figures don’t present the business particularly well. I need to know your reasoning around some of your financial decisions, so I can try to negotiate your position with the bank.”

“Great.”

Isobel unlocked her office door and offered Jan Cooper the only chair other than her own.

Old cow.

She blamed her accountants for the demise of her company’s finances; sacking her previous advisor in favour of her latest financial hope. She needed good advice; guidance that never seemed to eventuate. A condescending shake of her head remained Mrs Coopers only contribution.

Isobel attempted to ease past her visitor towards her side of the desk. She felt dazed and unfocused and she didn’t notice the obstacle. At the last moment, she tried to stop her momentum by turning her body, but couldn’t avoid crashing into an open filing cabinet drawer.

“Ow, that hurt.”

She tried to back up and rebalance, but her wet shoes gained no traction and she went down.

“Oh God, Isobel, are you all right?”

Isobel hung off the cabinet drawer; her watchband caught on its edge. It held and her arm stretched down to a body sprawled across the floor.

“Help me up will you, I’m stuck.”

Isobel tried to laugh, but her composure gave way to anger.

“Bloody hell. This isn’t a particularly good omen is it?”

She fell into her chair and attempted to rub the pain from her wrist. She knew what Mrs Cooper intended to say, but she didn’t want to hear it. She preferred denial rather than suffering the guilt associated with her inadequacies.

“Isobel, I know how much this place means to you, but you just can’t afford the past anymore. Your present contracts got tendered at ridiculous prices and now there’s not enough equity, or possible future income to stop the inevitable.”

“The inevitable. That’s blunt.”

Isobel noticed her hands shaking. She pushed them further under her desk.

“Surely, it’s not that bad. There has to be something you can do?”

“I’ll try, but based on these figures, I don’t think any bank is going to offer you another overdraft. I’m sorry.”

Isobel continued massaging her swollen wrist. She couldn’t give up without a fight, but the
how to proceed
eluded her. Her position seemed hopeless. Poor management skills hindered any real opportunities for success. She excelled at science and mathematics, but as an administrator … she knew her failings.

Isobel sighed with relief when her accountant finally left. Alone, she could think. She belonged here and she couldn’t see herself anywhere else. Eviction removed her only remaining connection with her late parents, especially her father.

She lifted her wrist to catch the light and her arm began to throb. She could see a red welt, but the skin didn’t appear to be broken.

“Stupid ugly thing.”

She tried to smile. Her father presented her with the broken timepiece not long before he died. Looking at it usually made her laugh.

Bloody worthless rubbish.

The watch; a Seiko, belonged to her father’s business partner. Her father asked her to wear it until his partner’s son arrived to pick it up. If nothing else, she remained faithful to that promise. She wore the awful thing every day and wondered about its owner. It embarrassed her sometimes. She spent so much time imagining him that he became a fully-developed fantasy in her mind.

She needed decent project funding, not an imaginary man. She felt silly believing he might come.

She sat back in her chair, sucked in some air and sighed.

“Ah, Mr Fox, my imaginary knight in shining armour.”

She frowned at her depressing recurrent thinking.

She knew these to be strange thought processes, considering her distrust of men; even approaching the periphery of her memories regarding any male other than her father, made her tense and sick with loathing.

She remembered her thirteen-year-old self; so inadequate, just a baby girl compared to her female acquaintances and classmates. She hated the ‘in girls’, they collected boyfriends so easily and teased her with the secrets of their liaisons. She understood the bullying in their embellishments. They elevated themselves by keeping her in her place. It made her feel worse than nothing.

Then a miracle occurred. Jenna Jovanovich, one of the prettiest girls in her school, befriended her; a boon that instantly inducted her into the same ‘in crowd’. She didn’t care that her new glamour-girl status arose out of association only.

The following week, Jenna invited her to an impromptu, after-school party, which Isobel accepted without hesitation. It meant that she could be late home and have some explaining to do, but she couldn’t turn down her first invitation; she might never receive another.

When she arrived at Jenna’s house, there didn’t seem to be any party, just two boys drinking Vodka Cruisers and no parents. Isobel felt scared, wanting to leave, but Jenna pulled her by the arm, pressuring her to join them. After only one glass, she felt tipsy and began to relax; the alcohol creating feelings of excitement.

A boy held her hand and stroked her neck. She recalled Daniel’s nice even features and sandy hair; a hunk interested in her. She also remembered his good-looking friend, Roberto, lying on the lounge room floor kissing Jenna.

The rape took place in the Jovanovich’s master bedroom.

It began with a kiss that made her tiny body shiver. Then everything changed. Somehow it felt wrong, which the boy confirmed when she attempted to pull away from him. The more she struggled the more violent he became.

“Please … No … Stop.”

Daniel’s placid features morphed into a grotesque angry mask, as he pinned her to the bed and tore at her clothes. Isobel screamed when he entered her. The pain burnt like alcohol rubbed into an open wound. She tried to fight him off, but couldn’t move. Then she remembered Roberto and Jenna materialising in the room and she called out to them for help.

She heard them laugh at her. Then she heard Jenna’s shrieking encouragement to her lover.

“You give it to her, Robbie. Hurt her. Hurt the little bitch.”

Isobel tried to roll away as the participants changed position, but couldn’t break free. Now Roberto grunted above her, holding her down with a hand squeezing her throat; his sweat and saliva dripping over her face. She felt too numb and tired to continue fighting.

Isobel reported the incident to the local police, but the humiliation hurt her almost as much as the attack. She discovered that victims of rape didn’t exist here. Sydney’s Special Religious Police viewed such cases, as promiscuity escalating out of control. She remembered the comments and the mocking smirks; women who ‘led men on’ got what they deserved.

They think I’m common. They think I’m a slut.

She felt dirty saying it. She forced her eyes closed and attempted to remove the memories. In her more generous moments, she accepted the theory that some men were good, but she struggled to maintain her optimism. The world seemed to conspire with her darker beliefs and prove them right every time. Despite this, she knew her father to be a wonderful man, which she supposed provided some hope for mankind.

I don’t want anyone’s help.

She knew that no one person, other than herself could make a difference to her circumstances. Nothing could change the events of her life, especially someone she didn’t know. She placed her forehead into the palm of her hand and examined the old timepiece.

“You’re as ugly as I am. We’re meant for each other.”

She smiled bitterly.

Her heart and the stupid watch held an unwanted bond; neither seemed to work after the death of her parents.

T
om stood in the shadows, taking in every detail of the tenement houses lining each side of his street. Every home looked identical on Queen’s Avenue. He couldn’t see a single street number under the layers of grime. Only subtle differences of filth announced each residence to their owner.

He felt tired; anxious. He needed to confront the people masquerading as his parents; he needed answers and he couldn’t wait any longer. Keeping alert for possible danger, he eased out into the sunlight towards the gutter, but hesitated as a car jerked to a halt in front of him; the rear doors flying open as several men jumped from inside. Within seconds, they surrounded him, blocking any chance of escape.

They know already? How?

Waves of adrenalin surged through his body. He felt like a trapped animal; panicked; desperate for a means of escape, then he heard a voice coming from the dark interior of the vehicle.

“My name is Frederick Vogel. I’m assisting the Special Religious Police with their investigation.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So, either you get into this vehicle right now, or you suffer the consequences. One way or another, you’re coming with me.”

For a brief moment, the police waited, as did the man in the car. Windows opened all along Queen’s Avenue and people began to gather on the pavement.

“Get in Fox. I’m not going to ask you again.”

Tom noticed a tough looking man alight from another vehicle and strut towards him.

“Piss off. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Their moment of bargaining ceased. Surrounded and outnumbered, Tom gave up any notion of a possible escape. He took two quick steps to evade the nearest policemen and climbed into the car.

As they drove away, he noticed the crowd of people on the street. With the SRP vehicle a safe distance away, they jeered and shook fists at the air.

Very brave … Thanks for your help.

They travelled west through the mid-morning traffic along the M4, which allowed Tom some time to consider his current circumstances. His demise appeared the most likely scenario. Death via the noose, or delivered by a sinister woman with auburn hair; either way, he could see no future. He shuddered; overwhelmed by a feeling of terror.

“What’s this about? Why the hell have you picked me up?”

Vogel turned towards the policeman on Tom’s right.

“Shut him up.”

The policemen slapped the back of Tom’s head with the palm of his hand; creating an explosion in his brain and a gush of nausea.

Tom glared back at the man in charge.

“Asshole.”

This time Vogel twisted around in his seat and returned the young man’s stare. The eye contact made Tom feel uncomfortable. Just one look into Vogel’s indifferent grey irises confirmed his opinion.

This one’s dangerous in the extreme. I’ll have to be careful.

“What do you want from me?”

Vogel didn’t answer for some time.

“Officer. What did I tell you?”

A fist cannoned into the side of Tom’s head, causing pain and disorientation, and a detached feeling in the brain.

“No more talking.”

Their tyres screeched. Tom bounced off the shoulder of a policemen as their vehicle veered off the motorway, heading south through Harlington and into an area being suffocated by pollution-puffing factories and smoke stacks.

Tom noticed a road sign with the heading: ‘Heathrow’, but as he twisted around attempting to read the rest of it, the driver braked hard, throwing him forward against the front seat. They seemed to have arrived at their destination. Tom followed everyone’s gaze to the warehouse at the end of the driveway. It looked dilapidated. Every window appeared to be broken and rust covered most of the tin surface of the building.

“Get out and follow me.”

Vogel strode ahead and entered the building first, followed by Tom and the three remaining men. They shoved him through the door and into the darkness. When his eyes adjusted, he noticed that the warehouse seemed larger from the inside. Light streamed in from holes in the ceiling and upper windows, which highlighted the broken glass littering the floor.

“You. Wait. Don’t move.”

Tom turned back towards the doorway. He felt a moment of confusion; the SRP wore earmuffs and goggles with dark lenses.

“What’s going on?”

No-one answered.

A hand grasped the back of Tom’s neck, forcing him forward and he stumbled further into the interior of the shed. He tried to straighten, but another push drove him to his knees amongst the broken glass.

He became aware of movement. A flickering of light appeared in his peripheral vision, to his left; reflecting off the tin. He turned towards the source.

Am I dreaming? Could this be real?

He gawked at the glowing shape suspended high above the floor at the southern end of the shed; monstrous in its proportions. He tried to turn his face from the light, but some kind of force prevented him from moving.

He went rigid. The creature behind the radiance beamed malice at him. It raised its arms and the light around it sparked and crackled; growing in intensity; overwhelming him. Behind the glare, its lips parted and it screamed with a keenness that drove Tom backwards onto the broken fragments of glass.

Then hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him across the warehouse floor. He felt stunned and lifeless when they lifted him and threw him into a smaller room.

Tom heard laughter. Somehow, he sat at a table across from a smiling Frederick Vogel and an enormous older man with oily hair.

“I see you’ve met our glowing friend.”

Vogel’s smile dissolved; his expression turning hateful. Tom recognised his sneer as viciousness; it conveyed danger, like standing too close to the edge of a precipice.

Tom thought about saying something like, ‘why the hell am I here?’ Instead, he just stared straight ahead at nothing.

“It’s a shock, isn’t it?”

He waited for Tom to respond and became annoyed when he didn’t react. He banged his fist on the desk.

“We know who you are.”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

Vogel eased back into his plush leather chair and tapped his fingers on the desk.

“I’ve got you by the balls, Fox. You’re the son of a traitor; a co-conspirator and we’ve caught you consorting with an anti-government group.”

Tom noticed Vogel’s teeth appear through his smile, turning it into a grimace.

“You’ve made a mistake. I’m not the person you think I am.”

“Don’t be smug with me. I can have you hanged.”

Tom didn’t respond, he didn’t know how to. This day became more surreal by the moment.

“Well?”

Again, Tom didn’t answer.

“We know you’re working on behalf of your late father. All you have to do is give us what we’re after and you can go free.”

Tom’s thoughts felt like swirling water. Reality followed patterns that he could accept and understand, but this … He looked at the man accusing him from across the table and realised that he hadn’t mentioned the killings.

Good. Something positive.

With an effort, he staggered to his feet and his wooden chair crashed to the ground.

“Look, I can’t even remember my real father. You can’t hold me. I’m outta here … I’m going home.”

Home …?

He remembered … Home didn’t exist. He felt completely drained. Defeated, he stooped, picked up the chair and sat back down.

“You’re a clown. You’re going to give me what I want, or …”

Vogel ceased talking as the enormous man beside him rose to his feet with a series of grunts. As he straightened, he attempted to gather the few escaping strands of hair that hung in front of his face.

Vogel stood and nodded as the man left the office.

He remained standing for several seconds staring at the door, before turning his attention back to Tom. Then he leaned across the table, smiled and slapped him across the side of his face.

The shock came in stinging waves. Tom rubbed at his face and felt his anger rise.

“Do your best. I’ve got nothing else to say to you.”

“Really …?”

As Vogel returned to his seat he slid his hand inside his jacket pocket and removed a pre-World War Three, Beretta automatic pistol, putting it on the table just out of Tom’s reach. He placed a single nine-millimetre bullet beside the gun and sat back in his chair. Then his face bunched into a smirk, as he made a pretend gun out of his hand and pointed it at Tom.

“I’m going to make you an offer. So listen carefully.”

Tom tried to hold Vogel’s stare, but couldn’t. He felt powerless and looked away.

“You’ve got three days to deliver your father’s plans. If you back out for any reason, I will personally take up that bullet and blow your stupid brains out. Is that clearly understood?”

“Yeah, whatever …”

Tom hadn’t understood at all.

Plans. What plans?

“You don’t seem that eager to please me. Perhaps some time with our friend out there, might change your attitude.”

Vogel nodded and without a word, his men replaced their goggles and re-covered their ears.

“If you manage to survive, don’t forget our arrangement.”

Tom didn’t resist when they dragged him from the office. Nor did he fight back when they beat him and threw him onto the warehouse floor. How could he fight the inevitable? Death remained the one truth that no-one could deny.

He rose to his feet, turned and searched for the glowing figure.

“Alright, you bastard …”

The creature remained in the same position, hovering fifteen metres from where he stood.

“Let’s get it over with.”

The colossus shrieked; pulsing brilliant light and without perceptible movement appeared right in front of Tom. It captured him before he could manufacture a single thought.

An electrical current engulfed him; tongues of blue lightning inflicting agony; pain that tore through him with no resistance. He could smell his flesh burning and his torso shivered, like a fish on a line.

Tom didn’t feel his body hit the floor. His eyes opened on impact and he saw a shimmer reflecting off the shattered glass. He could also see smoke rising from his clothing and blood pouring from his cut hands. Then his eyes closed and the blackness came.