Blood Reckoning: DI Jack Brady 4 (2 page)

His breath quickened when he heard the door open.

He instantly recognised the cologne; expensive and subtle. He liked the older man’s taste. It spoke of money and power – everything that Alex coveted. He could feel the excitement stirring within him, reaching down to his loins, and shifted his weight slightly to accommodate his growing hardness.

He resisted the urge to speak or pull the blindfold down and turn round. He so wanted to see the look on the older man’s face at the sight spread before him. But he remained perfectly still. He was good at obeying orders. For now.

Silence.

The urge to move was starting to become intolerable, but he fought it. Still nothing. He reassured himself that the older man was simply enjoying this new game. He was certain that he was appreciating Alex’s honed body in front of him. He was obediently waiting . . . waiting to be taken.

Filled with anticipation, he held his breath as he heard the other man move towards the bed. He felt his ankles being bound together by rope – then his hands. The bindings around his wrists were twisted tight. Too tight. He could feel the rope burning his flesh.

Shit!

His girlfriend came to mind.

He had one rule – no physical marks on his body.

Before he had a chance to object, his head was roughly jerked back and his mouth gagged with duct tape.

What the . . . ?

The duct tape was wound firmly over his mouth and around the back of his head.

This was too full-on. Too extreme for a sex game. The older man had never shown any interest in sadism before. Alex hoped that he was just getting excited, too enthusiastic with his newfound dominance. But that didn’t mean he was just going to lie here and accept it. He attempted to protest but all that he managed was a frustrated muffled sound. Alex shook his head. He needed him to know that he wasn’t comfortable with this.

But his stifled objections were ignored.

Alex could feel panic stirring in his stomach and tried to keep calm, to reassure himself it was nothing more than a game. The other man was much older and physically weaker than him. And crucially, he had more to lose than Alex – a lot more. If he went too far, then Alex had enough to destroy him.

But that didn’t quell the disquiet he felt. This wasn’t what he had agreed to. He twisted his wrists in an attempt to loosen the knots, but the more he pulled against it, the deeper the rope cut into his flesh.

He tried to scream in anger and frustration. Nothing. His shouts were deadened by the tape.

Alex wanted this to end. Now.

Every inch of him was telling him that he should do something – anything. He struggled in desperation. It didn’t work. His hands felt sticky from his exertions and he realised it was blood. The rope was slicing into his wrists. Now furious, instinct made him attempt to shout out. But again, nothing.

You fucking old cunt! I’ll have you once this is over!

He thrashed his body around. It was futile.

Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck!

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Alex tried not to panic but he was gagged, bound and blinded. Unable to move or talk. He was completely at the other man’s mercy. But why? Why was he doing this to him?

My wrists are fucking bleeding, you bastard!

Alex was suddenly winded as a heavy weight crushed his lower back. Enraged, he realised the man had straddled him.

He hadn’t anticipated the next move – the rope against his throat. Deceitful and totally unexpected. Blood pummelled through his veins and roared in his ears as the rope dug deep into his skin.

He couldn’t breathe.

An unexpected pleasurable sensation shot like an electric current to his groin as more pressure was applied. It was a few moments before his sexual excitement dissipated, replaced by pure alarm.

It’s tight . . . too fucking tight . . .

Shit! I can’t breathe
 .
 . .

His legs jerked as the rope squeezed even harder, ramming his Adam’s apple up towards his skull. He struggled to stay conscious as the blood vessels in his eyes ruptured, releasing an explosion of white flecks.

Fuck . . . fuck . . . fuck . . . 

The rope twisted even tighter. He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense. The deafening shriek of his body dulled his sense of reality. All he was aware of was burning – as if petrol had been doused down his throat and then set alight.

Alex felt himself slipping into unconsciousness and welcomed it.

Seconds . . . or was it minutes later? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the black nothingness had been replaced by crippling pain.

His head was yanked back and the duct tape ripped off. He gasped air. Slow, shallow and raspy snatches of air. But it was enough.

He tried to make his mind play catch up, but his thoughts were dulled by the blackness that had temporarily taken him.

Without warning, he was rolled onto his back.

Shit!

Something cold and metallic touched his face, teasingly. It took him a few moments to realise that it was a knife. He felt the chill of the blade as it traced its way up his cheek until it reached the makeshift blindfold covering his eyes. A second later, and he was squinting in surprise at the sudden glare of light.

He didn’t have time to understand.

His brain felt sluggish, his body in too much pain for him to make sense of anything.

He felt a firm hand around him – massaging . . . squeezing . . . trying to make him hard. His body didn’t feel like his own. It felt numb. Paralysed, he watched, tried to blink back the tears. He felt pathetic. He was pathetic. It all made sense. He could see that now.

You stupid bastard, Alex . . . You fucking stupid bastard . . .

He felt the cold tip of the blade as it seared his flesh. It took his damaged senses a moment to comprehend. His eyes widened in terror.

Fuck! No . . . Not that . . . Anything but that . . .

Chapter Two

Saturday: 11:52 p.m.

The cool air was a welcome relief as he walked through the streets of Whitley Bay. He smiled as he indulged himself in memories. He had waited so long. Too long. Delight played on the corners of his lips. He did not register the old, homeless man huddled in the doorway of the B&M store, speaking gibberish as he clutched a bottle of something lethal. He was inconsequential. As were the taxis speeding towards the bars and clubs along South Parade and the Promenade, and the drunken people lurching across the road, laughing and singing.

His mind was caught up on earlier events. Flashes of blood-drenched scenes consumed him. He had savoured every minute detail, stored the images with the others; cataloguing them for when the desire arose to peruse them. The heady aroma of kebabs and curries that dominated the town centre was lost to him – all he could smell was fear; pungent and acrid. He breathed it in.

He felt calm. The unrest that plagued him for so long had been silenced – temporarily. But it was enough. Until next time.

For there would definitely be a next time.

‘Spare any money, mate?’ the huddled figure suddenly called out at him, hopefully.

The whining, croaky voice brought him back to the seedy reality of Whitley Bay on a Saturday night.

‘Just a quid, eh?’ the old man asked as he weakly held up a trembling hand.

He turned and looked down at the homeless man.

Startled, the old man shuffled back away from him and shivered involuntarily, despite the warmth of the dirty old quilt wrapped around his body.

‘Sorry mate . . . don’t matter,’ he mumbled as he pressed his body back against the door.

There was something about those eyes that terrified him. They were devoid of anything. No feeling. No empathy. The homeless man felt like he was staring into the eyes of something that was not human.

He clung onto the half-full bottle of scotch and waited for him to move on.

When he did, the old man breathed out slowly, watching as the tall, suited figure crossed over towards Whitley Road. He wasn’t sure who he had just accosted for money, but he knew that he was lucky not to have had his hands smashed to smithereens to prevent him from ever begging again. He had lived on the streets for too long not to recognise the signs. Out here you lived by instinct and wit alone and you learned the hard way who to avoid. And the ones, like the man who had just passed him, who were simply wired differently from the rest of society. Dangerously so. He unscrewed the cap on his scotch and took a much-needed glug. The warm raw liquid slipped effortlessly down the back of his throat, but it did not have the desired numbing effect. He realised his hand was still trembling as he screwed the cap on. And he knew why. It was the man’s eyes. Cold and menacing, with a hunger in them. A hunger to kill.

The old man scanned Whitley Road for any sign of him, but he was gone. He snatched up the bottle, took another gulp and then wiped his mouth with the back of his blackened, rheumatoid hand. He tucked the bottle safely in an inside pocket and, struggling, staggered to his feet.

He had a bad feeling – and living on the streets, he had seen enough to know when it was time to disappear.

SUNDAY

Chapter Three

Sunday: 12:09 a.m.

‘James? Where the hell have you been?’ Ronnie demanded when Macintosh walked through the door. He was really pissed off. He had been delaying calling the police for the past hour, just on the off-chance that Macintosh showed.

James David Macintosh smiled apologetically and shrugged. ‘I’m really sorry, Ronnie. I . . . I don’t know what to say. Time just eluded me.’

‘You better bloody think of something to say. It’s after midnight for Christ’s sake. You’ve been missing for over five hours! Curfew’s seven p.m. You know that!’ He ran a shaking hand absentmindedly over his shaven head as he gave Macintosh the once-over. He was immaculate, as always. Dressed in a dark charcoal suit, with a crisp white shirt open at the neck. No tie. He was in his late fifties, yet seemed younger and fitter than a lot of blokes in their mid-forties – including Ronnie. He looked as he always did; exceptionally smart, with a professional air about him, one that spoke of a Cambridge education and a career as a doctor. However, James David Macintosh’s career had been cut short. He’d only made it past his third year as a medical student before his personal life got in the way.

Ronnie watched as Macintosh logged himself in. ‘Make sure you put the time down,’ he ordered.

Macintosh nodded as he scrawled his signature.

‘You been drinking then?’ Ronnie asked, his voice raw with irritation.

‘No,’ Macintosh replied as he pushed the log book back towards Ronnie. ‘I don’t drink.’ It was the first time Ronnie had witnessed an edge to Macintosh’s voice – he was ordinarily charming and easy-going. But Ronnie didn’t argue. It was clear that he hadn’t been drinking. He had worked the job long enough to be able to tell when a resident was high from drugs, drunk, or both. Macintosh was neither.

‘So, do you want to tell me where you’ve been for the past five hours?’ he asked. He pushed thoughts of Macintosh’s criminal history to the back of his mind. It wasn’t his concern. Macintosh had returned – in one piece, which was always an added bonus. It was someone else’s problem to figure out whether he should remain on parole.

Macintosh shrugged apologetically as he looked at Ronnie. His blue eyes held Ronnie’s probing gaze. ‘I simply went for a walk and lost track of time. When I realised how late it was I made my way straight here.’

Ronnie shook his head. ‘Why, James? You’ve just been paroled. Why fuck it up?’

‘You don’t think they’ll put me back, do you?’ Macintosh asked, his eyes filled with concern.

‘I dunno. You know what they’re like. Rules are rules and curfew’s one of those rules that you can’t break,’ Ronnie answered, glancing at the monitor on the reception desk. The screen showed various security cameras set up around the grounds of Ashley House.

Macintosh was more than aware of the surveillance cameras that followed every one of the residents’ movements. The cameras were located in the communal rooms and hallways and around the exterior of the large Victorian building. There was no way in or out without being detected. The reason – twenty paroled serious offenders. All Category Three. Violent, volatile and dangerous, but all having been given a second chance at rehabilitation. Some managed to make the adjustment. Most just blew it, unable to cope with being in charge of their own pathetic, useless lives.

‘Is someone out there?’ Macintosh asked as his eyes followed Ronnie’s.

For a brief moment he wondered if someone had followed him.

Could someone have recognised me after all this time? It was possible . . .

Ronnie shook his head. ‘Nah. It’s that damned ginger cat again. Why it can’t shit in its own back garden I don’t know.’ He turned his attention back to Macintosh. ‘Go on. Get upstairs. I’ll let Jonathan know in the morning. It’s his call what happens.’

Macintosh nodded, grateful that Ronnie was not going to report him. If he did, he would be back inside come Monday. No explanations or apologies. But his probation officer, Jonathan Edwards, was a soft touch. He knew that Jonathan would not want to be the one responsible for returning him to prison. Not after he had been banged up for thirty-seven years. After all, Jonathan had become more to him than his probation officer. Much more.

‘Thanks, Ronnie,’ Macintosh said.

‘What for?’ Ronnie questioned.

‘For not reporting me.’

‘Like I said, it’s Jonathan’s call.’

Macintosh left it at that. He turned and walked out of the office and down the corridor. A flicker of a smile played at the edge of his lips. Everything had gone according to plan. Even Ronnie’s blasé attitude. Ronnie had obviously just been relieved that he had finally shown up, but he didn’t want to know the details. And that had suited Macintosh perfectly. By the time the police were called, it would be too late. He would be gone – for good. And this time, they wouldn’t find him. His eyes shone fervently as he thought of what he had planned.