Dirty Aristocrat (37 page)

Maybe I will never stop running.

M
y new job is in Jake’s import and export firm. I have been stuck in the administration department. The job is terribly legitimate and terribly, terribly boring, but I do get to keep my clothes on and the money is far better than I could have hoped for. Everybody is really nice to me and Ann, my co-worker, picks me up in the morning and drops me off after work. So no complaints.

That day I work till late and when I get out of the car the night air is warm and thick with an imminent storm brewing.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I call and wave as Ann drives away.

I fish my keys out of my bag and start walking up the path to my front door. I swear I never felt even the slightest premonition. When the man’s hands clamp down on me I am totally taken by surprise. My heart stops cold, but my brain works perfectly. The impressions are fleeting but clear. Caucasian. Skin gleaming sickly in the white glare of the fluorescent lighting from the adjacent building. Breath smelling of cigarette smoke. Wrists full of dark hair. Pale eyes: blank and empty like a reptile’s. Black shirt. Dark blue jeans. Five feet nine. A hundred and ninety pounds.

I know him.

From the club. He wanted me to touch him. I said no and walked away, but not before I had seen the flash of hatred.

My nerves scream for me to run, but he has the element of surprise. He jerks me toward him and drags me into the undergrowth. I try to lift my arms up to fight him off and he pushes me roughly to the ground. I stagger and crash backwards into the bushes. Branches scratch the sides of my face and neck.

He falls on me, his fingers digging into my shoulders. I lie underneath his weight, winded. Unable to move.

‘Refuse me, will you? You skanky, stone cold, cheap whore,’ he hisses, his jaw quivering with fury. Immobile I stare into his eyes. Whatever else he is, he is vicious. My heart thumps wildly with fear. Terrified, I know I cannot run. 

He grins hatefully. ‘Still think you’re too good for me, slut?’

‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, and he punches me in the face.

The blow stuns me. Colored stars dance across my vision, blinding me and making me wobble, before my brain actually registers the explosion of fierce pain. Blood erupts from my nose, splatters his hand, and pours down the sides of my face. Sick fear spreads in my stomach. I want to vomit or piss myself.

He digs his knee into my chest and taking his mobile out of his pocket, starts taking pictures of me bleeding and pinned under him! Terror is like an enveloping coat of freezing cold leaves. This guy means to kill me. But it is a good thing he does that because it allows me to recover slightly. My brain starts rolling into action again. He is too big for me to push off and his position means I cannot even knee him or do any damage to him with my hands.

My only option is to pretend to become unconscious and find a way to open my purse, which is still hooked to my elbow. I let my head loll to the side. If I can just get inside my purse. He takes his knee off my chest and starts unzipping his pants. I do nothing. I keep my breathing even while my fingers are slowly moving into the flap of my bag. Suddenly he drops over me and like a rabid animal bites hard into my neck. So hard I am no longer able to pretend to be unconscious.

I scream. My hand searches frantically inside my bag. He slaps me hard. I feel a knife at my throat. I close my mouth. I have located my mace. Very stealthily I bring it out and in a flash I spray it into his face. He falls backwards, his hands clawing at his face. I seize the moment, pick myself up, and run screaming toward the building. A man—I have seen him before, he must live in the building too—runs to me. He wants to call the police but I say no. I tell him I am too frightened to call the police. I definitely do not want him to call the police.

‘You’ve been attacked. You must tell the police.’

I look at him. ‘It’s someone I know. An ex. I don’t want to call the police, OK?’

He shakes his head in a disgusted way. Together we go back and get my handbag. I thank him, find my keys and go into my apartment.

Melanie is on the phone ordering a Chinese takeout.

‘Fuck! What happened to you?’

‘One of the customers from the club. Remember that creep I told you about?’

‘That pervert Simon?’

I nod. ‘He took pictures of me with his mobile camera.’

‘What a nasty piece of work?’

I go to the mirror. My nose is bleeding copiously and one side of my face is starting to swell badly.

I hold my head tilted upwards while Melanie applies ice packs that she uses on her feet on my face. ‘It’ll be a bit smelly but you’ll survive,’ she tells me. Then she picks up her phone. ‘I’ve got to tell Brianna. Ban him and warn the other girls. You need to make a police report.’

‘No police. But yes, warn Brianna.’

She comes to sit beside me, her forehead creased with concern. ‘Why no police, Jewel?’

‘I’ve got history. Minor things, but I can’t go to the police.’

‘OK. No problems. No police.’

‘Thanks, Mel.’

Literally a minute after Melanie ends her call, my mobile goes.

‘Jake,’ I say, with a frown.

‘Wow! Brianna was fast,’ Melanie comments.

‘Are you all right?’ Jake barks urgently into my ear.

‘Yeah, minor bruises.’

‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘Yeah, I got a good look at him.’

‘Right. I’ll be there soon. I got something to take care of first. And, Lily…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Don’t go anywhere until I get there, OK?’

‘OK.’

Jake

I
ring on the little cunt’s bell and wait, nausea clawing at my guts. He put his filthy hands on
my
woman.

His disembodied voice comes through the intercom. ‘Yeah?’

‘You hurt one of my employees this evening. I’d like to come up and talk to you about it. Discuss some compensation.’ Jesus, I sound calm.

‘What? You’ve got the wrong guy, mate. I’ve been in all day.’ He does offended and indignant very well.

‘Or if you prefer I can go to the police and let them sort it out. You decide.’ I do rational and threatening very well.

For a moment there is silence and I think the coward is going to take his chances with the police, but then the buzzer sounds.
First mistake, Motherfucker.
I push open the door and run up two flights of stairs to his door. I lean the baseball bat against the wall next to his door, ring his bell, and affect a relaxed pose. He looks at me through the spy hole, then takes his time about opening the door. But he does.

‘I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy,’ he says strongly.

I shove him hard and he flies backwards and lands sprawled in his corridor. His eyes widen with terror as he sees me casually retrieve the baseball bat from its place. I come in and kick the door closed. Shame. He has cream carpets.

He starts moving backwards. ‘It wasn’t me. You’re making a big mistake,’ he whimpers like a fucking pussy.

I throw him a ball gag. He doesn’t catch it. It bounces off his body and falls on the floor. ‘Put it on.’

‘I’m not going to put it on. I’m innocent. I want the police here. Now.’ His voice trembles with fear.

I lift the baseball bat and strike him in the gut. He doubles over in agony, staggers back two steps and drops to his knees clutching his stomach. Then he starts blubbering like a fucking two-year-old brat!

‘Not so big and strong now, eh?’

‘You got the wrong guy,’ he sobs.

‘Yeah? Put the gag on or I’ll crush your skull with one blow. A beating or a quick death. Choose.’

He is struggling to breathe through the pain. He takes wet-sounding breaths. The ones people take when they are dying. It sounds like a rattle. But he is not dying. Not by a long shot. Oh no. Death would be too easy. I watch him put the gag on with shaking hands. Cowards never fail to fascinate me. Fucking idiot! Why would you put something on that is meant to silence you?

A savage growl tears from my throat. The rage in the sound surprises me. I thought I was through with all that years ago. I haven’t swung a baseball bat in ten years and yet here I am. For her.

Using my foot I push him to the floor.

Then I lift the bat high over my head and bring it crashing down on his kneecap. The shocking pain makes his eyes bulge and roll upwards. I think he might pass out, but fortunately he doesn’t. Cold sweat pours out of his skin as his hands rush to hold the smashed bone. I pick up the bat and shatter the other kneecap. He spasms with shock.

After that I rain his body with blows. Each one precise and destined not to kill but to maim permanently. Finally I am done. I stand over him. He is lying on his side: alive, but only just. His breathing is shallow and his eyes are half-closed. I use the tip of my shoe to tip his inert body on his back. A groan escapes his bleeding mouth. Two of his teeth are lying on the carpet.

‘This is just a little warning. Open your fucking mouth and heavy comes next,’ I say mildly.

I take a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe his blood off the bat. How strange! So many years since I did something like this and I still carry a pristine white handkerchief on my person and a baseball bat in the boot of my car.

Calmly, I walk out of his flat. There is a phone box around the corner. I get into it and call nine-nine-nine. I change my accent to a Cockney one and tell them a man is dying in his flat.

‘Looks like he’s been beaten bad. Get an ambulance, man.’

I ring off and look at my hands. Dead steady. I feel ice cold. I get into my car and drive to Lily’s apartment.

Melanie opens the door.

I go through and come to a dead stop. My hands start shaking. Tears sting my eyes. Shit. I haven’t cried since I was fifteen years old, when I saw my father fall down dead at my feet.

Hell! This hurts so bad I want to bellow.

She stops too and we stare at each other. Both shocked. Her by my reaction, me by her appearance. Minor bruises! Fucking hell. Her face is so swollen and blue-black I can hardly recognize her. Then I start advancing on her. My gait is that of an angry bear. I want to be normal but I can’t be. The raw fury simmering inside me is making me shake.

I reach her and she touches the blood splatters on my clothes. Then she looks up into my eyes—hers are huge pools of fear. I see her eyes change, widen. I am alien to her. In her nice candy-floss world what I did to her attacker is wrong. ‘What have you done?’

‘Gangster rules,’ I say harshly.

‘Is he dead?’

‘No, but he’s wishing he was.’ Tears are slipping down my face. I just can’t help it. My mate has been badly injured.

‘What is it?’ she whispers.

‘You need to go to a hospital.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.’

I have never experienced this fierce need to protect before. Ever. The way I feel shocks me to the core. This is not me. I’m tough. I’m in and I’m out. I don’t trust anyone. In this business you can’t. A king is never killed by his enemy but by his courtiers. They are the only ones who can get close enough to poison the wine, stick the blade in. I’m not saying, ‘Et tu, Brutus,’ to anyone. The easy way—never let anyone get close.

Except her.

She opens her arms. Her lower face is too swollen for her to smile but I see it in her eyes, a smile of comfort as it is I who have been attacked and am in pain. The tears fall faster as I catch her to my body and hold her tight. She’s still here. She’s still mine. I squeeze my eyes shut. And then I lift her into my arms.

‘I can walk,’ she whispers.

But I don’t put her down. I turn around with her in my arms and Melanie wordlessly opens the front door. I walk out with my baby in my arms.

I could have lost her. But I didn’t. Never again will I be so careless with her.

I put her on my bed and she looks up at me drowsily. The stress has worn her out. She looks so small and defenseless in my bed. Her fingers are curled into a light fist. I circle the wrist, shocked at the fragility of the bones in her hand. Gently I rub my thumb along the pulse leaping on the pale underside of it. Her vulnerability terrifies me. Scares me. Makes me feel weak.