Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes Book 2) (21 page)

Where, O death, is your victory:

where, O death, is your sting?

        —1 Corinthians 15: 55

I
turn the car around and drive to the cemetery where Vivien was laid to rest. It
’
s a sunny day and the cemetery looks pretty with brightly colored petunias bordering it. I park and go up to a rickety iron gate. I’m not sure exactly where her grave is, but I remember my mother once mentioning that hers is a plot in the east end of the cemetery, and that there
’
s an oak tree nearby.

I take one of the small paths that radiate out to a serpentine perimeter path to lead visitors around the outer graves, some of which are centuries old. It’s hard to imagine that these people walked this earth hundreds of years ago.

They are mostly overgrown, unkempt and crumbling, but one of the ancient, ornate altar tombs catches my attention, and I find myself wandering to it, and reading the worn inscription. Herein lies Arthur Anderson-Black.

Resting in the arms of God forever,

loved forever, missed desperately.

Flying with the angels, your memory

will never die. Our beloved father,

brother and uncle. We will never forget you.

Rest in peace till we meet again.

1830–1875

I think of the mourners who erected the tombstone for him three hundred years ago. Their remains have joined his under the clay soil. But did they meet again? I
’
ve never walked around a cemetery on my own before, and it is an oddly surreal experience. Walking among the dead makes you appreciate the impermanence of life and the permanence of death like nothing else can. All these people once lived and walked and talked and did their thing as if they would live forever. This house is mine, this land is mine, and now they are all just gone forever.

The saddest headstones are the ones erected by grieving parents. They are the most poignant. A simple epitaph on a new grave touched me deeply.

Beneath this simple stone

that marks her resting place

our precious darling sleeps

alone in the Lord’s long embrace.

May 2001–December 2001

As I stroll along the path I remember what my mother once told me. When the fruit is ripe and ready, it will leave the branch easily. I was the branch that Vivien was torn away from. I wasn
’
t ready. She still had too much to live for. Without realizing it I have fallen into a kind of melancholy, contemplative mood, and it is a shock to see a hilarious marble tombstone.

Is This Headstone Tax Deductible?

It makes me smile. I take my phone out and take a photo for Ella. The tax inspector in her will appreciate it.

The curved outer path meets an axial pathway that takes me to a central chapel, and a small custodian’s lodge that was designed to be used for burial services. The path meanders, and I pass a newly dug grave awaiting its occupant.

I walk over to the manicured grass and spot the oak tree in the distance. I begin to walk toward it. I no longer look at the gravestones on either side of me. As if I
’
m guided by an invisible hand, I move forward with sure steps until I
’
m standing in front of Vivien’s grave. My breath escapes in a long sigh. Ah, Vivien. Her grave is a custom memorial in polished black granite with a carved weeping angel holding a rose. The setting sun makes the stone glow red.

Vivien Jessica Finch

Goodnight, dear heart,

goodnight, goodnight

Oct, 10, 1987–Jul, 24, 2004

I kneel down and touch the smooth stone. How she would have hated this place. This peace. This quiet. This impenetrable air of mourning and stillness. The impulsive, impetuous Vivien with roses in her hair, the one who could never sit still for a moment is not here. I laugh. The sound is loud and strange among the silent tombstones. It disturbs the peace. Perhaps no one has laughed here in centuries.

A strong breeze rushes at my face. I look up, surprised. And suddenly I hear Vivien saying, ‘I’ll come back and haunt you.’

‘You never did come back to haunt me, did you?’ I whisper into the wind.

And I remember her laughing. How she used to laugh. She was wild and beautiful, but never vindictive.

I wonder where she is now.

‘Wherever you are, Vivien, remember I truly loved you,’ I say, and, in the trees, a lone bird calls. I stay a little while longer, but I am restless. For I stand there, a living, breathing mortal, with hot blood flowing in my veins. One day I’ll join them in their repose and their silence, but not yet. I have a life and it’s calling me. I walk away and never look back.

As soon as I get into my car, I call Ella. She picks up on the first ring.

‘Ella,’ I say.

And she starts to weep.

And suddenly I can’t wait to see her. ‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘On the way home,’ she sobs.

‘Go home and wait for me. I’m taking you out to dinner. I’ll be there in less than an hour. Wear something sexy,’ I say, joy pouring through my living blood.

I stuff my phone into my pocket and, feeling light-hearted enough to fly, I run up the three flights of stairs. I let myself into my flat and, pressing my palms to my face, I go to the mirror. Wow! Look at me glow.

Undressing quickly, I step into the shower. I fly out in five minutes and do my hair. Putting a tiny amount of gel into the ends of my hair I blow dry it, and leave it as a mass of tumbling curls on my back and shoulders.

Then I sit on the bed and paint my toenails bright fuchsia. I wait ten minutes for them to dry. When they are, I
pull on strawberry-flavored, edible panties, carefully stick edible, chocolate-flavored arrow tattoos on my belly and thighs. All arrows point towards my hoo-ha, which has already started humming with anticipation.

Oh, and there are watermelon-flavored pasties for my nipples.

Just thinking of Dom licking everything off makes a shiver run down my back.
Smiling happily, I slip into a white dress with secret mesh panels on the bodice and back. It molds to my body then flares out from mid-thigh to my ankles.

With butterflies in my tummy, I step into strappy silver shoes. My toenails, bright and glossy, peep out as I walk three times into a cloud of perfume I have sprayed above my head. Sitting at the dressing table, I apply fuchsia lipstick and a layer of mascara, and I
’
m ready. I look at the time. Still ten minutes to go. The doorbell rings. He’s early. He’s eager. I grin at my reflection.

Way to go, girl.

I don’t walk to answer the door, I run. I open the door and my smile dies on my lips. I recognized him straightaway, even with the unkempt beard and mustache, but why on earth is he dressed like that? And what the hell is he doing here? What’s that supermarket trolley doing out in the corridor? But before I can say or do anything he reaches out, and stabs me in the hand with something sharp that he was holding concealed.

It acts so quickly I don’t even feel myself hit the floor.

‘Do not run away; let go. Do not seek, for it will come when least expected.’

                                                              —Bruce Lee

Q
uickly, I push the trolley into her apartment and close the door. Using the tattered blankets inside the trolley, I bundle her up in them. Then I turn the trolley on its side, and pull out all the assorted bits and pieces inside it: old newspapers, empty tins, plastic bottles, some boxes. I drag the trolley so it’s facing her body and kind of roll and push her body into it.

Excellent … She fits even better than I thought.

Grunting, I try to pull the trolley upright, but it is too heavy. I let it drop back down. Slight change of plans. Straightening, I walk over to a small, painted cabinet and take out a phone directory. I lift the trolley slightly and push the thick book into the gap. Now I have more leverage. Using both hands I give the trolley another great heave. My second attempt is successful.

Panting slightly, I throw the other odds and ends on top of her body and stand back to look at the end effect critically. Yes, no one would suspect that it is anything other than the trolley of a homeless man filled with everything he possesses. There’s a mirror on her wall and I go and look at myself.

Good. I look like a tramp—unwashed, unshaven, dirty. It took me weeks to perfect this look. Because of her, I’ve spent every waking moment planning and learning. Yes, I learned to pick locks, to gather intel, to bug, to follow, to immerse myself into my disguises, to pretend to be Melanie, someone who likes and makes light-hearted comments on all her pathetic little posts on Facebook.

Carefully, I push the trolley into the lift. Thank God! It’s working.

As I push her through the foyer, I see the big man go running up the stairs. And I smile. Too late! I push her out into the evening air and down the street. Not one person looks me in the eye or suspects anything. By the time I get to my basement flat it’s nearly dark. I glance around. There’s not a soul about.

I go down the steps and open the front door of the place I have rented. I go back up and overturn the trolley. I pull her body out and carry her down to my flat, her feet dragging against every step it takes to get to my front door. I drop her inert body just inside my house and, running up the stairs, I push the trolley down the steps and leave it in my garden. Then I go back into my house and close my front door.

There, there now. All done.

It is destiny that she should fall into my hands like an apple from a tree.

I drag her to a wall and prop her into a sitting position against it. The harsh illumination from the bare single light bulb makes her skin glow. Up close, she is even more beautiful. It’s obvious that she doesn’t belong in these surroundings. Her perfume wafts up to my nostrils. I breathe it in deeply. I haven’t smelt a woman for a long time. Not one as fine as her, anyway. My hand moves to her breasts, but I can’t bring myself to touch her. No, I won’t steal it when she’s asleep. I’m not lustful and unchaste. She’ll be bound, naked and wide-awake, when I defile her.

She must witness the moment I force myself on her, and bring her to ruin.

I secure her hands behind her back with plastic ties. Next, her legs. Rolling her onto her side, I look at her. Her face is angelic. It’s almost an abomination to see her silky golden curls tumble onto the dirty carpet. I used to dream of them spread over my thighs as she swallowed my cock.

Bitch ruined my life.

I spit in the dirt near her head and move away from her.

In that first moment of consciousness, when it’s still dark behind my eyelids, there is only the sensation of a throbbing pain in my temples. The sensations that follow on are much stranger. An unfamiliar feeling of stiffness and constriction. Something scratchy against my cheek. The smell of damp and dirt. My eyes snap open in alarm. My hands and legs are tightly bound, and I’m lying on my side on a filthy carpet. My mind goes blank. What the hell is happening? I blink, and lift my head from the rough bristles. 

‘You’re awake,’ a man’s voice says.

And it all comes flooding back.

Oh God!

My blood runs cold. A pair of jeans-clad legs and badly stained sneakers come into view. I raise my frightened eyes all the way up to his face. Oh, dear Jesus!
My mouth opens.

‘Surprise!’ he says.

My voice is hoarse; a shocked whisper. ‘What are you doing?’

Rob’s cold, mean eyes regard me steadily, pitilessly.

‘What do you want from me?’ I cry desperately.

The question seems to infuriate him. His eyes flash, but he controls himself. ‘What do you think I want?’ he asks menacingly.

I stare at him with startled, terrified eyes.

‘I know you like big cocks. I’ve watched you take it all into your dirty cunt. All of it being stuffed into Ella Savage’s greedy, greedy cunt,’ he says in a sing-song voice.’

‘Please, Sir,’ I say automatically, my mind and eyes unable to believe the transformation of the man I knew for more than a year to this dirty, crazed man and the hateful words that are pouring from his mouth. How could he have hidden this from me? From all of us?

His eyes widen mockingly. ‘You don’t have to beg, Ella. You’re a dirty bitch but I’ll fuck you.’

I shake my head to clear it, but it causes a flash of pain to stab at my temples. I’m too confused to be able to comprehend my situation. I look at him pleadingly. ‘Why are you doing this? I haven’t done anything bad to you.’

‘You know,’ he says evenly. ‘You are the most self-absorbed bitch I have ever had the misfortune to meet. I was
in love
with you, you shameless slut.’

‘What?’ It is like being in the twilight zone. Nothing makes sense. Rob was in love with me!

‘Unbelievable! She didn’t even notice,’ he notes in wonder.

‘How was I to know?’ I cry defensively. ‘You were always rude and cold to me.’

‘If I had not been rude and cold would you have loved me back?’

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I’ll never be able to reason with him. ‘Maybe.’

He walks up to me and viciously kicks me in the stomach. The wind is knocked out of me. I gasp for breath and automatically curl myself protectively, but there are no more blows. I need a strategy. I need to keep him from getting angrier. I need to calm him down.

‘That’s for lying. No more lies.’ He stands over me. ‘Have I made myself clear?’

Unable to speak I nod.

‘You haven’t answered the question.’

I turn my face and look him in the eye. ‘No.’

He explodes with laughter, a bitter sound that rings around the empty flat. ‘I thought so. Too good for me, are you?’

‘No,’ I try to explain. ‘You were my boss. I never even thought about you like that.’

He turns his back to me, his palms clasped over his head, before suddenly swiveling around to face me, grotesquely angry. ‘You didn’t think of me like that,’ he shouts. ‘Do you know that I’ve been taking care of you and protecting you from the moment you appeared for the interview all round-eyed and dewy faced. You were never good enough for the job, too weak and indecisive, but I took you in, taught you everything, and gave you a chance. And what do you do? At the first opportunity you turn your back on me for that stinking gypsy brute.’

He spits on the ground.

‘By the time I came back from the toilet it was already too late, wasn’t it? You were itching for his dick. All the way back to the office in the car, I could smell your arousal. Disgusting.’

My mind scrambles around wildly. I have to pacify him. ‘It’s not like that,’ I tell him, my voice trembling with emotion. ‘I didn’t turn my back on you. I quit my job because I found out we were wrong about everything. We’ve all been manipulated and tricked into demonizing the wrong sections of society. The real cheats, the truly rich, are always going be out of our reach, and all we are doing is squeezing the ordinary person.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘How convenient! As soon as you landed yourself a loaded boyfriend, you’re no longer interested in protecting the poor, taxpaying public anymore, and become more concerned with not demonizing the section of society he belongs to.’

I exhale in frustration. ‘You don’t understand. I truly believed we were helping the ordinary hard-working British public, preventing them from having their pockets picked by people who didn’t pay their proper taxes, but he showed me that I was wrong.’

He pushes out his jaw aggressively. ‘I can’t believe I wasted all that time on you. You’re just a stupid bitch.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to hurt you,’ I cry out.

He stares at me, his face hard. ‘It’s great that you’re sorry, but it doesn’t change a damn thing for me. I’ve got nothing because of you. Did you know I was happily married? She used to make steak and kidney pies for me on Sundays. And then you came, batted your eyelashes, made me want you, and ruined everything.’ He runs his hands through his hair distractedly. ‘I’ve done things for you. I even took care of Michael for you’

‘You did what?’ I gasp.

‘Yes, I broke into his house and made those phone calls so you could actually have the necessary proof and get your restraining order.’

My mouth drops open. ‘He never stalked me, did he?’

‘He didn’t have the brains to be a stalker,’ he scoffed. ‘That was me. It was always me. I was always loyal to you.’

‘Where is Michael now? Have you done something to him?’

‘Of course not. I’m not a killer. Well, I wasn’t. You are the only one capable of driving me to murder.’

He squats next to me. His crotch is so close to my face I can smell his odor: an unwashed, stale, cheesy smell. He flicks open a switchblade and brings it close to my face. It catches the light and inspires dread. Averting my gaze from it, I realize that he’s just trying to frighten me, but I can’t help the terror that floods my entire body. He’s a man who has driven himself to the edge of madness. And he’s holding a knife.

‘Look at you. You thought you could say sorry and all would be forgiven.’ Reaching out a hand he puts it on my bare knee.

I flinch. ‘Please. Please don’t,’ I beg.

His eyes are cold. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t have a big cock. I will fit beautifully in your ass.’

I shake my head with terror.

He bends closer, his eyes widening menacingly. ‘Don’t you like it up the ass? Didn’t the slimy gypsy stuff his dick up your bottom?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ I cry.

‘No, I’m sure you didn’t mean it. However, you did. And now you can compensate me for my suffering,’ he says, and slowly runs his hand up the inside of my thigh.

I squeeze my legs shut and trap his hand. He laughs, an ugly sound. He wrenches his hand out from between my thighs and continues upwards on the fronts of my thighs. His progress is relentless. His fingers have already reached the edible panties that I wore especially for Dom. I stare at him desperately. His fingers suddenly pinch my pussy lips together and I jump with horror.

At that, lust filters into his eyes. With both hands, he tears my skirt right to my waist. He sees the chocolate arrows and a light comes into his eyes.

‘My, my, what do we have here?’

He bends his head and licks an arrow.