Читать книгу The Element Of Death - Steve Wilson - Страница 11

November 30^th

Trixie looks at her watch. It has been a slow night. Business is always bad once the cold sets in. It might be okay for those who have a nice warm bed to go to, but for her, out here by the garages on the industrial estate, finding punters hasn’t been easy.

The guy who said he’d be here doesn’t even have a car. That’s his problem, she thinks. He’s the one who’ll be exposing himself to the biting wind. She has only come here because there are far too many other women on her patch. Some of them aren’t even from the town; no, the city, she corrects herself. She detests them, coming over here and taking her business. Who do they think they are? She knows, though. They think they are younger than her, and they are right.

She takes another look at the time. Almost one in the morning. She’ll give him another five minutes, then she’ll go. She isn’t that desperate for a client. But he did promise to pay her very well. She wonders what she’ll be expected to do to get the money. She wonders, but doesn’t mind. Anything is fine, she thinks. I’ll use the cash to buy nice Christmas presents for Ciaran and Eilidh.

She hears footsteps and turns to face the direction they are approaching from. Yes, this will be him. He’s carrying a large bag in one hand and holds something under what looks like a rug with the other. What sort of kinkiness is this guy into? She smiles. The kinkier the better, as far as she’s concerned, as she runs through her fetish charge rates in her mind.

*

He doesn’t say a word as he follows her into the garage, but he makes certain that the door is firmly closed behind them. She shines a torch in his face and begins her spiel. “It’s a tenner for straight sex, anything other than that is extra. There aren’t any limits as long as you’re prepared to pay. What’s your perversion, then?”

He pulls some lengths of rope out of the bag. She smiles. “Bondage, eh? Normally that would be another twenty, but I like being tied up, so let’s call it another fifteen, eh? Money first,” she demands, holding out a dirty hand.

He lets her have it, a backhanded slap across the face that sends her flying backwards. Even though his gloves have tempered the blow a little, she is still knocked senseless. He picks up the torch that fell as she landed and shines it on her. He can see the tears welling up in her eyes and the look of disbelief on her face. What a stupid woman. In her profession, doesn’t she realise that every john could be the one who kills her? If she hasn’t before, then she will now. He shines the torch on his watch to check the time: 01:01. Perfect.

He takes the rug off the object it is concealing, and watches her eyes widen in terror as she sees what he has brought with him. Before she can react, he pounces, grabbing her scrawny left wrist, and with practised ease he secures it with the rope to the top-left corner of the huge wooden X. Then, in turn, he secures her remaining wrist and her ankles to the other three corners.

She screams repeatedly as she tries to prevent him, but she is no match for him. He doesn’t mind the noise, for there is nobody around to hear her. Besides, he is looking forward to hearing her later on.

Before that can happen, though, she has to be prepared.

He makes sure that the ropes are tight, then he hauls the cross up and leans it against the wall so she resembles a Catherine wheel on Bonfire Night. Taking out his knife, he deftly removes all of her clothing. He takes the whip from his bag. It has a wooden handle and a series of three leather thongs, each containing embedded sharp stones. He holds it in his right hand for her to see, then flails it and brings it down on her naked flesh. And again. And again.

He reaches into his bag and removes the gas cylinder. He affixes a tube to the end and then forces it through her clenched teeth. He turns on the nozzle and allows the gas to enter her mouth.

After a couple of seconds, he stops the flow and removes the tube. She shouts at him, asking why he is doing this to her, but her voice is high-pitched, as if it came from an old vinyl record that has been played at seventy-eight rpm instead of forty-five, and he laughs.

Then he reinserts the tube, turns the nozzle on and this time he doesn’t turn it off until the cylinder is empty. While he waits, he takes a brush from his bag and, holding it in his left hand, begins to cover the bristles with her blood, which appears in new locations on her body with each additional flail of the scourging whip.

*

The lifeless body of the prostitute slumps as much as it is able to, given the constraints of the ropes. He no longer notices her. All of his attention is on the message that he has painstakingly painted on the wall. The blood had dried, but the words are clearly visible.

He packs away all of his tools, makes sure that he has left nothing behind, and exits the garage, this time leaving the door open to ensure that she is found.