Authors: Shaun Hutson
She had screamed loudly when he had bitten her there. She had struggled, those struggles intensifying when he flipped her over and sank his teeth into her buttocks, so deep that blood flowed.
He’d strangled her, to shut her up as much as anything.
She’d taken longer than the others to die, and he’d looked into her bulging eyes as he’d squeezed the life from her, gradually seeing those throbbing orbs glaze over.
Her eyes were still open now and he looked deeply into them, seeing his own reflection in the dead blackness of her dilated pupils.
He’d severed her head shortly after her death.
That same head he now picked up by its long hair, staring again into those eyes.
He could feel his erection pressing urgently against his trousers and, with his free hand, he pulled his swollen penis free. He clamped one fist around his shaft and began to rub, gazing raptly into those blind eyes, his excitement building.
There was a strong smell emanating from both body and head. Even forty-eight hours could produce a fair amount of deterioration in a corpse, and her wounds were already infected. One, on her stomach, was suppurating.
He continued to masturbate, his climax drawing closer.
He was grunting loudly now, enjoying the pleasure of it. Just as he had enjoyed it while she had been still alive. When he had forced himself into her anus, pushing her head into the earth to silence her screams.
But now he paused, releasing his penis, using both hands to force open her jaws.
There was a loud snap as one of the rigored joints cracked, but he managed to achieve his objective with relative ease.
Her tongue was blackened and swollen. Her lips bloodless lines on her bruised and bloated face.
The stench of putrefaction seemed to billow from that gaping mouth like an invisible, reeking cloud.
He began masturbating again, holding the severed head close to the tip of his throbbing penis.
His orgasm gripped him, and he watched as several thick spurts of ejaculate spattered the face and mouth of his trophy, some of it entering that gaping, dead maw. He lifted the head so that it was inches from his face and he saw his seed on that blackened tongue.
He smiled, his breathing gradually slowing.
Finally he threw the head back into the car boot and slammed it shut, turning to walk back to his own vehicle.
The wind was growing stronger and he pulled up his collar.
Still, it was comfortably warm inside his own car. And only a short drive to the small diner he’d passed an hour or so earlier. He would stop there and get some lunch. He was hungry.
9 May 1976
|
|
R
OB
G
IBSON SAT
at the end of the bed, flicking channels. Jabbing the remote control towards the TV as if it was a weapon.
News, soaps, some American chat show.
The same old shit.
He located MTV and left it on: at least the music was fairly decent. Well, until some trendy moron announced that they’d be looking through the Dance Chart. Rob groaned and switched the set off.
It had been a long day. However, it had been profitable, which was all that mattered. He’d ring Frank Burn-side first thing in the morning to tell him the good news: that he’d secured contracts with three major firms in the North. Rob was meeting two other reps for dinner that night, to discuss more plans for BG Trucks. They were supposed to meet him downstairs in the bar of the Piccadilly at 8.30.
He checked his watch.
Christ, it was already 7.30 now.
He might just have time for a quick bath and a few minutes to himself before the day’s business spilled over into the evening’s arrangements.
While the bath was running, he selected another suit from the wardrobe, and laid it out on the bed beside a fresh shirt and tie.
Rob switched on the radio and was relieved to find some listenable music there. He began to relax a little, wandering into the bathroom every now and then to check on the bath level.
The trade fair had proved even more of a success than he’d hoped. He was looking forward to telling Frank Burnside about the successful deals. Hopefully he’d have another in the bag after this meeting tonight.
Like most business deals, it required a certain amount of practised bullshit. Rob had to pretend to care about his would-be client’s private interests, about their families, about where they were going for their holidays.
The usual bollocks.
But he was gifted in the art of duplicity. More so than his partner.
Rob smiled.
Frank Burnside had a habit of looking bored after about ten minutes, whereas Rob himself could maintain an aura of feigned enthusiasm for as long as it took to close the deal.
He wasn’t looking forward to the forthcoming session. Both his potential clients had mentioned that they liked a drink – Rob’s interpretation being that they intended staying in the bar all night getting pissed, and running it up on
his
room bill. That didn’t bother him too much, but he wasn’t a great drinker himself, and didn’t relish the idea of getting smashed when he had another heavy day ahead of him tomorrow.
Still, he mused, needs must when there’s a fucking great contract at the end of it. So he’d smile, he’d laugh in all the right places, he’d even pretend he
gave
a shit when one of the clients announced that he was a Manchester United supporter. When
normally
his inclination would be to spit in the bastard’s beer.
Such was business.
He checked the bath again and began to undress.
The knock on the bedroom door startled him.
‘Shit,’ he murmured.
He’d obviously forgotten to put out the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign. The maid was about to come in and draw his curtains, turn down his bed, and do whatever else she had to do.
He wrapped a towel around his hips and opened the door.
Sandra Bennett smiled in at him.
‘W
HAT THE HELL
are
you
doing here?’ Rob stood motionless, staring at her.
‘
That’s
a nice greeting after I’ve come all this way,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you even going to ask me in?’
He exhaled and stepped aside, allowing her inside the room.
She was carrying a small overnight bag, which she dropped on the end of the bed beside his suit.
Rob slammed the door closed, and stood looking at her.
Navy blue trouser suit. Black ankle boots.
She ran a hand through her blonde hair.
‘What are you playing at, Sandy?’ he said. ‘Why are you here?’
‘It looks like you were expecting me,’ she said, smiling, nodding towards the towel around his hips.
He took a step towards her.
‘I’m serious,’ he snapped. ‘This isn’t a fucking game.’
‘What’s the problem, Rob?’
‘Number one, I’ve got a meeting with clients in less than an hour. Number two – you.
You’re
the problem.’
‘I had to come.’
‘Why, for Christ’s sake? It’s all over between us, you know that.’
‘We never talked about it – about us.’
‘There is no
us.
There never was, and there can’t be. I thought you understood that.’
‘Why not? That was one of the things we never discussed. It just finished between us, no explanations.’
‘My wife found out. What more fucking explanation do you need?’
‘I just wanted to talk to you. Perhaps you’re right, it’s over – but we’ve never had the chance to talk about our feelings.’
‘Jesus, I don’t believe you, Sandy. What do you think’s going to happen if Hailey finds out you’re here?’
‘She won’t.’
‘Just like she wasn’t ever going to find out we were having an affair in the first place?’
‘She wouldn’t have found out if you’d been more careful. If she hadn’t found that receipt from our trip to Leeds.’
‘So now you’re blaming me? You knew there was no future in it anyway.’
‘So you say.’
‘Yes, that’s what I say, because it’s true. Aren’t you listening to me? If she finds out you’re here she’ll throw me out, and I dread to think what she’ll do to
you
.’
‘I don’t want her to find out either. The last thing I want is some crazy, jealous wife on my doorstep. Look, Rob, I came here because I wanted to see you, to talk to you. I know it’ll probably be the last time we’ll be together. Just let me say goodbye, that’s all.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’ve got to meet clients.’
‘So what do I do? Are you going to throw me out? I can’t get home now. The last return train went half an hour ago.’
He stood with his hands on his hips, his breath coming in short gasps.
‘How long will your meeting be?’ she wanted to know.
‘Fuck knows,’ he rasped. ‘I could be down there until the early hours of the bloody morning.’
‘I’ll wait up here for you.’
‘Sandy—’
‘Please, Rob, I only want to talk.’
He spun away from her.
‘Fuck it. Wait here, then. Watch the TV, order some room service, do what you want. We’ll talk when I get back.’
He began to dress.
‘You might as well have a bath,’ he told her. ‘There’s one waiting in there.’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.
She smiled as she saw him disappear into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later, hair combed, smelling of aftershave.
‘Don’t answer that phone if it rings,’ he said, jabbing a finger towards the bedside cabinet. ‘I’ll see you later.’
And he was gone.
Sandy Bennett’s smile widened and she began to unpack her overnight bag.
‘W
HEN IS
D
AD
coming home?’
Hailey looked at her daughter with an expression of bemusement, as if she’d just asked her to explain the Theory of Relativity or the Origins of the Universe.
She lowered the book she’d been reading to Becky, and blinked hard.
The child was sitting up in bed.
‘He’ll be home tomorrow night,’ said Hailey. ‘Why?’
The little girl slid down beneath the sheets and pulled them up around her neck.
‘Dad does all the different voices when he reads my stories,’ Becky explained.
‘And I
don’t
?’ said Hailey, feigning annoyance. ‘My stories not good enough for you, eh? Right, that’s OK.’
Becky began to giggle.
‘I know when I’m not wanted,’ Hailey continued, tickling her daughter, smiling as the little girl wriggled.
Finally she sat back in the chair beside Becky’s bed, running a hand through her daughter’s hair.
Becky was still smiling, clutching a battered old stuffed dog.
‘Are you going to go to sleep now?’ Hailey asked.
Becky nodded and leant over to kiss her.
She waited until Hailey was on her feet, then rolled onto her side.
‘Mum, do you still love Dad?’
The question took Hailey by surprise. She turned and took a step back towards the bed, kneeling beside it, looking into her daughter’s face.
‘What makes you say that, darling?’ she wanted to know.
‘You
do
still love him, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. I’ll always love your dad.’
‘And he loves you?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve heard you and Dad shouting sometimes. I thought you didn’t love each other any more.’