Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (13 page)

Clare woke with a start. Her head was pounding, and she started to go through the previous evening’s events. After Dean’s barrage of calls, she ended up drinking herself into oblivion. Getting up, she retrieved her phone and rang Loretta’s number.

“Hi, sorry to call you at home at the weekend, but is there any chance I could see you soon?”

In her office Loretta leaned back in her chair and frowned; Clare had been anything but forthcoming the last few sessions they’d had. She had agreed to help Clare’s study, but Clare had seemed disinterested recently. Loretta had asked her what was wrong and Clare had assured there was nothing, so Loretta could only assume she’d lost interest in the course and Loretta had no time for half measures. She had considered calling time on the whole tutoring aspect; if someone didn’t give their all, then she didn’t see why she should have to give up her free time. Jimmy Holt had earmarked enough of that for himself lately, although she didn’t begrudge that; in fact, she admitted, she enjoyed his company. But this girl, she wasn’t being straight with her, and although technically Loretta was ‘off-duty’ with her, it was still a principle of her profession never to force any issues.

“Well, I’m going into the office later anyway to sort out some paper work. I can meet you there at three if you like.”

On the other end of the line, Clare’s face broke into a rare smile.

“That’d be great, thank you. I’ll see you then.”

Loretta hung up the phone. She made the decision to give Clare one last chance. She just hoped this meeting would be more productive than the last few.

Clare had finally managed to kick her hangover. She had been so relieved when Loretta had suggested meeting in the afternoon. Clare knew she’d been sailing close to the wind with

Loretta lately and that Loretta was becoming impatient with her attitude, so Clare had made the decision to come clean with her and let her know about the whole mess. Once the decision had been made she had felt lighter, as though she didn’t have to face it on her own anymore. She knew she had Hannah, but Hannah had been keeping her distance recently and Clare couldn’t blame her; they had both become reminders of that night to each other.

Clare stepped into the shower and enjoyed the feeling as the warm water washed over her, making her clean again. If only memories were so easily washed away. Ever since the attack Clare had stopped spending time on her appearance, so within ten minutes she was ready to go. She never used to be able to get ready so quickly, but now she felt that the less attractive she was, the safer she was. Grabbing her car keys, she slammed out of the flat, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She chose to take the stairs down to the ground floor and the car park. Bursting out of the door into the car park, she spotted her car and suddenly stopped dead.

Her car was sat in its usual position, but the deep blue paintwork was scribbled with bright pink profanities. Drawing closer, she could begin to make out the words: “whore,” “slag,” “bitch.”

Clare stood stunned for a moment, watching her own car as if waiting for its next trick. Then breaking her stare she rushed to it and got in, sparking the engine to life she drove quickly to Loretta’s office. Parking her car in its usual space Clare made her way inside.

Loretta was already waiting in her office and Clare went in and sat down. Loretta didn’t bother looking up.

“Hi Clare, I’ll be with you in a minute. I’ve just got to finish this.”

“There’s no rush.” Clare’s voice broke and she started to sob uncontrollably.

Loretta put her paperwork down and gave Clare her full attention.

“Whatever’s the matter?”

“It’s hard to know where to start.”

“I often find the beginning as good a place as any.”

With that, Clare poured out all the events in detail, occasionally stopping to draw breath. Loretta sat solemnly, listening until Clare ran out of steam.

“Clare, what on Earth prompted you to keep all this to yourself?”

“Well, because it’s not just me who’s been affected, Hannah didn’t want anyone else to know, and I couldn’t go behind her back.”

“Did you report this to the police?”

“No, we think they used
rohypnol, and by the time we realised what had happened, the drug was out of our systems. Besides, neither of us wanted to have to go through it all again.”

“And that is exactly why these attacks continue—the offenders rely on their victims’ humiliation to keep them quiet.”

“Well, it works.” Clare dissolved into sobbing once more.

“All too well, it would appear. Now, where’s your car?”

“Parked just outside the door—why?”

“Because I want you to take my car home; I’ll get yours sorted out and drop it back to you during the week. In the meantime, I’ll see about getting that website closed down.”

“How?”

“I know someone who’s good with computers.”

“It’s not the police, is it?”

“No. Look, I don’t want you worrying about it, just get home and get some rest, OK?”

Loretta pushed her keys across the desk toward Clare.

“Um, ok, as long as you’re sure…’ Clare went to hand Loretta her keys and then stopped.

“I really appreciate this, you know.”

Loretta’s hand was out for the keys and she replied without looking up.

“I know.”

Clare retrieved Loretta’s keys from the desk muttering her thanks once more she left.

Loretta watched out of her window as Clare got into her car and drove away. Clare had finally started being honest with her again and this gave Loretta a sense of relief. Picking up the phone, she started the first stage of the clean up process: getting Clare’s car picked up for re-spray. As Loretta dialled the number she wondered if she should mention this afternoon’s episode to Jimmy Holt. Technically this Adam Woodacre who Clare had named as the ringleader of this website had broken the law, so she could report him in good conscience. However that would mean she’d be breaking a promise to Clare, and even though she wasn’t Clare’s counsellor, she felt honour bound to uphold her professional principles. When the phone was answered on the other end of the line, she had made her decision: she wouldn’t report it to Jimmy.

Joanne was shattered; she’d spent all morning cleaning the windows. She finished them off and walked back through into the kitchen, filling the kettle and putting it on to boil. She went over to the kitchen table and started sorting through bills. All but one was addressed to Jon. Where was her estranged husband staying? And more importantly, why hadn’t he called to tell her he’d be away so long? It was their eldest, Harry’s, sixteenth birthday on Monday, just two days away, and Jon hadn’t made any attempts to contact her about arrangements. He really was a selfish bastard at times. She could cope with her own embarrassment that her husband’s dubious reputation allowed her, but he had always been an outstanding dad for the most part. Joanne was used to him disappearing for days or even weeks at a time with his latest squeeze, dressing it up as a “business trip.” Part of her hoped he realised she was aware of the indiscretions and that she wasn’t just completely stupid. But then again, if he knew that she knew and didn’t care, that would be worse, wouldn’t it? Joanne tried not to dwell on these things too much; neither answer would please her.

She thought about how simple the whole ‘marriage’ idea had appeared when she was a little girl. It had all seemed so very easy: find a nice man, marry him, and everything else would just fall into place. Home, kids, then grandchildren. She had had no comprehension of the hard work that a marriage entailed—continual, unrelenting work. She had also falsely assumed that the man you married was the one you spent your married life with. Again, not so; men were rarely as attentive once they had the ring on. It was like the wedding ring held special powers; once upon its owner’s finger, it was the key to the unlocking of civilisation within the home. Joanne knew that marriages required effort from both sides—her married friends had seen fit to tell her on her hen night. They had been quick to mention their own husbands’ shortcomings: praising their own gas, believing that wet towels lived on the bathroom floor, and that toenail clippings on the side of the bath constituted interior design. And at the wedding reception she’d heard from the husbands about their wives commonly held misconception: that they could “change” them. The most common way to approach this was to verbally beat the man into submission. Nagging seemed to be universally considered the wives’ number one weapon of choice in the war of the genders arsenal. One man had commented to Joanne, ‘I’ll rip my ears off if I have to hear about tile grouting anymore.’

Joanne had smiled politely at this. But even so, her
friends marriages still remained strong, even now, seventeen years later, whereas hers had started to slip after the second year. Not helped by the fact that there was usually a third wheel. And she reluctantly had to admit, that third wheel was usually her.

She resigned herself to the fact that her husband was slipping even further away from the family home and opened the only piece of mail addressed to them as husband and wife—the joint bank account statement. Yanking the thick wad of papers that made up the complete statement out of the envelope, she started reading through it, and what she saw sent a chill of fear down her spine. A week and a half ago he’d made a transaction of fifty thousand pounds to an estate agent; he’d put a deposit down on a house.

The bank statement confirmed what she had feared: he was leaving her.

Caught up in her own woes, she failed to notice that he’d made no transactions within the last week.

Richard stared at the computer screen in rapt enthusiasm. It made him look peculiar; enthusiasm was not an expression often found on Richard’s face. He usually wore a look of indifference, or, worse still, arrogance—the arrogance of youth, coupled with the belief that he held all the answers to the mysteries of life

Richard was a goth. The usual belief of immortality that most teenagers subscribed to was compounded by the goths’ love of all things macabre. The idea that even if death were to come it would somehow merely see him as one of its own and move on.

Richard loved the way people would cross the street to avoid him; it made him feel important, almost akin to a reputation that a gangster would possess, the only difference being that it was his appearance that alarmed people. He had long, straggly black hair that hadn’t met with shampoo in at least three months. His face was naturally quite long, and after a few heavy nights of drinking and taking drugs he took on the pale, gaunt look of the living dead. He still lived at home, to his own annoyance, and his mother would continually berate him about not washing often enough and how he was ‘throwing his life away’. He just ignored her, like he did everyone. She should just accept him for what he was.

The reason, however, for this sudden change in Richard’s expression, was the chat he’d been having in a goth chat room to a girl who called herself “Queen of the Damned.”

Richard was obsessed with the film by the same name, and from the replies he was getting, this girl seemed just as into him.

He allowed himself a little smile—something that would have been previously unheard—to grace his lips. She told him to meet her at eight o’clock outside The Tin Whistle.

Richard started to get ready; he had only half an hour to get ready and get there in time. He turned to the mirror in his room and began the ritual of applying his makeup. Richard always used the same ‘mask’ whenever going out: white face paint, black lipstick, and heavily lined lids that accentuated his paleness. Noticing his nail varnish was chipped, he filled it in quickly with a permanent black marker he kept in his bedroom for emergencies. Lastly, he grabbed the small plastic bag full of mushrooms and headed for the door. His mother walked into the hall as the front door slammed closed behind him. 

Richard arrived outside The Tin Whistle at eight o’clock precisely and was met by a small girl with a pale face, dark red lips, and short, spiky black hair. He couldn’t believe his luck.  She introduced herself as Katy and they went in. It was as always hot and sticky inside. Richard fought his way to the bar while Katy went to find a table. Richard had already decided that the situation called for spirits and had ordered double tequilas for them both, paying the barmen he found Katy sat at a table at the back of the bar.

The conversation had started pretty much where they left off; they had discussed most of their favourite films by eleven o’clock. Both of them were drunk and after another double helping of tequila they were both ready to leave. When Richard had shown Katy the mushrooms, she had laughed and invited him to a party she was going on to after. The party was happening at a house that was only a fifteen-minute walk from the pub. Richard stopped at the gents’ before leaving, where he took a couple of handfuls of mushrooms. Twenty minutes later he was out of his head. Katy, having grown tired of his continual giggling, had given him the address and relieved him of the mushrooms before going on ahead. He staggered out of the pub onto the street in his, propping himself up against the side of the building he stared up and then down the street, trying to remember the directions.  After a few minutes, and still none the wiser, he decided that going right seemed to be the best idea. Turning he started down the street.

When the car pulled up next to him, he didn’t notice it at first. Someone got out of the car and came straight up to him.

“It’s Richard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he replied, grinning wildly. Richard couldn’t be sure if what he was seeing was real or not, but it looked like this guy was wearing a mask. He decided it didn’t matter; it was probably the mushrooms.

“Are you going to the party?”

“Yeah, can’t remember where it is, though.” He started to laugh again.

“I can give you a lift if you like—jump in.”

“Cheers.” And with that he got in the car, happy in the knowledge he no longer had to worry about finding directions. He could relax and was free to gaze out at the shadows being cast by the streetlights as they streaked past. Richard could feel his eyelids getting
heavy, he slowly turned his head to look at the driver who’d been kind enough to offer him a lift. He was mildly surprised to find the driver looking back at him.

When Richard woke, he felt terrible. He’d thrown up all down himself, but worse than that, he realised he was still coming down.

Christ! It smells like shit in here
. He couldn’t pinpoint the smell, but it kept making him gag. He stared wildly around him, trying to make sense of where he was, but it wasn’t anywhere he recognised. He had woken up in questionable places before, but he’d always known whose house he was at or at least there would be someone he knew next to him.

This time, though, was different; there were no familiar sights, sounds, or, for that matter, people. He was alone. He tried to move and couldn’t, and he looked down to see what was preventing his departure. He was alarmed to find he was duct taped to a wheelchair. As his mind tried to adjust to process the incoming information, he started to panic. Only a little at first, but as he properly ingested the information that he was helpless, the panic started to rise.

Then he had a thought: maybe this wasn’t real; maybe it was a cruel prank that his mates had decided to pull at the last minute. Or maybe he was dreaming, stuck in a maddening nightmare. Then he threw up again. Well, that confirmed he wasn’t in a nightmare. He started to try to work out where he was. It seemed that he was in some sort of derelict barn; the wind was blowing through, chilling him to the bone. And yet even with the strong wind he could still smell that nauseating stench—it wasn’t dissipating. He was starting to feel sick and was becoming increasingly paranoid; his mind seemed to have turned against him, coming up with all sorts of scary scenarios to tease and torment him. He decided the best course of action, seeing as there was no alternative, was to sit and wait.

After what seemed like an age, someone came into the room he was seemingly incarcerated in. Hearing the footsteps, Richard decided to call out.

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but you better get your arse over here and untie me right
fucking
now!”

Richards’s anger bubbled over as he continued.

“I don’t know who put you up to this, but let me tell you something. Once my mates and I have finished with you, you’re gonna wish you’d never set eyes on me.”

The stranger quietly walked up behind Richard then stepped in front of him so he could see his captor properly.

Richard took a sharp breath in. Standing in front of him was a cloaked figure. But that wasn’t what had taken his breath away.

The figure had a pale cherubic face, which obviously a mask; it was completely white but for a few homemade amendments. The lips were black, looking like a gash in an otherwise perfectly angelic face. As his eyes travelled up the contours of the face they stopped as he noticed another, obviously intentional, flaw. On one cheek of the mask, crudely painted on, was a single tear. It was a cruel parody of his own tears, which were now flowing freely down his face.

The mask spoke.

“Why are you crying?”

“Why do you think, you
freak
? You’re the one who’s been tearing people up all over town aren’t you? I don’t want to die—please, please let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Richard’s voice was pleading between sobs.

“Begging Richard? That doesn’t exactly fit with the hardened, indifferent image you strive so hard to achieve. Anyway, I intend to teach.’

“Teach? What do you want to teach me?”

“I’d like to teach you about death.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I mean, you seem obsessed with it, and you study it almost religiously, if you’d excuse the turn of phrase. Now Richard, you spend all this time emulating death, and I want to help you, so I’m going to teach you all about death.”

The mask moved out of his line of sight once more, and all of a sudden he was moving swiftly, and in what seemed to be one fluid movement, he was facing the opposite side of the room. His eyes were drawn to something on the floor, and in a sudden, violent instant, he knew what the smell had been.

Unable to control himself, his body tried to evacuate. When he’d finally managed to get a grip on himself, he forced his eyes to travel back to the body once more. He recognised it instantly as that of the man who’d gone missing over a week ago.

What was his name? Jon.
Jon something or other. Jon…

“Jon Hamilton.” As if reading his mind, the mask spoke.

“Is he…is he…?”

“Dead? Yes. I really thought you’d have known that, though.” The voice had a chastising quality to it.

“It seems you still have a lot to learn about death. Well, why put off ‘til tomorrow what you can do today? That’s what my mother always said, anyway.” With that, the mask leaned over him, clamping a damp rag over his nose and mouth. With his arms bound, there was nothing Richard could do.

He tried to hold his breath, but the masked man had anticipated this, and a gloved hand stroked his face as the stranger’s gentle voice started to speak.

“Try to relax, Richard; it’ll all be over soon.”

Knowing there was nothing he could do, his lungs screaming at him, he took a few gasps of air.

Sometime later, Richard stirred once again. He could feel pressure all across the front of his body, and he was lying on the cold floor. His arms had been tied round something in front of him, and something cold and spongy was on top of him. As he slowly opened his eyes, he let out a high-pitched, primal scream. Directly in front of him, Jon Hamilton’s glazed, milky eyes stared back at his. Up close he could see the discolouration on his face; it looked as if someone had prised his mouth open after death had got hold of him, and now there was a fetid smell emanating As Richard tried to kick out and push the body away he realised he was tied to a pole, which was thwarting any efforts he made. But as he moved, a soft, rasping breath escaped the dead body on top of him. This was the last straw, as far as Richard was concerned, and he threw up again and started to cry.

The cloaked figure watched Richard from the other side of the room, once Richard was spent the figure moved slowly toward him. Richard cried out, trying in vain to sound angered as opposed to frightened, but unfortunately the wavering in his voice gave him away.

“You freak! Let me up from here right now, right fucking now…”

His voice trailed off as another gasp of air escaped
Mr. Hamilton.

“Please, please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone—who’d believe me anyway?”

“Oh, dear Richard, we’re missing the point, aren’t we? I’m doing this for your own good. You’ll learn everything you need to know about death within the next few hours, days, weeks, hell, I’m not even sure how long this will take.” The last bit was said jovially as if this was some kind of bizarre experiment that was to culminate in an exciting discovery.

“Why me? What did I ever do to you?”

“It’s not what you did to me, Richard. There are so many reasons you’re here now, none of which I particularly care to share with you.”

“But why
me
?” His voice regained a little strength.

“Why you? Well, why anyone, really? So many people have such little say in what happens to them in their lives. People lose people they love every day through disease and accidents that they had no control over. And to them death is something to be respected. They have a personal insight into what death holds; it’s not something to be emulated and mocked by people like you who’ve never felt the pain of loss. You and your ilk pass drugs around, introducing them to the most vulnerable people in society without any concern for the consequences. People get hurt—or sometimes worse—by your actions, but still you don’t care, still the indifference.”

“So you’re teaching me that lesson by strapping me to
this
?” Richard nodded toward the body on top of him.

“Yes, I’m afraid I can’t take credit for the ingenuity of it, though—I got the idea from the Etruscans.”

“
Who
?”

“The Etruscans. Really, Richard, for one so arrogant you really are painfully stupid.”

Ordinarily Richard would have had a row with anyone who dared to call him stupid, but now he feared that perhaps his abductor had a point. He had, after all, gotten willingly into the car.

“The Etruscans were in Rome before the Romans. They were pirates, basically, for want of a better word. They did this to their own when they stepped out of line, the idea being that one may inhale death from a dead body. Personally, I can’t see how it would work, I suppose no food or water
and
a dead body strapped to you; I imagine it’s a pretty nasty way to die, but I suppose time will tell.”