A Need To Kill (DI Matt Barnes) (28 page)

Nowadays, tattoos are worn for many different reasons.  Some people have them to signify that they are members of a gang or a branch of the armed forces.  Others just think it is a cool thing to do.  It individualises them and gives them a certain sense of importance.  Lucas had become an illustrated man to cover scarring; to
physically if not psychologically erase or disguise the burns that marked him as a victim.

He had brought Julie down from the loft at four o
’clock on the morning of the second day, blindfolded and bound.  She was now behind the curtain, laying naked on the padded gurney with straps around her neck, waist and thighs.

“
What are you going to do to me?” Julie said.

“
Shsssh,” he said, washing, drying and inspecting his hands for cuts or abrasions, before disinfecting the work area with a viracidal and donning a new pair of gloves.

He opened up the single-tipped needle and fitted it into the machine.  Went to her and removed the blindfold.
  “You got lucky when I chose you,” he said.  “I’m a tattoo artist, and am going to create some wonderful art on your skin.  And it isn’t going to cost you a penny.  How does that grab you?”

“
It frightens me.”

“
No need to be scared.  I’m an expert.  To execute the perfect tattoo, you have to create clear lines at the proper depth.  Not deep enough, and the result will look scratchy.  Too deep and there is too much pain and bleeding.  Believe me, you are in very safe hands.”

Safe hands!  Christ, she was in the hands of a fucking headcase.  He had attacked and abducted her, raped her, and was now going to tattoo her.  At least he wasn
’t a dentist, who got his rocks off by filling and extracting his victims’ teeth without novocaine.  Small mercies.

Without any further preamble, Lucas started in on the blank canvass of supple and clear skin.  He did not use a stencil.  This was freehand design, from the heart.

“I want you to stay still,” he said, depressing the foot pedal, to see her stiffen as the motor started to buzz and the magnetic vibrator drove the needle up and down.  “This isn’t something I can erase and start again.  If I make a mistake, well, I would just have to start again with a new subject.”

Julie contained the impulse to scream and struggle.  What he had said, in effect, was that if she caused him to err, then she would be redundant.  She gritted her teeth until the muscles in her jaws ached.

He started at the right-hand side below her breast and worked up.  He would outline the whole body over the course of several weeks, then use a combination of needles to enhance the illustrations with shading.  Some subtle colouring would complete what he believed would be his finest work to date.  Not a square millimetre of this delectable skin would be left undecorated.

It was over two
hours later that he wiped the site clean and studied the pair of coupling wolves that now graced the upper half of his subject’s abdomen.  This was the start of a masterpiece, he could feel it.  There was a picture in his mind of the finished work: Wolves fucking, hunting, and at rest and play under a full moon that lit the forest they roamed.  He might even, when the time came, remove his finished pièce de résistance, to cure and preserve for posterity.  He would have to search the internet for information on tanning human skin.  It was not something he had any experience of doing.  A new challenge.  Life was rich, with so many intriguing avenues to explore.

“
That’s it for now,” he said, taping a bandage over the site.  “We’ll get back to it in a couple of days.”

Julie felt her muscles relax.  They might have been jelly
, though the ordeal had not been as bad as she had expected it to be.  The pain of the needle was how she imagined being flicked repeatedly with a rubber band would feel.

“
Why me?” she risked asking.

“
Because you were in the right place at the right time, depending on whose viewpoint you look at it from.  And you have young, supple skin.  Bear in mind that whatever I do is not personal.  I have not singled you out because of who you are, but because of what you are; a female who can cater to certain needs.”

“
Don’t you care how I feel about having my life stolen from me?”

“
What life, Julie Spencer?  I doubt that you had a worthwhile future to look forward to.  You are like millions of other insignificant human ants that do not possess the intelligence or talent to be worthy individuals.  What would you aspire to?  Tell me.”

Julie wanted to defend herself, but found more than a little truth in what he
had said.  She could not put a lot of value on her existence in measurable terms.  No one would ever name roads or airports after her, or write books about her, or honour her name for some great deed or important work she had done.  She had achieved nothing of note in her twenty-four years, and had no reason to believe that she would ever have her fifteen minutes of fame.  But she asked, “Who set you up as a judge of what and who is or is not important?”

“
Enough,” he said, blindfolding her again, and stuffing a wad of cotton wool in her mouth and taping it in place.  “Your opinion is irrelevant.  I would have thought it in your best interests to keep me in a genial mood.  Being adversarial is asking for trouble.”

He led her back out, down the hall and up the stairs.  Placed her hands on the cold metal rungs of the loft ladder, and followed her up.  He knew that she was too fearful to act against him.  What point would there be in lashing out with bare feet at an invisible enemy.  Her desperation was tempered by enough commonsense to realise that any hostile act might easily be her last.  Still, he kept close to her, not leaving enough space between them for her to manoeuvre.  His face was against her bottom, and he could smell perspiration and the unmistakable scent of woman.  She would need to shower soon, under close supervision, and when the fresh tattoo work had begun to heal.

With her chained to the iron ring, he removed the blindfold, turned her onto her stomach and pulled her right arm up behind her.  Pain of a magnitude that almost, but not quite, robbed her of consciousness followed.  A tearing agony sending white hot tendrils to shoot up to her shoulder and beyond.  It would have been no surprise to her if some razor-toothed animal had started to feed on her hand, biting to the bone with chisel-sharp incisors.

He gripped the back of her head with his left hand and twisted it to the side so that she could see the fingernail held between the jaws of the pliers.  The horny, varnished covering was now separate from the tip of her middle finger.  Bright cherry-red tissue was still attached to it, and teardrop
s of blood dripped from it onto the black plastic that she lay on, to roll away from her; crimson pearls on the non porous and oil slick surface.

Through the screams that were trapped in her brain with no outlet, Julie heard his voice.  It penetrated the fog of her suffering.  Each word was etched into her psyche.

“Do not ever question what I do, you stupid, ignorant cunt.  If you even look at me the wrong way, then I might blind you.  You’ve heard the old saying; ‘if you haven’t anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all’, haven’t you?”

She snapped her head up and down.  He
had
to be obeyed.  Her tolerance to pain was not high enough to risk further torture.  And she knew that he was not making idle threats.

“
Then be very careful,” he continued.  “Think before you open your mouth, and censor anything that might cause offence.  All I want to hear are uplifting and positive comments.  I don’t like to have people around me who give off negative vibes.  There is absolutely no point in you wallowing in self-pity.  You are on a journey, and this is just one step along the way.  Try to savour every second of your time here with me. Consider it a learning curve; one that will elevate your pathetic life to a new level.”

He went down to the bathroom, placed the fingernail on the wash hand basin between the taps and took a bottle of antiseptic and some lint and a
box of elastoplasts from the mirrored cabinet on the wall.

She had learned her lesson, of that he was sure.  Having a nail yanked from its bed was a real attention-getter. 
Though he would have been able to contain the pain and use the power of thought to control it.  The fortitude he had built up to overcome any form of discomfort was as strong and resilient as the finest tempered sword blade ever produced in Toledo.  He would give her a demonstration.  Let her be amazed and in awe of him.

Back in the loft, he removed the blindfold and gave her time to wipe the tears from her eyes with her undamaged hand.

“Watch this, bitch,” he said, pushing the slightly open jaws of the pliers over the rim of the nail on the little finger of his left hand.  He ensured he had a firm grip, and then used his power to mentally withdraw from the loft.  Envisioned a chalk-white pyramid that seemed to grow from golden desert sand.  He mind-walked through a portal in its sloping side, to travel along a dark and narrow tunnel that angled down into the bowels of the earth.  In the burial chamber at the centre of the polygonal structure, he stood in the dank resting place of a long dead pharaoh, to even take the time to invent the smell of damp plaster, and to see the splendid trappings that were to supposedly accompany the mummified ruler into the next life.

Julie cradled her throbbing hand and looked on in horror as the man who called himself Wolf sat cross-legged in full lotus position in front of her and made as if to remove one of his own fingernails with the ugly, black pair of pliers.  His eyes became dreamy, and there was the hint of a smile on his face.  He was completely out of his tree; she knew it.

With smooth, even pressure, Lucas withdrew the nail from its moorings.

Julie gasped at the sight of it
becoming detached.  Blood surged from the raw flesh, to dribble down and patter on the plastic.

Lucas was in two places at once.  He was fully aware of being in the loft, but saw it from the ethereal seclusion of the burial chamber he had constructed.  It was as if he was two separate individuals.  His personality was split, yet each aspect of it was aware of the other
’s presence.  He felt no pain, and allowed himself to be one again.

“
That was just a display of mind over matter,” he said to his cerebrally inferior prisoner, leaning forward to rip away the tape from her mouth and hook out the saliva-soaked cotton wool.  “It would do you no harm to learn how to control your emotions, and be more able to manage the physical stimuli that evokes pain, hunger and all other reactions to organs and tissue.  Sadly, the art of it would take you years to master, if ever.  But every journey starts with the first step.  Right?”

“
Y...Yes, Wolf,” Julie gasped, wanting to cry, hardly able to contend with the deep, ferocious throbbing that matched her pulse rate.

He applied the antiseptic to both of their raw finger ends, and taped lint over them.

Julie grunted as the iodine seeped into the wound to stain the pink flesh a brownish yellow.

“
There.  All better,” he said.  “We can just put this little episode behind us and start afresh.  How does that sound?”

“
That sounds good, Wolf,” she said.

“
That’s my girl.  I think we deserve a cup of coffee and a bite to eat.  Just stay as sweet as you are, and I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

When he left, Julie broke down and sobbed her heart out.  He was the most evil person she had ever met, and yet she now relied on him for her very existence.
Without him to bring her food and water, she would die.  And yet a part of her already felt girded against the moment when he
would
kill her.  She was no more than human chattel, bound to absolute obedience, a helpless victim under his influence to be used and dispensed with at will.  She was a sex slave and much more.  No plantation Negro had faced greater fear or hardship than she was having to bear.  She would gladly have traded places with some cotton-picking black girl of the Deep South, who may have been bedded by an overzealous landowner, and even been subjected to the odd thrashing, but would not have spent every waking second staring mutilation and death in the face.  This was a madman who had snatched her away from the safety of her previous life.  He was the manifestation of the devil to her; a somehow unearthly demon who preyed on mere mortals for the sport of it.

Lucas was relaxed and feeling in total control of the situation.  Life was a giant Christmas tree, and he was the boy under the twinkling fairy lights and glittering decorations, rummaging through brightly wrapped parcels that hid his gifts from view.  He could open any that he chose to.  What more riches could anyone possess than the freedom
he
had to own whatever took his fancy?  He was a gourmet, and the world was his oyster.

He
decided to have a picnic up in the loft with the current love of his life.  Then maybe get her to sit on him and expend a few calories earning her keep.  After that he would have a shower before driving out of the area to phone the cop, Barnes, and play mind games with the plod who had intercepted his money.  Maybe he would also contact another of the wankers listed on the dead whore’s diary pages.  It would be fun to jerk another high profile dickhead around.  There was so much to keep him constructively occupied.  Sometimes there were just not enough hours in the day.