Kill or Die Page 3

  “He couldn't have been wearing his seat belt...” she tried to say, but then the driver spoke.

  “Nash, get your arse out of there.”

  Julia shot the man a sharp look, thinking how awful to snap out an order to someone who'd hit their head against a windscreen. Through the slit in the balaclava, his pale blue eyes were luminous – and cold.

  The passenger looked to be in his mid-twenties, and horribly disfigured on one side of his face. He groaned, and slumped forward, his head almost in his lap.

  “He needs help. My mobile's in my bag. I'll...” A leather gloved hand clamped suddenly and roughly around her mouth and nose, and she felt the terrifying feeling of suffocation. Frantically, she struggled against him, writhing, twisting, trying to kick back at his legs to scrape her heels down his shins. Desperately aware she couldn't breathe, she clawed at his hand, but she was being lifted bodily off the ground, and carried back to her own car. He bundled her into her driving seat.

  “Shut it! One sound, and the kid dies, understand?” His eyes locked onto hers, glittering with menace.

  “Mummy...” Lucy's whimpering voice reached her.

  Everything was starting to swim before her eyes. His fingers dug into her face, the hand was locked rigidly in place. He peered past her, toward Lucy in the back. His voice took on a smoother tone, but the words were as deadly. “Be quiet, little girl, or your mummy dies. Do you understand?”

  He leaned further into the car, squeezing his large bulk between Julia and the steering wheel, immobilising and smothering her.

  Blood was pounding in her ears. She caught a glimpse of herself in the interior mirror, and saw her terrified bulging eyes. The car dipped, as someone got into the back seat next to Lucy, and the black gloved hand sprang away from her face. She gulped in the cold foggy air in big, desperate lungfuls.

  Lucy cried out, then went instantly silent, as if someone's hand was over her mouth too.

  “Don't hurt her!” she gasped. “Please, don't! She's only a child.”

  The leather-coated man peeled away from her, took his bulk, and his stench of leather away from her to stand by her open door. She spun around to her daughter, and saw to her relief no one was smothering her. But, the child sat rigid, her eyes huge with terror. Beside her, sat the injured man. He was slumped against Lucy, blood trickling in narrow gullies down his face. She saw he had another injury, as a belt had been fastened tight around his upper arm, and there was a pool of blood in his lap.

  The man in black leather stooped down to speak to her. He spoke softly now, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “My good friend, Nash, is now sitting beside your daughter. If you make any sound, hit the horn, or do anything rash, he will smash her pretty little skull in. Do you understand?”

  Julia nodded, her eyes fixed on his through the slit in his mask. His pupils were dilated, as if highly excited, they terrified her.

  “What you will do is drive,” he instructed. “You will follow my car, which I shall drive. When I stop, you will pull in behind me. We will commandeer your little car, and you will be free to find your way home. Do you understand me?”

  Julia nodded again, wanting to vomit.

  He backed off steadily, his head inclined to one side, gauging her reaction. His finger pointed at her, like someone warning their dog to stay.

  She didn't move, didn't disobey. There was no way she dared, with his accomplice sitting next to Lucy. She didn't know what this pair were up to, or what they were capable of. And she couldn't risk putting Lucy's life in danger by trying something heroic. So, she sat quietly, gripping the steering wheel with trembling hands, and watched him return to his car, reverse and pull around them, his eyes not wavering from hers for an instant.

  “Follow him,” the man in the back seat said. His voice was slurred.

  Julia put her car into gear, and followed his tail lights through the fog, away from home, trapped in a nightmare of her own making.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’ll say you raped me!”

  Ignoring her outburst, Ian Logan disentangled himself from Shelley de Main's arms, and swung his long legs off her bed. He pulled on his trousers, dressing quickly. Not that they'd done anything – not tonight, at any rate. He slipped his tie into his jacket pocket. Julia wouldn't expect him to have been working this late, and to come home still wearing his tie. He left the top button of his shirt undone, too, and pulled on his jacket. Catching sight of himself in Shelley's wardrobe mirror, he averted his eyes, not liking what he saw. Guilt. His face was riddled with it.

  His gaze shifted back to Shelley. She lay sprawled across red satin sheets in what he guessed was supposed to be a seductive pose. She was naked beneath a short flimsy negligee, which was how she always dressed for him, when they were alone. Stockings, suspenders, Basques, see-through blouses – the whole sexy mistress stuff, which had excited him, at first, months ago. Only now, as she lay there, with her black hair spread out around her painted face on the pillow like a satanic halo, she reminded him of a plump Venus de Milo painting.

  “I will, you know,” she purred, the look in her green eyes fluctuating between mischief and actual warning. “If you say another word about us finishing, I shall scream rape. I’ll scream it from the rooftops.”

  There was a knot in his stomach, as if the supper they had shared had gone down whole. “No one gets raped three times a week for four months, Shelley, not even you.”

  She raised herself from her bed, slipping on a robe equally as sheer, and floated open, as she glided towards him. She had a sultry walk, as if she'd seen how it was supposed to be done, and carried the whole sex goddess thing off to the letter. What a bloody fool he'd been, to have fallen for it.

  She had a kind of beauty, he supposed; a faded beauty, which was certainly only skin deep. She was a woman still hanging on desperately to her youth. But, the silky fabric she draped herself in only served to contrast unkindly against her mottled skin.

  Standing close to him, so her perfume swamped him, she slid her arms around his neck, stretching on tip-toe to kiss him. Not so long ago, the feel of her body against his had excited him. Now, it left him cold. It left him wishing he was home with Julia. This affair should never have happened.

  “I’ll say this was the first time,” Shelley said huskily, looking up into his face. “I’ll say you followed me home, talked your way in, and raped me.”

  Ian prised her hands apart, and stepped back. “Not much evidence of a struggle. Besides, I wouldn’t make much of a rapist, would I?”

  “You’re tired, you work too hard. Come back to bed, Ian, and stop all of this silly talk of us finishing. You keep threatening, but you know you don’t mean it. You’ve got a conscience, that’s all. Sweetie, come on, let’s go back to bed, and try again.”

  His eyes closed briefly, wearily. Why the hell had he got himself tangled up with her? It had been a massive mistake. “Shelley, we need to cool it...”

  “I’m not listening,” she sang dismissively, coiling around him again. “You couldn’t live without me now. You love the excitement, the danger of being found out. The wickedness of it – and you know it.”

  He took a deep breath. He’d been along this track before. Only trying to break with Shelley was like beating his head against a brick wall. “It has to end, Shelley. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

  “No one is getting hurt. We're having fun. It’s not a problem. I don’t want to break your marriage up. My God, I’ve got one husband. I don’t want another.”

  “I'm hurting my wife,” Ian said, setting her aside. Julia was no fool. She must have smelled Shelley's perfume on his clothes from all these late nights. He was an idiot to have thought he was fooling anyone, let alone a woman as smart as his wife.

  Stupidly, it had started with an argument. He and Julia had had a blazing row, and he’d still been smarting by the time he reached work. Shelley ha
d been there, pouring balm on his injured ego. What a damn fool. He’d walked straight into her clutches.

  He'd always known she fancied him. She’d been flirting with him for as long as he’d known her, which had to be a year now. She was ten or twelve years older than him, and sexy in a tarty way. He’d been easy meat that morning – and for many mornings and evenings ever since.

  She was clinging to him again, her breasts crushed against his chest, her hands stroking him. He pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. “Shelley, I'm serious. This stops, now, this minute. We're both married. You don't really want to break up with your husband, and I certainly don't want to lose Julia and my daughter.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her pout deepened. “You should have thought about that before you fucked me.”

  “Alright! I know, and if I could turn back the clock, I would.”

  Her eyes grew moist. Any second now, she would turn on the tears, and he’d relent, like every other time he'd tried to break up with her.

  Not tonight, though. Tonight, he wasn't going to back down. This whole affair was crazy; he didn’t love Shelley; it was just sex. And, until all this started, he and Julia had a good sex life. It had deteriorated these last few months. He knew he’d used that as a reason to mess about with Shelley. Although, there hadn’t been a minute when he hadn’t felt riddled with guilt.

  It had taken him four months to come to his senses. But, tonight, he knew this was the end for him and Shelley. And he was desperate to get away and back to Julia. If she did know he'd been having an affair, she was saying nothing, in the hope it would blow over. Well, tonight, it was well and truly over. He wouldn’t let her down again.

  True to form, Shelley’s eyes filled with tears. “Ian, I couldn’t bear it if we stopped seeing each other. How could we work together, after all we’ve been through?”

  “We'll manage, and if we can't, I'll hand my notice in.”

  Her tears dried instantly, a harsh disbelieving look hardened her face. “Oh, yes, I'm sure. I can see you giving up your job.”

  “If it's impossible to work under the same roof, then, one of us will have to. And, as I started this whole thing, it’s only fair I’m the one who goes.”

  “And what would you tell your wife?” she asked scathingly. “Won't she think it odd, seeing as you've been putting in all these long hours?”

  “That will be my excuse, then. It’s too much. I'm being put on,” Ian answered, taking his overcoat from the back of a chair.

  “Oh, you’re so smart.”

  “Not smart enough, or I’d never had started this in the first place…”

  The stinging sensation of her hand against his cheek came suddenly and harshly. The slap shocked him for a second. And, then, he saw it for what it was. The final word of a play. The end. No more. This sordid interlude was over. Without a word, he walked to the door.

  “Don't you dare turn your back on me, Ian Logan,” she screamed, reaching the door before him, and pressing her back against it.

  He waited for her to move, trying to stay calm, trying to resist the urge to move her bodily aside, so he could leave, and close the door on this whole rotten episode. With a sigh, he said, “Shelley, please, I have to go...”

  Her face registered all the emotions he knew her capable of – the pout which she thought was so sexy – and had been, once. Then, came the tears. And when all that failed, she lashed out.

  The first four slaps he took, he owed her that much. But, as the onslaught continued, he grabbed her wrists, pressing her back against the door. “Stop it, Shelley. Do you want your neighbours to hear you?”

  “I hate you!”

  “Actually, I'm not too keen on myself right at this moment.”

  “I wish you were dead! Do you hear me?” she raged, her eyes blazing. “I wish you were dead!”

  He released her. “The whole street can hear you. Do you really want them calling the police? Blabbing to your husband? Do you?”

  Her face twisted with fury. Whatever charms he'd once seen in her were lost to him now. In a voice thick with malice, she hissed, “I will say you raped me. I will, damn you.” Her lips parted ready to scream ‘rape.’

  She meant it. He saw it in her face. Horrified, he clamped his hand over her open mouth. “Stop it, Shelley! This is insane.”

  Viciously, she sank her teeth into his middle finger. The pain, for a second shocked him. He tried to pull away, but her teeth were clamped around his finger. He swung her round, slamming against her shoulder with his free hand. Her mouth opened as she reeled backwards, crashing onto the floor.

  He hadn't meant to use such force. He felt suddenly sick. Fumbling for the bedroom door handle, he glanced back briefly, and then, pure gut reaction took over. She was back on her feet, and coming at him like someone possessed, nail scissors clutched in her hand.

  His left arm shot up in defence, protecting his face. His forearm took the full force of the twin blades. Agonisingly, they stuck in his arm, sending two streams of blood trickling down his wrist. He brought his right hand back, and slapped her hard with the back of his hand across her jaw. She thudded to the floor, like a marionette with its strings cut.

  For a second, he thought he'd killed her, and his stomach lurched. Then, thankfully, he saw the rise and fall of her breasts He stood trembling, feeling ready to throw up, sickened by his own aggression towards a woman. It went against the grain, and everything he believed in. You didn't hit women. But, this was the cowardly bastard he'd turned into.

  He hated leaving her semi-conscious, but staying would only prolong the aggravation. He pulled the scissors from the side of his wrist, and grabbed a handful of tissues to press over the puncture wounds, and around the bite on his finger. He stumbled out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out into the fog.

  He drove swiftly away from her house, putting as much distance as he could between them. Then, he pulled into the curb, and sat with the engine idling. He was shaking, the tissues were saturated, and blood was still trickling down his arm, soaking into his cuffs. Finding a handkerchief, he bound it around the wound, and drove. By the time he pulled into his driveway, the blood had started to congeal.

  Julia's Mini wasn't there, and he guessed she'd put it in the garage. She sometimes did. It had more chance of starting when the weather was cold and damp, if it had been garaged overnight.

  The house was in darkness. The heavy grey night shrouded the white walls and black timber framework. Only as he got close to the front door could he make out the rough twisted branches of the wisteria climbing the walls and erupting in brilliant blue flowers in summertime. Julia had planted it when they'd first bought the house, more than ten years ago, and it had first flowered the summer Lucy started school.

  As he turned the key, he hoped Julia was asleep. It would be a struggle to explain the mess he was in. Besides, he was sick of lying and deceiving. If she was awake, he might blurt out the truth. That would be for the best. Only, why hurt her? There was a faint chance she didn’t know, and if that was the case, why put her through hell, to ease his conscience?

  No light shone from behind the patterned glass kitchen, lounge, or study doors leading off the hallway. He dropped his car keys on the little walnut telephone table, and listened to the silence of the house. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. It had been a wedding present from someone, he couldn't remember who. It was a relief not to find Julia up and waiting for him, although once, or twice, she'd fallen asleep on the sofa during her vigil. He hoped to God she hadn't done that tonight.

  Keeping as silent as he could, he went through to the kitchen. There was a faint smell of cooking, but there wasn't a plate wrapped in tinfoil for him to re-heat, as there's been at the start of his late nights. She'd trusted him, really believed he was working late. It was these last couple of weeks she hadn't bothered to plate up any dinner. Was she pissed off, because he was always late home, or had she guessed he was cheating? He co
uld only hope and pray he hadn't left it too late.

  Peeling off his shirt, he rinsed as much of the blood out of it, and the handkerchief, as he could, all the while listening for Julia, praying she wouldn't wander sleepily into the kitchen, and find him like this. The house seemed silent, though, thankfully. He bundled the stained garments into the washing machine, but his jacket would have to go to the dry cleaners. He guessed he'd have to make up some excuse about injuring himself at work. More lies. He was so good at lying, these days.

  He filled the kettle for a coffee, applied antiseptic to the puncture wounds on his wrist and finger, and covered them with two plasters. Catching sight of his reflection in the blackened window, he saw a clean cut, thirty-eight-year-old, a solid family man. The sort of guy who worked hard for his lovely wife and daughter, to give them the life they deserved. He didn't have a bad physique, lean, the hint of a six-pack. When Shelley had first seen him naked, she'd looked like the cat who'd got the cream. Like a fool, he'd revelled in the attention she'd lavished on him.

  Sickened, he turned aside, knots tightening in his stomach like corkscrews. God, how he despised himself.

  He made a coffee – strong and black, and drank it standing up. The first cup stemmed his trembling. The second calmed his breathing. The third would probably keep him awake half the night.

  Finally, he plucked up the courage to peep into the lounge, and see if Julia had fallen asleep on the sofa. She hadn't, and so he crept upstairs, checking Lucy’s bedroom first. Her bed was empty, which meant she was in their bed. She often slipped under the covers with them, if she'd had a bad dream. Neither of them got much sleep when that happened. So, that probably meant Julia was still awake. His heart sank.

  Perhaps it would be better if he crashed out on the sofa, or on Lucy’s bed, and not disturb them. The coward's way out. He knew that, and a nagging little voice in his head told him to face her. It was the least he could do.