Kill or Die Read online

  Vincent’s gaze lingered over her. “Bossy little madam, aren’t you?”

  She shuddered under his scrutiny, but somehow tilted her chin determinedly. “Do you want your friend to bleed to death?”

  “Vince, help us, mate,” Nash groaned. “Use one of me shirts. It don’t matter about ripping it up. There’s one in me bag upstairs.”

  Julia saw the irritation pass over Vincent’s face. He didn’t take kindly to being told what to do. It was obvious who was in change in this set up. He said nothing to the injured man, but glanced towards the back door, which he’d bolted after them. Her eyes followed his, heartened to know there’s been no key turned, and the bolt was within reach. At the very first opportunity, she and Lucy would be out of here.

  Vincent saw her looking, and cocked one eyebrow. “Now then, can I trust you not to do a runner while I’m getting the bandages for our friend here?” He rubbed his chin. “Nope! I don’t believe I can.”

  Before Julia could make any false promises, he grabbed Lucy and dragged her to him, holding her around her throat. The child squealed in terror.

  Julia went for him. “Leave her alone!”

  But, he swung her around, keeping her at a distance, avoiding Julia’s nails as she clawed at his face, and would have gauged out his eyes, given half a chance.

  Backing off, still holding Lucy in a stranglehold, he held out his other hand. “Insurance, that’s all. She can help me carry the stuff down.”

  His voice was soothing. It terrified her.

  “You’ll help your Uncle Vincent, won’t you, Lucy?” he asked, backing away from Julia, loosening his grip a fraction.

  “You’re not my uncle,” Lucy shrieked, kicking backwards at his ankles.

  “If I say I am, then I am,” Vincent uttered, his lips drawn back across perfect white teeth. “Now, are you coming upstairs nicely to help your Uncle Vincent, or am I going to have to get cross?”

  For a second, no one spoke, no one moved. Julia was ready to lunge at him, if he gave any indication he was going to hurt Lucy. Finally, wide-eyed, Lucy murmured, “All right.”

  Julia’s heart lurched. Even an eight-year-old could recognise the danger facing them.

  He smiled, released his stranglehold on her, and took her hand. “What a sensible little girl you have here. What is your name, by the way?”

  Julia didn’t want to tell him, but somewhere at the back of her mind, she was recalling TV documentaries, and how studies show captives had more chance of a safe release, if they got to know their jailers, and they got to know their prisoners. Reluctantly, she said, “Julia. And my husband will have the police out looking for us by now. Please, release us. I promise we won’t say anything.”

  A deliberate frown creased his forehead. His mouth twisted, as if puzzled by something. “Now I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I couldn’t help but notice there were suitcases in your boot, and your daughter is in her nightdress. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’d say you left in a bit of a hurry. I’d say, your husband will think you’ve left him. I don’t think he’ll be expecting you home for a long time.”

  She couldn’t answer, and she knew one thing for sure. He wasn’t stupid.

  Lucy’s blanket and the teddy she’d been clutching fell to the floor, as he led her away. He spoke over one shoulder, “We won’t be long.”

  “Don’t you hurt her!” Julia screamed after him. “You harm one hair on her head, and I swear I’ll not lift a finger to help your friend. I’ll see him bleed to death first.”

  The shrug of his shoulders spoke of how little he cared, and how futile her threat was.

  Desperation gripped her. She grabbed the injured man’s arm, forcing him to look at her. His gaze was blank, lost in a world of his own, hardly aware of what was going on. “Tell him!” she screamed at Nash, shaking him. “You tell him now!”

  From beneath half shuttered eyes, Nash mumbled, “Hurry up, Vince mate. If someone don’t stop me bleeding in a minute, I’m done for.”

  Smiling to himself, Vincent led Lucy out of the room.

  CHAPTER 8

  Shelley de Main stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were still puffy from the bout of hysterical crying she'd had after coming around, and finding Ian had gone. But, all the crying in the world wasn't going to bring him back. Not that she'd have him back now, after the way he had treated her.

  “Bastard!” she spat, soaking another wad of cotton wool in witch-hazel, and dabbing it over the purple swelling at the side of her mouth where he'd hit her.

  She hadn't expected him to lash out. The stupid man couldn't really have thought she was going to stick him with the scissors; it was a gesture. Catching him with the blades was an accident, and she would be certain to tell him that, if they ever spoke again. However, she would never forgive him for smacking her in the face.

  She wished now she had got him with the scissors properly. In the neck—that would have served him right. No more than he deserved – leading her on, using her. He made her sick. Where had his damn conscience been for the last four months? Nowhere, because it suited him to forget he had a wife and kid. Then, once he'd had his fun, he wanted out. Well, Mister ‘Happily Married’ Ian Logan – you are in for a shock.

  She dabbed her chin with a towel, filled a glass with water, and took it back to bed, dosing herself with some pain killers. Roger's shift didn't finish for another hour, but she doubted the purple swelling would have gone by then. Most likely, the bruise would be worse. How the hell was she going to explain it away? She was going to have to come up with something pretty good. Roger wasn’t stupid. Boring, yes, but not stupid.

  “Damn you, Ian Logan,” she murmured, as she slid back between the cool, silky sheets. “You were a waste of time anyway.”

  When they first started seeing each other, the sex had been incredible, but these last few weeks had been difficult. Thinking back, she realised it was obvious he'd been cooling towards her. “Fool!” she murmured to herself. She ought to have dumped him, instead of hanging on. “Bloody fool!”

  She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes filling with tears again, hurting almost as much as her bruised face. “Fuck you, Ian Logan. Fuck you, and your fucking stupid conscience.”

  The sound of the key turning in the lock, an hour and a half later, made her stomach muscles tighten. Roger was home. She swung her legs out of bed, pulled a dressing gown on, and checked her appearance in the mirror. She had two choices. If the bruising had faded, she'd say nothing, and hope none of the neighbours had heard her shouting earlier. If the bruising was noticeable, she'd have to come up with something convincing.

  She couldn’t really stick to her threat, and tell Roger she’d been raped. He’d drag the police in; he was bound to. And an examination would soon show she hadn’t been touched. What a shame. It would have been so nice to drag Mister Clean Ian Logan’s name through the mud.

  She was sitting on the edge of her bed, wringing at a handkerchief anxiously, when, ten minutes later, the bedroom door opened silently, so as not to wake her. She was always asleep when he came home, or at least pretending to be.

  “Hello, still awake, love? What’s the matter?”

  She turned to him, tears sparkling convincingly in her mascara-smeared eyes.

  “Shelley? What’s up, love?”

  He sat beside her on the bed, still smelling of the factory. As a hands-on factory owner, he threw himself into the job. Most women would be proud of such a husband, who had made a success of his business, provided a beautiful home, cars, clothes, holidays. But, inside, she was screaming to tell him not to sit on the bed in his work clothes. However, this wasn't the time.

  She turned on the tears, with a mournful expression on her face. “Thank goodness you’re home. Oh, Roger, it was dreadful.”

  His frown creased right up past his receding hairline. “Shelley… what’s happened? What was dreadful?”

  Such a pity she couldn�
�t put the blame on Ian, but she didn't dare risking Roger even getting an inkling of what had been going on behind his back. She had too much to lose. She would find some other opportunity to get her revenge, that was for sure.

  “I’ve been mugged!” Shelley sobbed, pleased with the way she could make herself tremble. “Coming back from the cinema. Some awful teenager, in one of those hoody things, snatched my bag, and when I tried to stop him, he punched me in the face, and I fell down. Oh Roger, it hurts so much.”

  “You poor lamb,” he said, wrapping her in his arms, cradling her, stroking her hair, cajoling her with words of sympathy. She did her best not to cringe. And then, he set her aside. “He won’t get away with it. I’m calling the police.”

  “No!” she cried sharply. “I… I don’t want to talk about it. It was too awful. I want to forget it. There was only a few pounds in my purse anyway—no cards or anything important.”

  “That’s not the point. The man hit you,” Roger said, dark angry patches of red mottling his neck. “No, Shelley, he can’t get away scot free. I’m calling the police.”

  She couldn't stop him, and as he marched out of the bedroom, Shelley felt herself seething with anger and frustration, and hatred for Ian Logan. It was one thing to lie to her husband, but lying to the police would be way more difficult. They would want to know exactly where it happened, what time, a description of her bag and purse, and a description of the attacker. Oh Lord! Why hadn’t she said she’d hit herself on a cupboard door? God, she was so stupid at times. She didn’t even know what films were showing. And there were CCTV cameras everywhere, and she wouldn't be on any of them.

  Downstairs, she could hear Roger on the phone. She moved swiftly, opening the internet on her mobile, and finding the local cinema information. She only hoped there would be something she'd seen before, so she knew the plot, if asked. With luck, she could still talk her way out of this mess bloody Ian Logan had got her into.

  But, he wasn’t going to get away with this. She would make him pay, if it took her to the end of her days.

  CHAPTER 9

  Julia counted the seconds, straining her ears for her daughter’s cries. Their footsteps upstairs echoed through the house. She prayed under her breath, desperately wanting to warn Lucy the floorboards might be rotten, and she might fall through. She prayed harder he would fall through the ceiling, and break his neck.

  She couldn’t bear it any longer, and went to go after them. Suddenly, a bloody arm came violently around her throat, catapulting her backwards.

  “He ain’t gonna touch her.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?” she cried, almost hysterical with fear for her daughter.

  “You ain’t got no choice. You’re staying put.” Reinforcing his words, he dragged a metal bar from his pocket, and pushed it under her chin.

  Julia was sure there were blood stains on it, as she stared into his half-closed eyes. His horrible skin was pock-marked and grey, with grime caked into the holes where he must have been stitched at one time. His skin was rumpled, and looked as if it had been tugged back into place. No wonder he hated the world.

  The lump of metal under her chin made it almost impossible to speak, but she had to try. “If you use that on me, I won’t be able to bandage your wounds.”

  He stared at her for only a few more moments, and then, as if it was all too exhausting, he laid the weapon on the table, and sank back down onto the chair.

  Julia’s eyes flitted from him to the lump of metal. Could she grab it? Had she the strength to hit him so hard, it would put him totally out of action? But, then what? She doubted she could overpower the bigger man – and he had Lucy.

  So, she waited, listening to her heart thudding, while floorboards creaked overhead, and ice ran through her veins.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Lucy came running through the door at the far side of the room. “Mummy…”

  “Oh my God, you’re alright!” she gasped, racing past Nash to gather Lucy up in her arms. “Thank God, thank God.”

  “Give your mother the shirt to rip up, Lucy,” Vincent instructed, sauntering past them, smirking.

  “It’s horrible upstairs, Mummy,” Lucy whispered. “It’s smelly and dark, and the stairs wobble when you go up them.”

  “Did he touch you?” Julia whispered back. “Did he hurt you, love?”

  The child shook her head.

  Breathing a silent prayer, she kissed Lucy, and gently set her aside. With trembling hands, she tried ripping the shirt into strips. It was impossible. “I can’t do this.”

  A knife appeared under her nose. The blade was as long as her forearm, and Vincent’s smooth fingers were gripped around the bone handle. “Allow me to assist.”

  For a second, Julia thought she would throw up. He’d delighted in revealing the weapon. It was clearly a threat. He was enjoying every minute of this. Julia wondered if he had a mother or a sister, or a girlfriend. She should ask him. Make him think how he’d feel if someone were terrorising them.

  But, no words formed, and she stood, holding onto Lucy, staring at the slick way he sliced the shirt into strips.

  She knew it was deliberate how, every now and then, he shifted his eyes from the knife to her and Lucy, as if at any second he would use that blade to slit all their throats. She wanted to be sick.

  The nauseous feeling didn't pass, even when he’d finished the job, and slid the knife back inside his trench coat.

  He stepped aside, extending an arm, as if to invite her to now assess his companion's injuries. She moved Lucy to the other side of her, as far away from this pair as she could.

  “Push your jacket sleeve up, or take it off,” she told Nash.

  “I’ll bloody freeze to death, if I take it off,” he complained, easing the hard blood soaked denim back up his arm to reveal the wound.

  Julia did her best not to gag. The wound was horrific. A piece of flesh, as big as her fist, had been torn out of his inner wrist, and hung there by a sliver of skin. It oozed thick, wine-coloured blood.

  “This needs stitching,” she told them, looking from one to the other. “And you need a transfusion. If it wasn’t for the tourniquet, you’d be dead already.”

  Vincent looked pleased with himself. “Hey! I saved your life. Remember that, matey.”

  Julia felt utterly sickened, as Nash cast his accomplice a grateful nod. Angrily, she added, “He might still die without a transfusion, and proper treatment.”

  “Just bandage him up tight. That’ll do the trick.”

  Julia glared at the leather-clad figure. “Don’t you care if he dies?”

  The injured man turned his head slowly to look at him, a questioning look in his eye. Julia saw, with surprise, the flinching of muscles in Vincent’s cheek, and the fidgeting of his body in discomfort, as his wretched accomplice continued to stare at him, awaiting his verdict. Did he care whether Nash lived or died? The question intrigued her, too.

  Vincent’s arrogance gave way to a sickly concern “Of course I care, but Nash isn’t about to snuff it. Strong as an ox, aren’t you, mate?”

  The honeyed tones may have fooled Nash, but they didn’t fool her. She had thought Vincent was the leader, when actually, he was in awe of Nash—an awe bordering on fear. She stored this knowledge away, as if it was ammunition. She was only too aware she was no match for them, physically. But, she had her wits – and her determination to get her and Lucy away safely. She prayed it would be enough.

  “Just bandage me up tight, like Vince says,” Nash mumbled, turning his head aside.

  Gritting her teeth, Julia began to patch him together. Vincent averted his eyes, too, clearly sickened. As she worked, her anger burned. So, Vincent was offended by the hideousness of his accomplice’s condition, yet took great pains not to let him know, out of a deep-seated trepidation. But, if someone as cold-hearted as Vincent was afraid of his injured partner, how dangerous was this wretched individual?


  She inspected the misshapen face, splintered with fragments of broken windscreen, caked with dried blood, and wondered how he had gotten so badly disfigured. The old scar running down his face resembled a knife wound. But, the ragged gash to his forearm looked like a dog bite. Had he broken into someone's house, and disturbed the householder, or their dog? She instantly remembered hearing a dog barking, when she was watching for Ian. It had sounded like Benjamin’s collie.

  Was that it? Had they broken into Benjamin Stanton's house? Her throat tightened in horror. Was Benjamin alright? Had they hurt him? Had they killed him? And, if they'd killed once, what was to stop them killing again?

  Her skin prickled with terror, as if a million needles were being jabbed into her. Was she supposed to stop this maniac from bleeding to death, so they could murder her and Lucy?

  She hadn't stopped shaking since the collision, but now the trembling became worse, and she began shaking so badly, the strips of cloth kept slipping from her fumbling fingers. Nash dragged a hard-backed chair towards him with his foot, and nodded for her to sit down on it next to him. Lucy stood close, cocooned in her blanket again, her face tiny and ghost-like.

  Julia worked silently on Nash’s injuries, painstakingly removing the splinters of glass from his flesh, cringing and ridiculously apologising for the pain she was inflicting. She cleansed each tiny cut with boiled water. There was no antiseptic. Infection would probably set in, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  Vincent made coffee, placing a cup beside her, as if they were enjoying a pleasant interlude. Reluctantly, Julia sipped it. The mug was chipped and grimy, but the strong liquid revived her brain, helped her to think ahead, beyond this nightmare, to how she and Lucy were going to get away. They would get free. No matter what these two were intending, she would get her daughter away from here, somehow.

  The sound of music startled her. Vincent was playing something through his mobile, and had straddled one of the other chairs, his chin resting on his folded arms along the back, like he hadn't a care in the world.