Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Chapter 54

It’s hard to tell, but it feels longer before she comes back. As the time stretches…

And stretches…

Has she given up on me?

Abandoned me to the dark?

My nerves stretch too…

Still, I try to move around, as best I can; try to keep muscles limber and joints supple.

I’m going to need them.

And at last, the light clicks on. A minute or so later, she teeters in, in her unsuitable shoes, the heels click-clicking on the concrete.

Jenny would have come down here in those steel-toed boots she has. Mitch would have worn sneakers. I think even the Haswell woman would have come in something flat-soled.

But Juliana, true to form, wears the four-inch spikes she thinks are glamorous, this time as part of silver vinyl knee-high boots. The rest of the outfit involves an electric blue skirt and blouse, a 70s Sci-Fi silver-blonde wig and green-glitter nail varnish.

I drag myself to my feet, making a show of slow, unsteady movement, keeping well to my side of the now much-broken white line. “Good morning Juliana. I think it’s morning? Yes?”

She scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you? My name's not Juliana.”

“Ah, yes. So you keep saying.” I stand against my wall, well away from the painted line. And I keep my voice soft. “It’s Sola, isn't it. Or Solana. But you were Juliana before that. You’ve had me thinking about

that. What it means. And I've had quite a lot of time to think.”

She sniffs. “I’ve no idea what you mean. Now…” She pulls her chair a little closer to the line, makes as though to sit… “… are we going to talk about something sensible? You were rude to me last time and I haven’t decided yet if I’ve forgiven you.”

“What’s to forgive, Juliana? Or if there were something to forgive, what’s the point?” I take a step toward her. Uncertain for a moment, she takes a step back, glancing down at the line, but she’s where I want her, closer to the back wall.

“What’s got into you?” She jerks her chin at me. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“No, not nonsense. But I have had plenty of time, as I said, to think about what it’s all about. What’s the key to all this.”

She folds her arms, sucking in her cheeks. She drums fingers against an arm, then looks to her side. She aims a finger. “This key you mean?”

And just like that, the Juliana smile is back. “You do mean this key.” Unhooking it, she dangles it between thumb and forefinger. “You’d love to have it, wouldn’t you, Larry. You never will.” She turns back, to replace it on its hook.

Carpe diem...

I speak quickly, interrupting her movement. “A question for you, Juliana.”

She turns back, head inclining. “Oh? What?”

“What do you look like?”

She swings her head, frowning. “You know what I look like. You're looking at me now.”

“No, I'm looking at wigs, and costume and makeup. What do you look like when you get out of bed in the morning? What do your lovers see when they wake up with you?”

Her lip curls. “They never wake up with me. My bed is my own.”

“Really? That’s interesting. Alright, I’ll ask instead, how long do you take getting ready before you leave the house?”

The folded arms are back, but she’s still standing, and the key is still in her hand. That chin jerk again. “What’s it to you?”

“Just curious? You see, I remember you from when we first met… My little Potato Face…” Her lips flatten… “I’m wondering how much you have really changed?”

Her pupils are pin-pricking. Her chest rising and falling more quickly…

“Then too…” I continue, “I’m wondering too about the whole Sola business…”

Her lips part, her breathing growing quicker…

“Sola? An interesting choice. Meaning All alone? Well, you're bound to be alone, aren't you. When you slaughter every living soul that touches you…”

Her lips are beginning to peel back, her knuckles whitening…

“… But somehow, that didn't feel right. Who names themselves for being an outcast? Even when the casting-out is self-imposed…”

I wait, to give her chance to reply…

…

…

“I see I'm right. It’s not Sola-The-Girl-Who-Walked-By-Herself…

“So, then I thought about Solana... Sun girl? Sunflower? Sunshine?” I fake a laugh. “I don't see you facing the sun anytime. I get it. I used to be like that myself. But of course, you and I met when you were very young. And you already know that about me. From the days when I called you Po-ta-to Face.” I lean on the words, smacking each syllable from my lips.

She could be carved from stone, save for the pulsing of the vein at her neck.

“So, what else?” I pace a little, the four or five steps the chain will allow me, one way, then the other. I wag a forefinger at her. “I went through your stuff you know, in your apartment, before you went on the murder-go-round with your friends there. It threw me, seeing what was in there. Your cosmetics. Your clothes. Shoes. Wigs. Beads and bangles. All your stuff. But where were you? Where was Juliana?”

Another pause, to see if she will respond. I continue my pacing, my small circle of movement, warming muscles, loosening stiff limbs.

Juliana could be struck dumb.

“You know, I find I keep comparing you with my Jenny. She had a bad start too. All my fault I know. But she turned herself around. Became her own person.

“I couldn't understand why you hated her so much, especially after I told you she'd been one of you, at Blessingmoors. You should have sympathised with her. But then, Jenny’s beautiful, isn’t she. Even after you imprisoned her, degraded her, left her to lie in her own shit for a week, she still looked beautiful.

“It's no credit to her, of course. She's just lucky that way. Jenny wakes up, no make-up, hair like a bird’s nest. But she looks in the mirror and what looks out is beautiful... What do you see Solana? Without all

the fakery?”

She breathes in short shallow snatches…

Almost there...

… Time to move in for the kill…

“And another thing… If I were in a room and Jenny had spent any amount of time there, I'd know it on the spot. Her trademarks. Her signatures. Books. Knick-knacks. Souvenirs. All things that say something about her. Things that tell a story…

“But then, I was looking at the crap you fill your life with. Nothing in that bedroom was you. Everything I saw there was something to cover over you... Insofar as there is a You, Juliana…

“In fact, the only object I found in that room that seemed even remotely personal was a book…” I stoop to pick up the tattered and mouldy copy of ‘Poisonous and Psychoactive Plants: A Handbook’.

“At the time, I didn’t think much about it. Then later, well… you do murder for fun, so fair enough. But why not, a guide to hand-weapons, or history’s most famous serial killers…?”

She’s poised, trembling… A push and…

A quick check and yes, she’s still clutching the key…

“… But there was just this single book...” I heft the text and drops open now at the page I want. “I read this at first because I was bored. Then, I read it again because I wondered what you’d dosed your friends with…” Holding the pages open, I read aloud… “Belladonna… meaning ‘beautiful woman’… Symptoms of poisoning… dilated pupils, rash or flushed skin on the face, neck and upper body, accelerated heartbeat, epileptic spasms, vomiting… Yes, that pretty much covered what I saw…”

Although facing down to the page, I look up under hooded lids. Juliana’s face is twisting… Her weight begins to shift…

“Also known as Deadly Nightshade…” I lick a fingertip, turning the page with a large deliberate movement… “Family name… Solanum… A family of plants including Belladonna and the other nightshades plus various plants of agricultural importance including… tomatoes, aubergines and… the potato.”

I snap the book closed, taking a step closer to the half-visible line. Then another.

“So… Solana…” I grin. “Here we are. All those years. All that pretence. All the covering up and pretending to be the exotic Belladonna. You touch people and they die. All those murders…

“And at the end of it all…” I put the sneer into my words… “… you’re still simply my little Potato Face.”

Juliana shrieks, launching herself toward me, arms outstretched, hands opening to claws, coming for my eyes. I step back, drawing her in, and at the last moment, her gaze drops to the ground, to the fractured remains of the white line, her safety boundary.

For the briefest of instants, her eyes widen and her face goes slack as she realises what she’s done…

… I grin at her…

She jerks backwards…

… But I’m already moving…

She tries to retreat, to draw back beyond her safety line, but in her confusion, she’s not paying attention. The long heels slide on the slimy footing and her feet skid out from under her. Arms flailing, she starts to fall, reflexively reaching for me as I hold out my hand, then trying to snatch back as thought catches up with reflexes….

… But I already have her, clutching her wrist in a grip I’m not about to break. In her screwed-up fist, she clutches the key. My free hand flailing, I’m grabbing for the closed fist, but she’s squirming and struggling and, outstretched as I am, and in my weakened condition, I can’t both restrain her and force her fist open.

Semi-supported by my hold, she doesn’t fall all the way, but hangs poised, scraping those pointed heels over the concrete, trying to regain her feet, trying to break away.

But on the slick surface, there no grip to be had and the heels scrape uselessly at the concrete. She cries out, face contorting as she tries to twist free of my grasp. Shrieking like a banshee, screeching like a fishwife... “Fuck you!” … she struggles and squirms and twists…

… then abruptly, changes tack, flinging herself forward, and head down, drops to my hand, sinking in her teeth.

Pain stabs up my arm and involuntarily, briefly, my fingers slacken. And in the instant before I regain my hold, with a shriek of triumph, she’s pulled free.

As she slips loose of my grip, she drops, landing with a bump on her ass, scrambling backwards, shoving herself along on palms and the ridiculous silver-vinyl boots.

Hurling myself after her, forward and down, I land with a jarring thud, arms at full stretch, straining to reach her before she retreats beyond my range. She kicks at me, the steel-tipped heels stabbing toward me like chisels. One jabs into my bitten hand. There must be pain, but I don’t feel it as my other hand brushes her ankles, then tightens around into a firm hold.

Inexorably, I haul her back towards me, well this side of what’s left of the painted line. She screams and shrieks and twists, but I have her by both ankles now.

And finally, I have control. My flaccid muscles trembling with the effort, I draw her close, then roll on top of her, using my weight to pin her. On all fours above her, circling her paired wrists with one hand, I prise at her fingers, trying to open the closed fist where still, she clutches the key.

Under me, she lurches, her knee rising to my groin and reflexively, I jerk away, my grip on her wrists loosening. She’s still under me, but her face twists into a twisted smile, a rictus of a grin, and she hurls the key…

… Or tries to…

… as I regain my hold of her hand, cutting the movement short, and as she lets fly, the key simply drops, clinking to the ground, then skittering along to settle a few feet away.

Releasing her, I dive for it, scrambling on all fours, groping to reach it. But now Juliana’s on me, kicking and screeching and snatching. Her long fake nails scrape down my face and with a jerk, she kicks for the key. I'm ahead of her, snagging my foot around hers to prevent the movement. But I can't shake her. She’s like a fucking rat, or some blood-sucking leech, clinging, shrieking at me, hampering my movement.

“Fuck you.” I heave and push, breaking loose of her, but she comes back at me, clawing and clutching. And this time, I slap her across the face, hard enough to knock her sidelong, to addle her…

… and in the instant that buys me, shoving her away, I scrabble for the key again.

And my fingers close around the precious thing…

With it clutched in my fist, I scramble upright, but Juliana’s on me again, rising with me, hands outstretched, hurling herself bodily. The impact knocks me back and her own momentum carries her with me, but the chain tugs tight at my ankle, unbalancing me and I fall, taking her with me.

I land hard, concrete below, Juliana above, the breath huffing out of me with the impact. Winded, I lose the moment. We roll and grapple, both trying to stand, each impeding the other. She slams down on my hand with her fist, smashing my hand on the unyielding surface. Numbed, my fingers go slack, and with a shriek of triumph, she grabs the key…

Trying to rise, pinned by her weight, with my other hand, I lash out, back-handing her. Catching the side of her head, it knocks her weight from me, and the key flies free again, this time close to the channel edge.

I stagger upright. She’s semi-stunned by my blow, but only briefly, and as once more I stumble towards the key, she’s with me, clinging like some sucking parasite.

I spin, this time punching hard. She staggers back, but in the same moment, toppling, she kicks out at the key…

… overbalances and falls, her head striking the wall with an audible Crack!

I dive for the key…

… Her eyes roll white…

… it skitters over the concrete to the edge…

She drops…

It drops…

… and plinks down into the oily water. It gleams, then sinks out of sight.

Frozen, I watch my freedom sink into blackness.

How deep is it?

I’ve no idea. I’ve never had the slightest urge to get closer than I needed to the polluted water.

Don’t panic…

It’s a drainage channel

How deep can it be?

Movement behind me…

… and I whirl…

She’s on her hands and knees, crawling away from me. Her movements are slow. Blood trickles from her nose.

“Juliana?”

She crumples, sinking to the ground. Rolling, she curls in on herself, facing me. Her eyes are dull but they fix on me. Her words are breathy, barely audible. “I win...”

Fuck that…

“I don’t think so, Juliana. It won’t be pleasant, but I’ve enough reach to fish the key out. It might take me a while to find it at the bottom, but it’s there. I can get it.”

Her lips stretch. “You think?” She still stares at me, but the light in her eyes is fading.

Kneeling on the edge, I look down into black water.

The key…

As it went over, it slightly scuffed the muck and slime: not much, but enough for me to have the exact spot. I should be able to reach it. I’ll be at full stretch on my chain, but the channel surely can’t be more than three or four feet deep…

Surely…

But on the brink, I hesitate.

The steady drip from my ‘drinking water’ supply sets ripples spreading, making random garbage bob sluggishly. Yellow-tinged foam and threads of scum dot the unappealing surface, breaking up the oily veneer.

The idea of reaching down into the water appeals about as much as going bald or breaking both legs.

On the other hand, staying here with only rats and the dying Juliana for company appeals even less.

A change of clothes was not among the amenities offered by my hostess and my shirt is hardly fresh. Still, I strip it off before I start…

Clean clothes…

Crisp linen, freshly laundered…

…

New underwear…

What I’m wearing under my tattered and stinking trousers would stand up by itself.

Naked from the waist up, I lie, full-length on the ground, pulling a loop of my chain close by to give myself some manoeuvring ability. It’s not too bad, and with my face pressed cheek-down to the ground…

… and with only a moment’s hesitation…

… I can reach… Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

My fingers dip below the surface…

The water’s not cold, not at all. Rather, it’s tepid. Somehow, that’s not comforting.

… then my wrist, then my elbow…

With the water almost to my shoulder, I encounter resistance, my fingers reaching mud…

Please… let it be mud…

Whatever it is, it’s gloopy, syrupy almost, as my hand descends into this surface-under-a-surface. And it’s warm…

Something rotting?

My stomach coils uneasily, but I try to ignore it.

And my hand is still descending…

How deep is it?

I roll, balanced precariously on the edge, and still, I’m not touching bottom.

… I feel it…

Something hard…

The base of the channel…

Thank Christ for that…

… but only just. The tips of my fingers are only just grazing the surface. I shuffle to almost overhang the edge, now clinging to my chain with one hand to keep myself from falling in. Slime kisses my cheek. My face almost skims the surface, but no matter how I reach, I’m only just touching the bottom. More to the point, I’m not touching the key and, at full stretch, my groping range is only a few inches wide.

Frustrated, I pull back, rolling away to lie on my back.

I stare up at the ceiling.

There’s only one way I’m going to be able to search properly.

Oh, God…

I’m going to have to go in for it.

The idea of wading through the putrid water…

…

Freedom…

I eye the foul surface…

Strip off?

But I can’t. With the cuff in place, the only way I could remove my pants would be to rip them open down one leg.

Once I’m out, I don’t know what I’ll have to face above ground. If I’m in a city somewhere, a semi-naked man is liable to cause comment. If I’m in the wilds, I’ll need my clothes in good condition… such as can be managed.

The chain clinks as I shuffle to the edge, then gingerly swing my feet over, sucking back my disgust at the putrid touch of the water on my feet, like the kiss of a corpse. As it covers my ankles, lapping at the raw skin where the steel cuff rubs, I pray for antibiotics.

Holding onto the edge against slipping, slowly, I lower myself in until I’m standing thigh-deep, my feet wallowing in several inches of sludge. Keeping my hold on the side, I probe with my toes.

I’ve read of people searching for clams and oysters this way. I imagine they expect to encounter nothing worse than the odd empty shell or a sulphurous smell in their hunting. But I’m on edge, trawling tentatively with my toes in case of broken glass or rusted metal…

But there’s nothing. A few bubbles rise, then plink out to non-existence. More follow. I’d gotten used to the smell down here, not registering it any more. But now, it stinks.

No glass…

No drinks cans…

How far from civilisation am I?

Doesn’t matter…

Freedom…

I keep probing, less cautious now, extending my circle.

Be there…

Please be there…

I’m stretching out, coming to the end of my range… Leaning back to hold the sidewall with my hands, I push forward with my legs and feet, feeling for anything, that might be a key.

The chain clinks taut. It will go no further…

Stretching now, reaching, full-length, the cuff bites into already sore flesh and…

There!

My toe nudges against something; a something just the right size for a key.

Yes!

Curling my toes around the object, I draw it closer. Dragging it inch by inch from the edge of the world, scraping it over the bottom, I draw it into my range. And now it’s easier, the key sliding easily, closer, ever closer, until I have it, there at my feet.

Quivering and shaking, running on an adrenaline high, I release my death-grip on the side. Stooping to retrieve my prize, reaching down, I raise my chin against the stinking wash over my mouth. The key’s slippery in my fingers, sliding through the slime, trying to escape my hold.

I bend a little further, and as my hand fastens around the Holy Grail, my feet slide from under me and I go down.

My fall is speedy and inexorable. Scrabbling madly at the side with one hand, the other firmly gripped around the key, I can’t stop myself. I have barely time to clamp my mouth closed as I go under.

As I slide, I’m almost down when, with an agonizing pain at my ankle, the chain pulls taut, spinning me as it does so. Pain spears up my leg as my knee twists and unthinkingly, I try to scream…

… the sound cut short as putrid water fills my mouth and nostrils.

My eyes are squeezed closed. I’ve lost my sense of up or down and the chain wraps at my ankle, weighing me down, hampering my movement

Spluttering for air, coughing and heaving, I resurface, then as my feet slide through the ooze, sink down again. But I have a scant moment to fling out a hand, to grab the side, and this time, as I go under again, my plunge is curtailed.

Coughing and puking foul water, chest heaving, for a while, all I can do is prop myself against the side…

Then I remember…

Panic stabs…

But I open my hand, and there’s the key: slime-covered and foul, but still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Muttering a silent Hallelujah!, I toss it across the floor where it comes to rest under the fixing bolt of my chain to the wall.

Prone on the ground, Juliana, to my surprise, is still alive,

She watches, unmoving, unspeaking, but conscious, in her expanding pool of blood. Her chest rises and falls, the breath rasping in her throat. Her make-up is smeared like that of some monstrous clown. One pupil is hugely dilated: the other pinpricked. Both follow me as I haul myself out of the water, then dripping, pad across to my spot by the wall, sit and pick up the key.

I wipe it clean, for all the good it does, on my rancid trousers, then insert it into the padlock…

… or try to…

It won’t go in.

Turning it around, I try again.

It still won’t go in.

Mouth and throat suddenly dry, my stomach clenching, I stab the key at the lock, trying to force it in.

But. It. Won’t. Go.

It won’t go…

It won’t go.

It’s the wrong key.

From across the floor, that giggle… That Juliana giggle…

Her voice is a bare whisper, but she’s grinning: a manic, lunatic grin.

“But…” I stare at her, the useless key slack in my hand.

“You don’t think…” She stops to heave air… “… I’d have ever left the real key here do you?” She breaks off again, gurgling against the blood which trickles from her nostrils and over her lips.

“But… I saw you hang it up. When you first brought me here. I saw you.”

“Just my little joke.” She coughs and her face twists, more blood spilling now from her mouth. “Gotcha, Larry.”

And as I watch, in a slow exhalation, the air escapes her throat. Her eyes lose their focus and freeze into a sightless stare.

“Juliana?”

She doesn't move, quite still. No lift to her chest. No flutter to her eyelids.

“Juliana?”

She doesn’t move again.

I’m quite alone.

No-one knows I’m here.

No-one is coming.

I gaze into the abyss.

And the abyss gazes back.

*****

‘The Master’s Child’ Concludes In

Natale