Just for Fun
Created | Updated Jul 30, 2008
Mike was still jumpy. Everything seemed calm and quiet. There was nothing to alarm him, but he stood on the doorstep of the new house, keys poised, hesitating. He lowered them and stepped back so that he could look up at the windows. They were all blank. No curtain twitched. No face was quickly withdrawn. There was no furtive rustling from beyond the door. He remained unaccountably reluctant to enter. His heart rate increased as he raised the keys once more and he wondered at the persistence of fear, weeks after the danger had been evaded.
There were three key-operated locks to deal with and a padlock with a combination. Before he moved in, a couple of days ago, he'd got a security company to turn the place into a fortress. The engineer and lock-smith sent by the company had put him at his ease about the level of paranoia that demanded such an exaggerated level of security. They told him that he was right and he shouldn't be embarrassed just because he wanted to feel safe in his own home. He doubted they'd have been so sympathetic if they'd known the reason for his fear.
All three keys turned smoothly in the brand new, freshly oiled locks. He twiddled the padlock dial back and forth, feeling the faint rumble of the drums tumbling and locking into place. Once more he hesitated then gripped the door handle, twisted decisively and opened the door. There was something not right and he couldn't put his finger on it. The alarm was beeping and he tried to remember the sequence of numbers that would turn it off. But inside his head another alarm was going off, shrill and insistent. As he frowned at the keypad, punching in the first couple of digits, trying to remember the next number - his mind scrabbling to find what was setting off the klaxon in his head - the flashing blue light and siren on the front elevation of the house started. He groaned. The last two digits of the code eluded him because he couldn't think straight.
A couple of neighbours popped out of their front doors and craned their necks to look over the garden hedge. Mike waved at them and apologised. He hadn't met any of them yet and already he was making a poor impression. He trotted a little way down the street - just far enough from the house to be able to hear himself speak - and rang the security company. The secretary didn't know the secret combination number he'd chosen of course, but after some persuasion (he could be very persuasive) and a couple of security questions, she gave him a number the engineers could use to disarm the alarm. He could use that number to change his own number too, if he found he simply couldn't remember the old one. Once all the noise and flashing lights had subsided, he changed the number to something he'd be more likely to remember in an emergency: his birthday, same as the padlock combination.
Even now, a couple of years after the event and weeks after his last run in with the old man, he was still jumping at shadows. No. Not even shadows. He was actively looking for things to jump at - and when there was nothing at all, then he was jumping at nothing at all. How could a few hours of fun with one woman have generated so much trouble? He walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle, remembering how it had gone with them: the instant chemistry, the suggestive flirting, the games. Jane and women like her, were as exciting to Mike as any extreme sport. They were his 'trip', the thing that elevated his adrenaline and his pulse. It was a sport, a drug, a stimulant. But it had all turned very nasty when her father found out. Mike hadn't counted on that.
He poured a shot of brandy into his tea and took it into the lounge. As he was settling into a chair beside the window, scanning the street for signs of something amiss, he suddenly realised why he felt so jumpy. He could smell her perfume. If a wasp had stung his back-side he couldn't have shot out of the chair more energetically. But it was too late. A blow across the side of his head rendered him insensible long enough for the man to truss him up and gag him.
When consciousness returned, he found himself sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair. His head hung limp, chin resting on his chest. It was throbbing. Bright lights like camera flashes exploded in his retinas as he raised his head, eyes still closed. Even his blind eye was affected. He felt a trickle of blood flowing from his temple and dripping off his jaw. The pain increased when he attempted to turn his head to look at the man who was tightening knots behind him.
"This is it then Michael. We've got to get on with our lives. Events have intervened to chivvy us along. My country needs me. The job might take me away from my little girl for a while. Best we finish this now."
Even in his groggy and disorientated state, Mike recognised the voice and understood the implications immediately. The ropes were tight. He struggled and tried to speak but the gag muffled his words. Jane's father gave the bonds a final tug and strolled round to face his prisoner.
"What? You want to shout? Sorry, can't allow that. Might attract attention."
Mike shook his head, instantly regretting it, then groaned.
"Tell you what: if you can keep your voice down I'll let you chat away while I work. How would that be? A few last words before you die?"
"Ummm!"
"Alright. A sort of last wish before your execution. There'll be considerable extra pain and suffering for you if you make a fuss though."
He pulled the gag down.
"Where's Jane?"
"She's at home boy."
Mike's brow furrowed as he watched the man stride out of the room. He didn't understand.
"She's here. I can smell her."
"Keep it down. I'm only outside the room."
He reappeared with a coil of stout rope.
Mike lowered his voice, afraid that he'd provoke some additional retribution. "Sorry. I didn't mean..."
"Just keep it down."
For a few moments he looked up at the ceiling with a faint smile of satisfaction, rope looped over his shoulder. Then he was out of sight again - working behind Mike's back. The dining table scraped across the floor. Mike wriggled, trying to turn himself enough to see what was happening. It was almost impossible. He could rock the chair slightly, but not turn it. Extending his toes and tilting his head back he was able to see the man's reflection in a glass fronted book case. He couldn't maintain the position though. It was excruciating. He just caught a quick view of the man climbing from a chair onto the table. His groan as he rocked forward again made the man stop.
"What are you trying to do, boy?"
"Just wondered what you were doing. I was trying to see."
"Don't trouble yourself. You only need to ask."
"I asked you about Jane. I can smell her."
"Oh that. No. I brought a bottle of her perfume. I was struck by the way you worked out that she was with me that last time. Thought it might make you nervous if I sprayed some of it round the door and into the letter box, just before you arrived."
"I knew something was bothering me. Couldn't work out what was wrong."
"I misted it around when I saw you coming. It worked better than I'd hoped. All those locks and bolts. All the trouble you went to, to make the place secure - then you dash off down the road, leaving the front door open."
"Couldn't remember the code. Couldn't hear myself think with the siren going. The flashing lights too."
"Yeah, I know. I love it when a plan comes together like that. I walked right in. It might have taken me a bit longer if you hadn't panicked so obligingly."
There was a creak from the ceiling area. Mike pushed down with his toes again and tilted back his head to catch the reflected activity in the glass. It hurt his bruised head and neck too much.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm putting all my weight on this rope. Making sure the rafter will take it. You can't always tell with rafters. Some of them are proper, weight-bearing structures and others are just ornamental features. This one seems to be the real thing. You'll dangle nicely."
Mike's stomach lurched and he swallowed hard.
"How did you find me?"
"Your friendly local police force."
"I don't understand. My mother organised... "
"No, I don't expect you do understand. Your mother might be able to organise things from the top, but she has no control over the hearts and minds of the humble but honest grunts at the bottom of the hierarchy. Britain hasn't got a suitable political set-up for your mother's brand of control freakery. It's not a totalitarian society."
"You must've bribed them."
"No. Not at all. They're a good bunch. A fine, hard working body of men and women. Conscientious and straight. That police force is pretty sick of the stink of corruption. They've come to recognise it when orders fall like boulders from on high, instructing them to do things that are at odds with their duty. When vital evidence mysteriously disappears, they smell a rat. Often enough, two rats."
"What do you..."
Mike's question jammed in his throat as a sudden loud thud caused his heart to jump. It was just Jane's old dad, jumping off the table. He'd finished arranging and testing his noose. Pushing down his sense of panic with only limited success, Mike had another stab at stammering out his question.
"W-what do you m-mean?"
"She - your silly bitch of a mother - seems to have a mutual back-scratching relationship with your MP. A right pair of rotters: the MP and the MEP stinking up the whole county."
"Oh yeah. H-him. He does owe her a few favours. B-big ones."
"So, the police arrest you - the sleazy sex fiend - for a sick-minded assault on some innocent young woman and your mother fixes it with her powerful cronies to get you off. You do it again and she and that MP friend of hers spring you again. Evidence disappears. Witness details are lost. You slither away every time. It makes those good, honest, coppers look bad. It was the work of a moment to find one to spill the beans to me."
"I was getting help you know? After I... well you know what I did with your daughter..."
The chair suddenly tipped backwards and Mike was dragged across the floor.
"Yes. I know what you did to her. She couldn't bring herself to mention it to me until almost two years after the crime. After the trial - so called. When she was made to feel that she, herself, was on trial. And that travesty of justice shattered her faith in the British legal system. Even then, she gave only the vaguest outline of what had happened. I had to beat the details out of you. Had to endure hours of your simpering, squealing and denials."
"You broke my bones and half blinded me. Some people would consider that ample payment."
"If it had cured you I might agree with them."
The chair had ceased its backward motion and was let go. It rocked forward and hit the floor with a bang. Mike's voice was beginning to get shrill now. The volume increased.
"I am cured. I am! I was getting counselling. It wasn't my fault. You know what my mother's like. And women encourage me. Jane did....."
Mike's explanation was cut short as the old man stepped in front of him and administered a sharp slap to his face. His head jerked back and he almost passed out again. Bile rose up his throat and he coughed, trying to swallow it down.
"I don't want to listen to you snivelling and squirming boy! I've heard your pathetic pleading and feeble excuses before, remember. Are you really going to try to cast your actions in a sympathetic light, in the certain knowledge that you're speaking to someone who actually knows the facts?"
"I wasn't...."
"Yes you were! You're in the habit. It works on your mother. Maybe you've found other idiots who fall for your lies when the truth's plain to see. You're not cured and never will be."
"If you believe that, you must believe that it's not my fault. So why are you punishing me like this?"
"You're right. Let's end it now."
The man stepped towards Mike and he flinched.
"No. Wait! I'm seeing someone. A therapist. I've changed."
"No you haven't. You can't help yourself because you won't want to help yourself once you're free. You're a psychopath. If you've learned anything from this, it's caution. It'll just be harder to pin anything on you."
Jane's father reached up and started adjusting the noose. The chair wobbled and scraped on the floor as Mike tried desperately to push back with his toes.
"The therapy's working. It is!"
"Well that's very interesting. I wonder when you might have fitted these therapy sessions into your busy schedule. I've watched you for months and I never saw you go near any mental health professional."
"My girlfriend."
The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was a genuine laugh. Mike hadn't seen him laugh properly before. There had been a few bitter snorts of derision, but this was different. After a minute he had to sit down, tears of mirth streaming down his face. At last the guffaws subsided and he mopped his wet face and brimming eyes, blew his nose and looked at Mike as he might have looked at naughty child who'd told such a fabulously outrageous lie that you just had to laugh.
"Oh dear. Oh dear, that's priceless! Your girlfriend was giving you counselling. May-Ann Duncan was giving a sex fiend counselling. How was she counselling you Michael? Was she advising you to be more careful in your victim selection? Did she tell you it was foolish of you to pick on the daughter of an SAS officer?"
Mike looked bemused. He opened his mouth to speak but was slow in framing his question. Jane's father continued to chuckle.
"You know, for a university student studying for a degree, you're incredibly dim. And for a mature student, you're remarkably immature. And for a psychology student, your grasp of human psychology is very weak."
"But you don't understand. May used to be a police woman. She's planning to work in prisons when she's finished her degree - rehabilitating sex offenders."
The avenging father laughed again. This time it was the bitter laugh Mike was used to hearing from him.
"You were alarmed when you realised your attack on Jane was the subject of open discussion among the other students and they were advising her to report it to the police. So you sent Ms Duncan over to plead for you. She begged on your behalf. Promised it would never happen again. Only, Jane had lost some of her naivety by that time. She'd spoken to your wife in the meantime."
"My wife?"
Mike had lost sight of him again. He was working some contraption. It sounded like a ratchet.
"Oh yes. I know about your wife too. Another of your victims. She told Jane some interesting things about the Duncan woman. You and May-Ann together make a dangerous and incendiary combination. Judging from what I've discovered about her - and I've discovered quite a lot about her - it wouldn't surprise me at all if she egged you on to the attack."
"No. She's not like that."
"She certainly is like that. I've had a little dig through her history. Discovered why she was discharged from the police force. The idea of a woman like that being employed by the prison service to cure sex fiends of their predatory sexual proclivities would be a joke if it weren't so outrageous."
"You paint..."
Mike paused. Now he could see a distorted image working steadily, back and forth, in the shiny curved body of a bottle. It looked, energetic, purposeful, sinister.
"You paint my mother as a wicked and manipulative woman and you think my girlfriend egged me on to attack Jane, but even so, it's still all my fault."
"You're a big boy now Michael. A man of 35 can't go on blaming his mother for all his bad decisions. She's a workaholic, eaten up with guilt at the way you've turned out, blames herself. She tries to believe you though. Has to really, doesn't she? Unlike you, she's not a psychopath. She has to deceive herself into thinking she's doing the right thing whenever she manipulates things to extract you from the shit or..."
The rhythm of his voice changed and Mike peered at the bottle, trying to see what was happening. He'd stopped ratcheting the lever.
"or perverts the course of justice to loose you on the world again. Your girlfriend is a different sort altogether. But you chose her. You chose each other. I doubt any woman has ever known you better."
"What are you doing? What's that thing?"
"Oh, it's just a piece of equipment to help me elevate you to a suitable height for hanging. You're a big fellow. I might do myself a mischief if I used nothing more than brute strength."
He pulled the dangling noose forward and slipped it over Mike's head. Mike struggled vainly. He had got to know Jane's father well enough during the course of three previous violent encounters, to know the man was impervious to begging, lies and charm. Still he had to try.
"Don't do this. You'll be a murderer. I'll make amends. Anything. Just tell me what to do. I swear. Anything."
The man pulled the gag back into place as he spoke. "You're getting too shrill boy."
He looked thoughtful, as though he might be considering it, but then he smiled and shook his head.
"No. It's no good. As I told you, I've been watching you. You're a dangerous, slimy tosser. What you did to my Jane... well, she wasn't the first or the last, was she? You leave a trail of misery where ever you go. And it pleases you. Sooner or later you'll probably get round to killing one of those unfortunate girls. Maybe you already have. You've no respect."
Mike fought against his bonds and tried to protest.
"Look. If it's any consolation to you, I would have preferred to kill you quickly - not a long, drawn out punishment. Who am I to judge you, after all? I believe in British justice. If twelve of your peers were permitted to judge you and put you away, I'd be off the hook. But my little girl used to believe in British justice too. That's how her mum and I brought her up. You destroyed her belief so I had to restore it somehow. She had to see you punished. Now I have to kill you because your mother won't allow you to be removed any other way. You're the dangerous psychopath and I'm the poor sap who's been saddled with the duty."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mike was found sooner than Jane's father had intended. An engineer from the security company dropped round on his way home. He just happened to be passing and thought he'd check that the alarm system was working properly, after the secretary told him about the problems earlier in the day. He rang the bell but no-one answered.
Thinking that Mike must be out, he ran a professional eye over the windows and the locks on the door. Then he tried the door to satisfy himself that all was secure. It opened. Puzzled, he examined all the locks. They were undamaged. The client had simply failed to lock them - or so he thought. Then he remembered what a nervous and paranoid individual the client was and a doubt entered his mind. He called out. There was no answer. He entered the house and called again. Still nothing.
As he scanned the kitchen for signs of life, he heard a sound from the lounge. It was dark in there. The curtains were drawn. But he could see something hanging from a rafter. He walked in and switched on the light. Then he saw his client hanging from a rope, precariously balanced by the tips of his toes on the back of a chair. His face was blue, his tongue was just beginning to protrude and his eyes were bulging. He was still alive though, and slowly strangling.
The engineer was transfixed. Before he could react, Mike's feet slipped from the chair and he hung for several minutes before the man managed to get up to the rope and get him down. It was very difficult and at one point the engineer himself slipped and inadvertently grabbed onto the hanging body for support, pulling Mike's neck even harder.
Jane and her father were the subject of an investigation, instigated by Mike's mother. But nothing could be proved. The good soldier realised that he'd made a mistake, stretching to that last sadistic touch. He hadn't been quite truthful when he told Mike he'd prefer to do the killing quickly. He'd been very calm about it on the surface, but inside he was boiling with rage when he thought about what that filthy, debauched pervert had done to his baby. He couldn't help himself. He'd said as much to Mike while he was stringing him up. His own deficit of professionalism annoyed him. It would be different next time... if there ever was a next time. In the business of pest control, there's no place for strong emotion - especially when dealing with the low, animal cunning of this species of vermin.
Even though Mike survived, he was severely brain damaged and partially paralysed so that he, at least, no longer posed any threat to anyone.
There were three key-operated locks to deal with and a padlock with a combination. Before he moved in, a couple of days ago, he'd got a security company to turn the place into a fortress. The engineer and lock-smith sent by the company had put him at his ease about the level of paranoia that demanded such an exaggerated level of security. They told him that he was right and he shouldn't be embarrassed just because he wanted to feel safe in his own home. He doubted they'd have been so sympathetic if they'd known the reason for his fear.
All three keys turned smoothly in the brand new, freshly oiled locks. He twiddled the padlock dial back and forth, feeling the faint rumble of the drums tumbling and locking into place. Once more he hesitated then gripped the door handle, twisted decisively and opened the door. There was something not right and he couldn't put his finger on it. The alarm was beeping and he tried to remember the sequence of numbers that would turn it off. But inside his head another alarm was going off, shrill and insistent. As he frowned at the keypad, punching in the first couple of digits, trying to remember the next number - his mind scrabbling to find what was setting off the klaxon in his head - the flashing blue light and siren on the front elevation of the house started. He groaned. The last two digits of the code eluded him because he couldn't think straight.
A couple of neighbours popped out of their front doors and craned their necks to look over the garden hedge. Mike waved at them and apologised. He hadn't met any of them yet and already he was making a poor impression. He trotted a little way down the street - just far enough from the house to be able to hear himself speak - and rang the security company. The secretary didn't know the secret combination number he'd chosen of course, but after some persuasion (he could be very persuasive) and a couple of security questions, she gave him a number the engineers could use to disarm the alarm. He could use that number to change his own number too, if he found he simply couldn't remember the old one. Once all the noise and flashing lights had subsided, he changed the number to something he'd be more likely to remember in an emergency: his birthday, same as the padlock combination.
Even now, a couple of years after the event and weeks after his last run in with the old man, he was still jumping at shadows. No. Not even shadows. He was actively looking for things to jump at - and when there was nothing at all, then he was jumping at nothing at all. How could a few hours of fun with one woman have generated so much trouble? He walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle, remembering how it had gone with them: the instant chemistry, the suggestive flirting, the games. Jane and women like her, were as exciting to Mike as any extreme sport. They were his 'trip', the thing that elevated his adrenaline and his pulse. It was a sport, a drug, a stimulant. But it had all turned very nasty when her father found out. Mike hadn't counted on that.
He poured a shot of brandy into his tea and took it into the lounge. As he was settling into a chair beside the window, scanning the street for signs of something amiss, he suddenly realised why he felt so jumpy. He could smell her perfume. If a wasp had stung his back-side he couldn't have shot out of the chair more energetically. But it was too late. A blow across the side of his head rendered him insensible long enough for the man to truss him up and gag him.
When consciousness returned, he found himself sitting in a hard, straight-backed chair. His head hung limp, chin resting on his chest. It was throbbing. Bright lights like camera flashes exploded in his retinas as he raised his head, eyes still closed. Even his blind eye was affected. He felt a trickle of blood flowing from his temple and dripping off his jaw. The pain increased when he attempted to turn his head to look at the man who was tightening knots behind him.
"This is it then Michael. We've got to get on with our lives. Events have intervened to chivvy us along. My country needs me. The job might take me away from my little girl for a while. Best we finish this now."
Even in his groggy and disorientated state, Mike recognised the voice and understood the implications immediately. The ropes were tight. He struggled and tried to speak but the gag muffled his words. Jane's father gave the bonds a final tug and strolled round to face his prisoner.
"What? You want to shout? Sorry, can't allow that. Might attract attention."
Mike shook his head, instantly regretting it, then groaned.
"Tell you what: if you can keep your voice down I'll let you chat away while I work. How would that be? A few last words before you die?"
"Ummm!"
"Alright. A sort of last wish before your execution. There'll be considerable extra pain and suffering for you if you make a fuss though."
He pulled the gag down.
"Where's Jane?"
"She's at home boy."
Mike's brow furrowed as he watched the man stride out of the room. He didn't understand.
"She's here. I can smell her."
"Keep it down. I'm only outside the room."
He reappeared with a coil of stout rope.
Mike lowered his voice, afraid that he'd provoke some additional retribution. "Sorry. I didn't mean..."
"Just keep it down."
For a few moments he looked up at the ceiling with a faint smile of satisfaction, rope looped over his shoulder. Then he was out of sight again - working behind Mike's back. The dining table scraped across the floor. Mike wriggled, trying to turn himself enough to see what was happening. It was almost impossible. He could rock the chair slightly, but not turn it. Extending his toes and tilting his head back he was able to see the man's reflection in a glass fronted book case. He couldn't maintain the position though. It was excruciating. He just caught a quick view of the man climbing from a chair onto the table. His groan as he rocked forward again made the man stop.
"What are you trying to do, boy?"
"Just wondered what you were doing. I was trying to see."
"Don't trouble yourself. You only need to ask."
"I asked you about Jane. I can smell her."
"Oh that. No. I brought a bottle of her perfume. I was struck by the way you worked out that she was with me that last time. Thought it might make you nervous if I sprayed some of it round the door and into the letter box, just before you arrived."
"I knew something was bothering me. Couldn't work out what was wrong."
"I misted it around when I saw you coming. It worked better than I'd hoped. All those locks and bolts. All the trouble you went to, to make the place secure - then you dash off down the road, leaving the front door open."
"Couldn't remember the code. Couldn't hear myself think with the siren going. The flashing lights too."
"Yeah, I know. I love it when a plan comes together like that. I walked right in. It might have taken me a bit longer if you hadn't panicked so obligingly."
There was a creak from the ceiling area. Mike pushed down with his toes again and tilted back his head to catch the reflected activity in the glass. It hurt his bruised head and neck too much.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm putting all my weight on this rope. Making sure the rafter will take it. You can't always tell with rafters. Some of them are proper, weight-bearing structures and others are just ornamental features. This one seems to be the real thing. You'll dangle nicely."
Mike's stomach lurched and he swallowed hard.
"How did you find me?"
"Your friendly local police force."
"I don't understand. My mother organised... "
"No, I don't expect you do understand. Your mother might be able to organise things from the top, but she has no control over the hearts and minds of the humble but honest grunts at the bottom of the hierarchy. Britain hasn't got a suitable political set-up for your mother's brand of control freakery. It's not a totalitarian society."
"You must've bribed them."
"No. Not at all. They're a good bunch. A fine, hard working body of men and women. Conscientious and straight. That police force is pretty sick of the stink of corruption. They've come to recognise it when orders fall like boulders from on high, instructing them to do things that are at odds with their duty. When vital evidence mysteriously disappears, they smell a rat. Often enough, two rats."
"What do you..."
Mike's question jammed in his throat as a sudden loud thud caused his heart to jump. It was just Jane's old dad, jumping off the table. He'd finished arranging and testing his noose. Pushing down his sense of panic with only limited success, Mike had another stab at stammering out his question.
"W-what do you m-mean?"
"She - your silly bitch of a mother - seems to have a mutual back-scratching relationship with your MP. A right pair of rotters: the MP and the MEP stinking up the whole county."
"Oh yeah. H-him. He does owe her a few favours. B-big ones."
"So, the police arrest you - the sleazy sex fiend - for a sick-minded assault on some innocent young woman and your mother fixes it with her powerful cronies to get you off. You do it again and she and that MP friend of hers spring you again. Evidence disappears. Witness details are lost. You slither away every time. It makes those good, honest, coppers look bad. It was the work of a moment to find one to spill the beans to me."
"I was getting help you know? After I... well you know what I did with your daughter..."
The chair suddenly tipped backwards and Mike was dragged across the floor.
"Yes. I know what you did to her. She couldn't bring herself to mention it to me until almost two years after the crime. After the trial - so called. When she was made to feel that she, herself, was on trial. And that travesty of justice shattered her faith in the British legal system. Even then, she gave only the vaguest outline of what had happened. I had to beat the details out of you. Had to endure hours of your simpering, squealing and denials."
"You broke my bones and half blinded me. Some people would consider that ample payment."
"If it had cured you I might agree with them."
The chair had ceased its backward motion and was let go. It rocked forward and hit the floor with a bang. Mike's voice was beginning to get shrill now. The volume increased.
"I am cured. I am! I was getting counselling. It wasn't my fault. You know what my mother's like. And women encourage me. Jane did....."
Mike's explanation was cut short as the old man stepped in front of him and administered a sharp slap to his face. His head jerked back and he almost passed out again. Bile rose up his throat and he coughed, trying to swallow it down.
"I don't want to listen to you snivelling and squirming boy! I've heard your pathetic pleading and feeble excuses before, remember. Are you really going to try to cast your actions in a sympathetic light, in the certain knowledge that you're speaking to someone who actually knows the facts?"
"I wasn't...."
"Yes you were! You're in the habit. It works on your mother. Maybe you've found other idiots who fall for your lies when the truth's plain to see. You're not cured and never will be."
"If you believe that, you must believe that it's not my fault. So why are you punishing me like this?"
"You're right. Let's end it now."
The man stepped towards Mike and he flinched.
"No. Wait! I'm seeing someone. A therapist. I've changed."
"No you haven't. You can't help yourself because you won't want to help yourself once you're free. You're a psychopath. If you've learned anything from this, it's caution. It'll just be harder to pin anything on you."
Jane's father reached up and started adjusting the noose. The chair wobbled and scraped on the floor as Mike tried desperately to push back with his toes.
"The therapy's working. It is!"
"Well that's very interesting. I wonder when you might have fitted these therapy sessions into your busy schedule. I've watched you for months and I never saw you go near any mental health professional."
"My girlfriend."
The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was a genuine laugh. Mike hadn't seen him laugh properly before. There had been a few bitter snorts of derision, but this was different. After a minute he had to sit down, tears of mirth streaming down his face. At last the guffaws subsided and he mopped his wet face and brimming eyes, blew his nose and looked at Mike as he might have looked at naughty child who'd told such a fabulously outrageous lie that you just had to laugh.
"Oh dear. Oh dear, that's priceless! Your girlfriend was giving you counselling. May-Ann Duncan was giving a sex fiend counselling. How was she counselling you Michael? Was she advising you to be more careful in your victim selection? Did she tell you it was foolish of you to pick on the daughter of an SAS officer?"
Mike looked bemused. He opened his mouth to speak but was slow in framing his question. Jane's father continued to chuckle.
"You know, for a university student studying for a degree, you're incredibly dim. And for a mature student, you're remarkably immature. And for a psychology student, your grasp of human psychology is very weak."
"But you don't understand. May used to be a police woman. She's planning to work in prisons when she's finished her degree - rehabilitating sex offenders."
The avenging father laughed again. This time it was the bitter laugh Mike was used to hearing from him.
"You were alarmed when you realised your attack on Jane was the subject of open discussion among the other students and they were advising her to report it to the police. So you sent Ms Duncan over to plead for you. She begged on your behalf. Promised it would never happen again. Only, Jane had lost some of her naivety by that time. She'd spoken to your wife in the meantime."
"My wife?"
Mike had lost sight of him again. He was working some contraption. It sounded like a ratchet.
"Oh yes. I know about your wife too. Another of your victims. She told Jane some interesting things about the Duncan woman. You and May-Ann together make a dangerous and incendiary combination. Judging from what I've discovered about her - and I've discovered quite a lot about her - it wouldn't surprise me at all if she egged you on to the attack."
"No. She's not like that."
"She certainly is like that. I've had a little dig through her history. Discovered why she was discharged from the police force. The idea of a woman like that being employed by the prison service to cure sex fiends of their predatory sexual proclivities would be a joke if it weren't so outrageous."
"You paint..."
Mike paused. Now he could see a distorted image working steadily, back and forth, in the shiny curved body of a bottle. It looked, energetic, purposeful, sinister.
"You paint my mother as a wicked and manipulative woman and you think my girlfriend egged me on to attack Jane, but even so, it's still all my fault."
"You're a big boy now Michael. A man of 35 can't go on blaming his mother for all his bad decisions. She's a workaholic, eaten up with guilt at the way you've turned out, blames herself. She tries to believe you though. Has to really, doesn't she? Unlike you, she's not a psychopath. She has to deceive herself into thinking she's doing the right thing whenever she manipulates things to extract you from the shit or..."
The rhythm of his voice changed and Mike peered at the bottle, trying to see what was happening. He'd stopped ratcheting the lever.
"or perverts the course of justice to loose you on the world again. Your girlfriend is a different sort altogether. But you chose her. You chose each other. I doubt any woman has ever known you better."
"What are you doing? What's that thing?"
"Oh, it's just a piece of equipment to help me elevate you to a suitable height for hanging. You're a big fellow. I might do myself a mischief if I used nothing more than brute strength."
He pulled the dangling noose forward and slipped it over Mike's head. Mike struggled vainly. He had got to know Jane's father well enough during the course of three previous violent encounters, to know the man was impervious to begging, lies and charm. Still he had to try.
"Don't do this. You'll be a murderer. I'll make amends. Anything. Just tell me what to do. I swear. Anything."
The man pulled the gag back into place as he spoke. "You're getting too shrill boy."
He looked thoughtful, as though he might be considering it, but then he smiled and shook his head.
"No. It's no good. As I told you, I've been watching you. You're a dangerous, slimy tosser. What you did to my Jane... well, she wasn't the first or the last, was she? You leave a trail of misery where ever you go. And it pleases you. Sooner or later you'll probably get round to killing one of those unfortunate girls. Maybe you already have. You've no respect."
Mike fought against his bonds and tried to protest.
"Look. If it's any consolation to you, I would have preferred to kill you quickly - not a long, drawn out punishment. Who am I to judge you, after all? I believe in British justice. If twelve of your peers were permitted to judge you and put you away, I'd be off the hook. But my little girl used to believe in British justice too. That's how her mum and I brought her up. You destroyed her belief so I had to restore it somehow. She had to see you punished. Now I have to kill you because your mother won't allow you to be removed any other way. You're the dangerous psychopath and I'm the poor sap who's been saddled with the duty."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mike was found sooner than Jane's father had intended. An engineer from the security company dropped round on his way home. He just happened to be passing and thought he'd check that the alarm system was working properly, after the secretary told him about the problems earlier in the day. He rang the bell but no-one answered.
Thinking that Mike must be out, he ran a professional eye over the windows and the locks on the door. Then he tried the door to satisfy himself that all was secure. It opened. Puzzled, he examined all the locks. They were undamaged. The client had simply failed to lock them - or so he thought. Then he remembered what a nervous and paranoid individual the client was and a doubt entered his mind. He called out. There was no answer. He entered the house and called again. Still nothing.
As he scanned the kitchen for signs of life, he heard a sound from the lounge. It was dark in there. The curtains were drawn. But he could see something hanging from a rafter. He walked in and switched on the light. Then he saw his client hanging from a rope, precariously balanced by the tips of his toes on the back of a chair. His face was blue, his tongue was just beginning to protrude and his eyes were bulging. He was still alive though, and slowly strangling.
The engineer was transfixed. Before he could react, Mike's feet slipped from the chair and he hung for several minutes before the man managed to get up to the rope and get him down. It was very difficult and at one point the engineer himself slipped and inadvertently grabbed onto the hanging body for support, pulling Mike's neck even harder.
Jane and her father were the subject of an investigation, instigated by Mike's mother. But nothing could be proved. The good soldier realised that he'd made a mistake, stretching to that last sadistic touch. He hadn't been quite truthful when he told Mike he'd prefer to do the killing quickly. He'd been very calm about it on the surface, but inside he was boiling with rage when he thought about what that filthy, debauched pervert had done to his baby. He couldn't help himself. He'd said as much to Mike while he was stringing him up. His own deficit of professionalism annoyed him. It would be different next time... if there ever was a next time. In the business of pest control, there's no place for strong emotion - especially when dealing with the low, animal cunning of this species of vermin.
Even though Mike survived, he was severely brain damaged and partially paralysed so that he, at least, no longer posed any threat to anyone.
