The Scarlet Web, Chapter Twelve. (standard:action, 2448 words)
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Jul 29 2002	Views/Reads: 3968/2656	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Chapter Twelve of a psychological thriller, involving a young girl who is indecently assaulted as a teenager, and a serial killer.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

only saw her for a couple of minutes. It might be her, I dunno. You 
can't expect me to give an answer just like that.' ‘No I guess not,' 
Mike pursed his lips, and taking it from the landlord gave it another 
look. He began to experience a sense of guilt for even doubting Shelley 
but the seeds were sown, and the more he dwelt on it the more the 
doubts began to grow. Carly's barely disguised warnings regarding her 
behaviour lingered unpleasantly in the outer reaches of his mind and 
coupled with it was the knowledge that Shelley was strong enough to 
have effected the killings. Wearily he handed the cutting to Stukeley, 
‘Bag it.' Stukeley glanced at Mike, his eyes narrowing. He'd been 
intrigued by the impromptu question Mike had fired at Wright and 
noticed the forlorn look on his boss's face, he lengthened his stride 
as they made for the car to match Mike's own. There was an unusual 
briskness to his step, ‘Mike, if you don't mind me saying so you seem 
onto something and you don't like what it's turning up, going to fill 
me in?' ‘No Harry, not at this stage anyhow.' Mike hadn't looked at 
Stukeley when he'd answered, but the grimness in his voice served to 
endorse Stukeley's suspicions. * ‘Providence, that's what I call it.' 
Smiling despite her rising adrenaline, the fair haired woman threw a 
glance at Bent as he drove through a network of narrow streets lined on 
either side by parked vehicles. He looked at her once, twice, something 
in the nature of her grin made him feel uneasy, it seemed superficial, 
insincere. Not that he worried unduly about that: Lust provided his 
motivation in taking her back to his second abode, a home that he'd 
intended selling some time ago, business being what it was, but it had 
its uses and here was the perfect example. At least that was what he 
thought. He drove on through the streets, in total darkness now apart 
from the glow of the sparsely placed lighting, finally pulling to a 
halt amidst puddles forming on a roughly laid tarmac surface. A slight 
smile lingered on the woman's face but ironically Bent had been right, 
had he only had the prudence to adhere to his instincts, for there was 
a hollowness behind her expression that wasn't born out of any sense of 
expectant bliss but more in anticipation of the retribution that was to 
follow. Bent, she reckoned, would find out what course that took soon 
enough. She gazed casually down at her handbag, to where a strong 
length of cord lay neatly concealed within its lower reaches. ‘Right, 
well this is it babe,' Bent slapped his hands on the wheel, his desires 
heightening. He jumped out of the car with surprising agility 
considering the five pints and two scotches he'd drunk, his pulse high 
with expectancy as he ran round and opened the passenger door. She 
gazed up at the redbrick terraced house, a uniformed type of 
architecture that typified the area. A light was on in the top floor 
room and he saw her frown. ‘What's up?' he asked at the sudden souring 
of her expression. ‘She shrugged, ‘Nothing, I thought you told me you 
lived alone, that's all.' ‘So I do babe, so I do.' He followed her eyes 
to the upstairs window, ‘It's a time switch, dodgy area this, you have 
to be on your guard.' He turned his key in the lock and pushed the door 
open, ‘You don't suppose I'd have brought you here if I wasn't alone, 
now would I? Spoil the fun.' He switched on a dim hallway light and she 
felt a rough hand clasp her shoulder and squeeze. She felt revolted at 
the feel of it. On your guard, time would tell if he was. He pushed 
open another door and she glanced around, though an astute observer 
would note a distinct lack of enthusiasm on her part. The interior was 
every bit as drab as the flat she'd rented, every bit as dingy as the 
pub she'd followed this louse to, but of course it didn't really 
matter, the place was immaterial when all said and done. ‘Like a drink 
babe?' He ran his finger up her spine and stepped briskly towards a 
worn and scratched bureau in which were stashed a quantity of spirits. 
Odd, she thought, for a man who drank beer seemingly by the bucketful. 
‘No, thanks.' He turned, surprised that her tone had been curt, ‘What's 
up babe, gone teetotaller on me?' ‘I beg your pardon?' She was 
fingering through the contents of her bag, suddenly becoming 
self-conscious of her movements. There was a smile, though fleeting, 
‘Where's the bathroom?' ‘Upstairs, straight ahead.' The woman stared at 
him for a long while, slowly extending her slender fingers, running 
them enticingly through locks of lengthy fair hair. So here was the 
face of a man who'd plagued his wife through much of their short. 
married life and battered her when she'd refused to succumb to his 
demands. She'd seen the bruises first hand, had visited the house after 
he'd left for work that day on the pretext of market research. Angela 
Bent had not been co-operative but that had not been the point. She'd 
seen enough to know this bastard had been responsible. ‘And the 
bedroom?' Her voice was seductively soft, though she was straining to 
make it seem so. Her heart was beating faster by the second, her limbs 
beginning to tremble though any vulnerability she might feel was being 
counteracted by the hatred inside her. ‘ To the left doll.' He felt a 
sweat coming on as he followed her up the stairs, ‘Don't be all night.' 
‘Oh I shan't,' she turned to face him, moving her tongue alluringly 
around the edges of her lips. A few minutes later the bedroom door 
opened and she stood before him naked, and enticingly firm. He 
experienced an uncontrollable stiffening, so much so that it produced a 
soreness in his loins. He narrowed his eyes as he noticed the unusual 
posture she'd adopted, feet apart and her hands behind her back as 
though she were concealing something. He might have thought the woman 
kinky had it not been for the strange look in her eyes that he couldn't 
associate with a passionate desire for love- making. Despite his 
aroused passions his guard came up, forced by alarm - there'd been 
something wrong with this all along - ‘What would you say now, if after 
all this I changed my mind, what would you  do?'  She stepped in front 
of the bed, her eyes flashing, and stood motionless before him as he 
arched himself up. Now, finally, he was convinced that through his 
rash, lust driven behaviour he'd picked up some kind of mad woman, for 
all her apparent sophistication. And this one was no pushover. She was 
perhaps four inches shorter than his six foot one but there was more 
than a suggestion of power in the frame and her confidence was 
daunting. ‘What are you talking about babe?' For some reason caution 
overcame his quick temper, real danger seemed at hand. ‘Would you 
perhaps clout me here?' pointing unhurriedly she turned her left cheek, 
where she'd seen the bruises on his wife's face earlier that day. ‘Or 
perhaps here -' this time she arced her finger to the centre of her 
right eye. Her voice was soft, calm, but in its total incongruity with 
the look on her face, chilling. Now the realisation of what she was 
referring to caused him to snap. The woman, after all, had to have been 
hired by his wife, she had to be. With an abject sensation of horror he 
recalled his initial reservations about her, too late perhaps, but the 
very thought aroused his innermost fury. He sprung from the bed and 
struck first at her ribs, the intensity of the blow hurting her. She 
doubled up and seizing his advantage Bent hoisted and threw her against 
the bedroom door, snarling in a fit of temper as he closed in, but 
despite the jarring impact her own pent up anger was on the verge of 
being unleashed and she was ready for him when he lunged. It was 
intensified by the blows she'd taken and her body was strong enough to 
resist the effects of his onslaught. Moreover her left hand retained 
its grip on the cord his own rage had obscured from sight. She saw the 
look on his face and knew his composure had gone, that all she really 
faced was panic. She turned him so easily with her free arm as he flung 
himself upon her, spinning his face and body away before delivering a 
blow to the pit of his spine. He felt the force of the blow as it 
crashed into him, an intense deep burning that doubled him up, and in 
so doing left him entirely exposed. She applied the cord to his neck 
from behind with such force that the veins in her forearms protruded 
rigidly, and when he slumped lifeless to the ground she smiled. 


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