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  As it was, she lived in a perpetual state of terror. Her mind had turned in on itself; all she knew and understood in her new existence was mental torment and physical agony that not even the drugs could alleviate.

  It was the taste of burnt flesh in her mouth that was the worst. Dear God, that taste. Her stumpy little tongue was in constant agony; she did her best to hold it still in her mouth but no matter how many drugs he gave her, it constantly throbbed in its very own heartbeat of agony. But she could’ve lived with that agony if it wasn’t for that god-damn, mother-fucking taste. Olivia could not be more repulsed by the very thing that used to be her ultimate fantasy; the taste of her own flesh. Every time she swallowed, she ingested the tiniest amount of her own scabbed, pus-ridden tongue and every time, she died a little bit more inside.

  “Why aren’t you replying? Has the cat got your tongue? No, silly me, it is I that got the tongue.”

  He laughed and she withered inside at the memory she was doing her best to block out. After he had cut out her tongue – an operation which had involved a small, sharp knife and a chef’s blowtorch – he had popped the tasty little morsel into his mouth and chewed it before her very eyes the second she came to.

  “Deeelicious,” he had said, his eyes half-closed in an expression of sheer rapture.

  Olivia cried at the memory, she couldn’t help herself, it was so horrible.

  “As I was saying, my sweet. It is time.”

  Lovingly, he un-cuffed her wrists and undid the chains at her ankles and ever so tenderly, he helped her into a sitting position. She was floppy in his arms. Three weeks of complete inactivity was enough to waste her muscles and render her weak and pliant.

  “There is a little surprise just for you in the kitchen. You are going to love it.”

  Effortlessly, he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and together they descended the stairs.

  “Surprise! Do you like?” he asked, setting her down on the biggest workbench like the slab of meat she was.

  For a moment, Olivia didn’t know what her surprise was supposed to be. She lay awkwardly on her back, taking in the kitchen she hadn’t seen for three weeks.

  Then she saw it, and she most definitely did not like it one little bit.

  She groaned and tried to sit up, but she was so weak all she did was twitch on the worktop. She stared in mute horror at the large meat-hook that gently swayed at the end of a thick, rusty chain hanging from the ceiling.

  It looked exactly like the meat-hook from the seventies’ film, A Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Her gaze travelled lower to the big green bucket positioned beneath the hook.

  “I know how much you enjoy that scene from your favourite movie, I’ve seen the way your eyes light up at that bit.”

  But she barely heard him. Terror coursed through her system, temporarily blotting out everything, even the pain in her tongue.

  I don’t want to die. Why is this happening to me? Oh God, I’m not ready to die…

  She tried to speak, tried to tell him no, but the only sound that came out of her mouth was a guttural grunting that sounded like a brain-damaged elephant and strange clicking noises.

  “What was that, my sweet? Did you say that you are worried the bleed-out would be over too quickly? Don’t worry, I know exactly the point in your back where to slip in the hook so you won’t expire straight away. It will take you hours to die, plenty of time for you to savour every last moment of the sweet agony.”

  With that, he bundled her into his arms, and with the greatest of care he lifted her up to the hook. She felt the coldness of it pressing against her spine and she cried out as loud as she could. But since she had been missing the tip of her tongue, she had great difficulty in projecting any kind of volume in her voice. Perhaps she was too drugged up on the morphine pills. Perhaps she was too weak. Or perhaps losing the end of her tongue had simply stolen all depth and tone from voice.

  So it was with very little fanfare that he slipped her onto the meat-hook.

  The pain was extraordinary. It enveloped her in a flash of white light before everything faded to a grainy black and white. She twitched and jerked, somehow finding the strength to reach up and grip the chain that extended from her upper-back just to the right of her spine, uselessly trying to haul herself upwards.

  She squealed and gasped and writhed, sounding very much like a terrified pig bleeding out on a hook. Even in the state she was in, her mind fleetingly drew parallels with herself and a pig on a slaughterhouse rail.

  “Hush, baby. Relax,” he said, stroking her bald, sweat-beaded head. “This is the moment you’ve been living for your entire life. Savour it, relish every last second.”

  Her screams lost their intensity as the life drained out of her. In the moments of silence, she could hear the rhythmic pitter-patter of her blood sploshing into the green bucket a few inches beneath her feet.

  “You’re going to go quicker than I thought. That’s a shame.” Michael’s voice seemed to drift to her from very far away on a breeze of agony and misery. “I was going to slice off your breast and you were going to have the pleasure of watching me eat it at the kitchen table…”

  But she didn’t really hear him, she was fading fast.

  In the seconds before death, her gaze locked on the camera pointing down at her from the corner of the ceiling. She stared into the camera and the camera stared into her.

  I’m going, was her final coherent thought. Fuck you, you bastard.

  And the black circle of the camera’s eye continued to stare into her, silently recording her death.

  ‘Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.’

  Louise Bogan 1897 – 1970

  TWO

  “I could’ve been a doctor, I always fancied being a surgeon. I’ve got the knack, if you know what I mean.”

  Doctor Johnson, or just plain old Jean when she wasn’t sitting behind her big, mahogany doctor’s desk, regarded her current patient Colin Chesterton over the top of her deliberately staid, horn-rimmed glasses with obvious distaste.

  No, I really don’t know what you mean, you creep.

  The velcro on the inflatable cuff of the blood pressure gauge made a ripping noise as she freed the man’s arm, doing her best not to touch the chalk-white flab. She leaned back in her swivel-chair, relieved to be out of nose range of his BO.

  “Your blood pressure is exceptionally high, Mr Chesterfield. Do you smoke?”

  It was a rhetorical question. The man stunk of fags, and his brown, nicotine-stained teeth looked as if they hadn’t seen a toothbrush for a decade at least.

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything, I should say,” she said in her best, I’m-a-doctor-don’t-mess-with-me voice. “You are significantly overweight too. I strongly suggest that you lose three stone and give up smoking.”

  “Well, fuck you very much.”

  His response shocked her, but she did her best not to let it show on her face.

  Come on, Jean, you’re a professional, just deal with it.

  “I do not tolerate abusive language in my surgery, Mr Chesterton. If you don’t start addressing me with respect then I shall have to ask you to leave.”

  He stared at her in such a way the skin on the back of her neck felt like it had been pulled too tight. She refused to drop her gaze, despite the fact her toes were curling in disgust in her sensible court-shoes.

  He really is quite repulsive...

  She tried not to shiver at the sight of his fat face. His greasy black hair hung in his bulging blue eyes and sweat-patches darkened the underarms of his faded Nine Inch Nails t-shirt.

  Inwardly, she breathed a sigh of relief when he dropped his gaze first.

  “Yeah, yeah. You gonna give me some pills or not, doc? It is why I’m here, ain’t it?”

  Jean found her heart was beating uncomfortably hard and fast when she replied:

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr Chesterton, I th
ink the chest pains you are reporting could be cause for deep concern. You need an ECG scan and further tests ran on you and I am going to book you a hospital appointment for as soon as possible. In the meantime, I shall write you a prescription for blood pressure pills.”

  A sly smile which she didn’t much care for tugged at the corners of his puddingy lips.

  “You know, you ain’t half bad-looking for a quack. How old are you anyway? You look about twenty-five but you’re probably nearer forty, am I right? I guess money and privilege will do that for a gal.”

  As it happened, he was spot on. She would be turning forty next month. She certainly felt that at times her good looks had been a hindrance more than a help in her chosen profession – being taken seriously when you had the face and body of a Victoria Secret’s model wasn’t always easy.

  Not that it was any of this obnoxious scumbag’s business. She finished writing out the prescription and tore off the piece of paper.

  “Here, take it. The letter will arrive in the post in the next few days informing you of your hospital appointment. Goodbye, Mr Chesterton.”

  The jovial look on his face vanished and when he snatched the bit of paper out of her hand, she found she was inexplicably near tears.

  This wasn’t like her at all, she was usually so professional. Or a cold bitch, if her ex was to be believed.

  “I’m not the only one that’s going to be getting a surprise soon, blondie.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just call it an upcoming token of my appreciation. I am going to make you the head, seeing as you’re such a looker.”

  The head? She didn’t have a clue what he was blithering on about and neither did she care. She just wanted him gone.

  Don’t cry, Jean. Come on woman, get a hold of yourself.

  The fact was, he omitted insanity as strongly as he did BO. It was deeply unnerving to be alone with him and she could honestly say that no man had ever had such a devastating effect on her.

  “There is a panic button under my desk, Mr Chesterton. If I press it, you will be escorted straight out my surgery and down to the police station.”

  Colin Chesterton scraped back his plastic across the floor and stood up. He was a big man and towered over her desk. She tried not to flinch but had the feeling she’d failed miserably.

  “Save it, baby. I’ll be seeing you again real soon.”

  When he left her office she let out a shaky breath and gave in to the violent trembling that racked her body.

  “Christ,” she said under her breath as she flopped forwards with her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. “Thank God that’s over with.”

  Unfortunately for Jean, that could not be further from the truth.

  Jean opened her eyes and threw up. Her puke was sticky and wet against the side of her cheek and she groaned in misery.

  Where am I? What’s happening?

  She went to lift up a hand to her mouth but found that she couldn’t.

  What the..?

  She couldn’t move her hand because her wrists were tied behind her back. Coughing up the residue sick in her throat, she became aware of the hurts all over her body.

  Especially her head. Oh boy, especially that; her entire skull throbbed in teeth-clenching pain. It felt like her head had been run over by a truck.

  What is this? Am I dreaming?

  Jean slowly realised that it wasn’t a bed she was lying on, but a scratchy carpet.

  But my house has floorboards.

  With great effort she lifted her face out of the puddle of sick and her neck and shoulders trembled with the effort. As she stared down at the soggy patch of vomit on the cheap, brown carpet, the full horror of her situation hit her.

  My hands are tied behind my back and my feet are lashed together with electrical tape. I’m in a stranger’s house. And I’m naked.

  That last realisation knocked the stuffing out of her, and her head landed with a dull thud back in the puddle of puke.

  Groaning in disgust, she forced herself to roll away from the wet patch. She cried out in pain when she landed on her back, crushing her hands into the base of her spine. With another grunt of effort, she rolled onto her opposite side and lay there panting on the floor, doing her best not to cry because she knew that if she did, she would never stop.

  How did I get here? What’s the last thing I remember? Come on, think.

  Her last memory was of walking to her car. She’d been on a late at the surgery and it was dark. Her car had been parked in its usual spot, round the back of the building in the private carpark. Private was the word – the staff carpark was invisible from the main road and behind it was a cluster of trees that comprised the backend of the town’s park.

  She remembered feeling spooked as she approached her car, car-keys in hand. It was dark in the carpark, there were no streetlights here and the outside light on the Doctor’s building had been dead for a whole week now.

  Looks like I’m going to have to change the bloody bulb myself because apparently no one else is going to bother…

  That had been her last thought before a heavy blow had landed on the back of her head. For a fraction of a second she was aware of agony in the back of her skull, then the blackness enveloped her.

  The memory brought with it a fresh surge of fear, and groaning in misery, she struggled into a sitting position.

  She looked around herself in dismay.

  What. The fuck. Is this?

  She stared in disbelief at her surroundings. She was in a small living-room she had never seen before. In a matter of seconds, she took in the grungy carpet, the peeling, faded, flowery wallpaper and a three-piece suite that looked as if it had been pulled from a skip. The grubby brown curtains were drawn, making it impossible to know if it was day or night.

  But it wasn’t the furnishings that drew her attention, it was the snakes.

  There had to be at least twenty of the bastards, all in varying widths, colours and lengths. They were curled up in glass cages that were way too small for them, sometimes two or three to a cage. The cages lined one entire wall of the cramped room, stacked up on top of each other.

  Jean shuddered. If there was one thing she really hated, it was snakes. She closed her eyes to block out the horror, then snapped them open again when the sound of the door opening reached her ears.

  “Good evening, Doctor Johnson. You’re awake, how nice.”

  She looked up at the man who had been in her surgery only today. He was wearing the same, faded Nine Inch Nail t-shirt, the damp patches having grown even bigger.

  Had it been today she had seen him? She wasn’t sure, all concept of time was wrecked in her addled brain.

  Colin Chesterton, she thought in confusion. What’s he doing here?

  Or more to the point, what am I doing here?

  Suddenly, she was painfully aware of her nudity and inside she shrank in shame. She twisted her torso away from him, as if that would somehow protect her from his prying eyes.

  “Untie me please, Colin,” she said through cracked lips.

  “Oh, so now I’m Colin, am I? Fuck that and fuck you. I’m Mr Chesterton to you, bitch.”

  Her head throbbed and she became painfully aware of the sandpaper-dryness of her throat.

  This can’t be happening…

  She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears, nausea and rising panic.

  “Just let me go, please.”

  “Just let me go,” he mimicked in a falsetto voice. “That’s what all you bitches say. I expected more from you, Doctor Johnson. You are a lady with class.”

  Jean was feeling sicker and dizzier by the second, but she forced herself to open her eyes and not give in to the tide of negativity that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Look, Coll...Mr Chesterfield, I don’t know what this is, or what you want from me, but nothing’s happened yet and nothing has to happen. If you let me go, I promise I won’t breathe a word of this
to anyone.”

  “That’s what all the cunts say. ‘Cept they ain’t as posh as you. I have to say, Doctor Johnson that I like your tits. They’re nice ‘n big but still perky for a bitch your age. And I like your face, you will be the head.”

  You will be the head…

  Those words rung some serious alarm bells; it was what he had said earlier today in her surgery

  (had it really only been today)

  and they made about as much sense now as they did then.

  “I can give you money,” she blurted out, refusing to dwell on his insanity. “Just name your price. I have savings, I’ll draw it all out and give it you. I have well over a hundred thousand…”

  “I don’t want your money, you dumb cunt. Christ, for an educated lady you really are stupid. I want you.”

  She drew in a shuddering breath. The nightmarish sense of unreality was escalating by the second and it took all her will-power not to break down and sob like a baby.

  Keep it together Jean. You are a strong woman, remember?

  Right then, she really didn’t.

  “Look, Mr Chesterton, I have a partner that I live with, he’ll be worried and would’ve called the police by now.”

  “No, you don’t. You live alone, today’s Friday, no one will miss you until Monday.”

  “But you kidnapped me at my place of work. My car will still be there.”

  Collin smiled smugly and inside she shrivelled. “Actually, it’s not. I caught the bus into town, and I drove you and your car to my place. Clever, huh?”

  Jean fought back the hysteria. “Please, just let me go.”

  “No. Not only are you hot, you’re a quack. I need some medical advice for my project.”

  Jean groaned and closed her eyes. The nausea was back with a vengeance, and try as she might, there was no stopping the tears that leaked from her eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” Collin said. “Or at least, don’t start sobbing, I hate it when the bitches cry. You’re gonna need your energy so I suggest you zip it. Hang on.”