Cassette tape, Annette decided watching ceiling cables. That was what she’d use, cassette tape from no longer wanted Cure albums. In excessive quantities it would be more practical than rope – being thinner and more flexible. Plus, it would dig more deeply into flesh and thus be more use for torture sessions. Thick rope really didn’t hurt at all.
Maybe she’d point that out upon Fifi’s return.
The pedicurist reappeared in the doorway, glinting secateurs in hand, grunting, straining and unhf unhf unhfing her way through the web of ropes.
Cassette tape, definitely.
Regaining her composure after the struggle. Fifi straightened her crimson dress and, breathing heavily, stood by her customer. The dress again dropped from one shoulder. She ignored it, better things to do. A bloodless face framed by Bride of Frankenstein hair smiled down as she stroked Annette’s head. Beneath her pantomime villain makeup. Madam Fifi was in her early twenties. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about, my pretty. I’m just going to cut your toes off.’
She held a lop of Annette’s black, newly washed hair and, snip, cut it off to test her shears’ sharpness. She casually discarded the lop. ‘Now, lie still. And when I’m finished you won’t recognize your feet.’
‘You’re completely insane, aren’t you?’ Annette’s arms, hands and feet were growing numb from their bonds.
‘Better to be insane than inane, I always say. Fortunately, you’re in no position to do a thing about it, Annette Helstrang of 353, Plescent Street.’
Annette watched her quizzically.
‘Oh yes, I know all about you, Annette Helstrang of 353, Plescent Street; who you are, where you live, your little quirks, your shoe size – four. All these years I’ve coveted your toes over all others, save those of Dr Tinashta Ramalalanyrina of 23, Moldern Crescent. And she is beyond my influence, having never answered the direct mail I send to houses chosen from all others on her street.’
‘Then you …?’
‘Yes! I send that stuff, every single mailing. I’ve been sending it for years, to lure the gullible to my lair.’
Annette frowned. ‘Has anyone ever responded to those things?’
‘Not one person. But that matters not. Miss Helstrang of 353, Plescent Street. Fate’s computer has selected you as my latest customer. Soon, your Divine Pinkies will join God’s Army of Toes, where they shall sit on the frontmost shelf, latest and proudest of my recruits, a monument to the Lord’s glory. Then Dr Ramalalanyrina’s toes shall join them, for she is a slightly tall girl and will thus blunder blindly into my next trap where she will be held like a fly while I slice her toes off. For surely feet are our Lord’s finest creation. Isn’t that so, my little dears?’ She stroked them, red-painted lips making kissy gestures. But the toes were no more talkative than they had been for Gavin the fetishist.
The secateurs gripped Annette’s right, little toe. Cold blades pressed against the line drawn earlier. She tried moving her foot but the tangle of ropes prevented her. Now she understood the preference for rope over cassette tape.
And Madam Fifi began to squeeze …