Oliver McIntyre sometimes wondered what his victims made of it all. They probably thought it was about his inadequacies, his rage or even just sex. People often assumed these things were about sex, but they weren’t, as any good psychologist would tell you.
And he’d seen some good psychologists.
But that was back in the day, when his mother had worried about him and his father had been in denial. They’d given up after a while. Just let him be himself. It had been good timing for him, because the particular psychologist he had at the time, Rosemary with her glass beads and her short hair, she’d begun to see him. Really see him. He might have only been fourteen, but he knew that the recognition in her eyes meant the game was up. He’d behaved impeccably for the next nine months, which seemed to reassure his parents. Then the psychologists had all gone by the by.
Rosemary had been first on his list, of course, that arrogant bitch, thinking she could suss him out. How dare she challenge him! He smiled as he remembered the sound of the glass beads scattering on the concrete floor of the car park like rain.
There had been a time that he’d tried to fight his urges. Like a reformed smoker, he could go for weeks, months even, without any thought of it, besides the occasional overwhelming cloud of guilt (or whatever emotion it was – he wasn’t sure), which had surprised him (what would a psychologist make of that?) Like the poor cow up on the common that time, in the dark, on the scorched earth. She’d been the only one ever to have seen his face because he’d lost his mask in the tussle. He’d been furious with himself, and so overwhelmed by self-preservation that he’d almost strangled her then and there. But the woman had reminded him of his teacher in Year Four, Miss Carlin, one of the few women he’d ever met who’d earned his admiration.
And he’d let her go.
Miss Carlin. Why couldn’t he find someone like her to spend his time with, instead of having to dredge the city herd to see if he could find something even close to his expectations?
Miss Carlin.
He wondered how he’d feel about her if he met her now.
What would she make of him?
As he crept along the rain-washed streets, he felt a strange sensation in his chest just thinking of her. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was beginning to soften the edges of his anger. He shook his head. He needed to focus.
Everything was planned precisely. That was his nature, his survival technique. He spent more time and effort plotting and planning than he spent on the actual attack. He wasn’t the sort of person to mess up. The lads on his fire crew all looked up to him. He was the boss.
NewsFlex referred to him as the Embers Rapist.
He switched his attention back to the woman who was walking along the street and followed her for another few metres, at a distance. He knew the location he was aiming for and his predator’s brain, which always took over in times like this, was rapidly figuring out how to get her there if she diverged from the route he’d anticipated.
It gave him a secret pleasure during his working hours to find special places that he knew he could use later to his advantage, places that no one else seemed to notice, where he wouldn’t be disturbed in his nocturnal activities, where the light and the space and the situation made a perfect distillery for his ego. Business premises were best, or something out in the industrial parts of the city where there would be less chance of witnesses. Once or twice he’d even considered torching somewhere himself so he could use it later. Being the boss, he was the one who kept the secure keys for the out-of-bounds burnt buildings, so only he had access until the insurance firms got involved. Before that, he would come and go as he pleased, fantasising about his next venture. On the actual night of the attack he would make it look as though there’d been a break-in, but only after the deed had been done.
Sometimes he’d have to wait until the place dried out after the hoses. He’d use his exercise time to run past and check everything was still secure. Often merely the flapping of the Fire Brigade’s ‘Danger Keep Out’ signs or the smell of charred wood made him hard.
Oliver continued to follow his prey as she took the shadowy shortcut – a lazy, foolish risk. He watched as she moved down the empty alley, the tall buildings either side cutting out almost all the light from the streets beyond. He moved quickly and quietly, gaining on her, only four metres away now.
Thinking he heard a sound behind him, he halted and listened, his instincts on overdrive – a superhero with enhanced senses. He turned round to see only stretches of uneven brick wall and shadowy doorways. Reassured, he turned back so he didn’t lose sight of his quarry.
She looked in her early thirties, plain enough, her hair dark and long, always good for a bit of leverage. She had wide hips that filled him with a kind of disgust yet served to excite him further. Her scent, cheap and flowery, caught in the wind and reached him, charging his blood with adrenaline.
Two metres away now.
Everything was on track. She was moving in the right direction, he was managing to keep his beast at bay, logic in the driving seat until he could get her right where he wanted her. Then he would unleash, show her what being the boss really meant.
He took a surgical paralysis patch from his pocket and peeled off its adhesive strip, careful of the tiny shards that contained the drug – like the fine hairs of a stinging nettle – ready to pierce her skin and immobilise her in moments. It had been easy to get anything he wanted from some of the nurses he screwed. They were always trying to impress him, even if it meant the possibility of getting into trouble. He demanded people take risks for him.
He rolled his shoulders as he always did just before he struck.
He heard the muffled ringing of a phone. The woman slowed down and began rummaging in her bag. Oliver saw his chance. He had to get to her before she answered. With one long stride he was only a metre away. He leaned forward and went to reach out, the patch ready in his fingers, but his arm wouldn’t do what he willed it to, and when he looked down, he saw fingers wrapped around his wrists, and next he felt the strong grip of a hand across his face. He was shoved hard into the doorway of the very building he’d chosen for his attack. His arm was forcibly bent and the patch redirected onto his own skin. There were bee-like stings at his throat and he felt his legs begin to give way beneath him.
There was a moment of hush as three people huddled around him, propping up his increasingly limp body, no doubt so that he didn’t fall and get the woman’s attention. She began to talk on her phone, her voice becoming quieter as she moved away down the street. The people around him started moving quickly, searching his pockets, taking the keys, opening the door, pushing him into the darkness of the warehouse.
There was a blinding light behind his eyes as something hit Oliver hard in the face. He slid down a wall until he sat slumped on the floor, his back against the damp bricks, his legs splayed out in front of him, his arms useless at his sides, but he was still conscious. A man and a woman stepped forward out of the shadows, athletic bodies clad in black, serious faces. The woman was taller than the man, her shoulder-length hair bright crimson.
The woman outside walked away, never knowing what had nearly befallen her, never experiencing his power. Oliver felt a mixture of outrage that his mission had been interrupted, and fury with his now useless body.
Who the fuck are you?
His mouth would not form the words he intended to speak.
What do you want?
The man got down on his haunches, elbows on his knees. ‘We know all about you, Oliver McIntyre.’
How the hell do you know my name?
As if she could read his mind, the woman said, ‘We’ve been watching you.’
His outrage rocketed, obliterating the humiliation of having been stalked without his knowledge.
‘Do you know what we do to people like you, Oliver?’ the man continued. ‘Sex offenders and rapists?’
Oliver tried to tell him he had the wrong man, but his mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. The acrid smell of burnt wood and melted plastic filled his nose.
The man stood up and moved out of the way.
Another woman stepped forward out of the shadows. She was small with mousy hair and spectacles. She moved with uncertainty, her hands visibly shaking. It was the woman from the common, the woman who’d reminded him of a long-ago beloved teacher!
Who the hell did she think she was, getting these two morons to kidnap him?
I should have strangled you on the common, you bitch!
He tried to get a grip on his rage. Survival was more important than revenge right now. What were they going to do to him? Maybe leave him naked and humiliated, wandering in the darkness, just as he’d done with the woman in front of him.
They underestimated him if they thought that would stop him.
It was the turn of the red-headed woman to crouch down in front of him now. ‘We know all about you, Oliver. We know things the police don’t know.’ She turned back to the other woman. ‘Did you see how his eyes lit up when I mentioned the police?’ His victim stood, biting her nails. The redhead turned back to him. ‘But we found you before they did.’ She gave him a broad grin. ‘We got to you first.’
Vigilantes. Oliver’s brain rapidly began calculating his chances of getting out of there.
The crimson-haired woman leaned closer. He could feel her hot breath on his face. ‘You don’t deserve the police and what they’ll do to you, Oliver.’
Anger roiled in his guts. Uppity bitch. He’d show her.
‘They’d send you to the Tier System, put you into one of their clean, pretty little clinics,’ she whispered. ‘They’d inject you with their drugs and show you their videos to make you think it was you who’d been raped.’ His victim cringed at the word.
How the hell had these people found him? He was too clever to have been caught, too invisible, a respectable Clark Kent during the day. He was a firefighter, a fucking hero!
‘But that would be over and done with in a day, your little trip to the clinic.’ The crimson-haired woman moved nearer and reached out her hands to his belt buckle. He saw her wedding ring glinting in the semi-darkness as her hands swiftly undid his trousers and with some effort pulled them down to his ankles.
He felt weakened, exposed. How dare she humiliate him like this! It was his role to be in the driving seat.
I’m going to kill you when I get out of this.
‘Then you could just walk away,’ the woman continued. ‘Get on with your life as though nothing had happened. Rehabilitated… put all that behind you…’
She sneered at his exposed groin, pulled a folding knife from her back pocket and flicked it open.
A small sound escaped Oliver’s lips as his heart threshed against his ribs.
She leaned into him. ‘Do you think that would be enough, Oliver? Do you think that little bullshit act of Aversion Therapy,’ she spat the words, ‘would really give you an insight into what it was like to be raped – the degradation, the vulnerability, the fear whenever you were alone, the struggle trying to get close to those you love, the medication, therapy for years afterwards, trying to fix yourself after an attack by an evil bastard like you?’
She twirled the point of the knife against his thigh. A bead of blood proved its keen blade.
The man spoke up. ‘We don’t think the treatment is effective justice. We want you to feel the way your victims feel.’ He glanced at the crimson-haired woman but she looked away. ‘If only your victims could go and have one brief session of treatment and get on with their lives, eh?’
The mousy woman moved back into the shadows and Oliver could hear her sobbing. Even now, even in this situation where he was clearly the underdog, it gave him pleasure.
They’re not going to do anything to me! They’re just going to give me a fright, let me go.
The man turned to the mousy woman and said, ‘Are you ready?’
The weeping paused, but she remained in the shadows.
You’re not really going to do this… you wouldn’t…
And then it struck him. He’d read about it in the press.
This was Payback.
And Oliver McIntyre suddenly felt something that he’d never experienced in his whole life.
Fear.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll feel better after this,’ the crimson-haired woman told her in soothing tones. ‘It won’t take long.’ Then she turned to the man and nodded. Immediately, he pushed down hard on Oliver’s thighs.
Oliver watched in horror, helpless as the blade moved closer to his groin.
‘This is for justice,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘for her, and all your other victims. We’re going to make sure you never do it again.’
There was a moment when time seemed to stop, the blade mid-air, his heart mid-beat.
There was a head-splitting crash, the doors flew open and three armed officers in black uniform stormed in.
‘Police! Don’t move or we’ll shoot!’
As his attackers were restrained, the knife fell to the ground between Oliver’s thighs with a clatter, the blade revolving quickly, and then slowing down, until it finally stopped, pointing towards his body like a horrifying game of spin the bottle.
Oliver’s heart rate took its time to slow down while the police cuffed Payback and took them out, he presumed to a police van. He sat on the ground, furious and humiliated, his buttocks numb against the cold floor. Why the hell weren’t they getting him covered up, or calling for medics?
Finally, one of the officers came back in and leaned down. He removed his black helmet, his skin shiny with sweat.
‘Are you okay, sir?’
Oliver couldn’t respond, but he felt relief flooding his system.
This is so humiliating.
‘Don’t worry. They’ll get what they deserve.’
Cover me up, can’t you?
He just wanted to get dressed and get out of there.
‘We’ve been trying to find these people for some time. You are so lucky, sir…’
If the police had arrived a moment later…
Yes, I am a lucky bastard.
It struck him – if the police knew that these were vigilantes, would they also know about his crimes? His powerful survival instinct kicked in. He was confident he could talk his way out of it, persuade them that it was a case of mistaken identity. He was Fire Brigade, they were Police, they had an understanding.
As for the little mousy woman, he would find her and make sure she said nothing to anyone – ever again.
‘There was a man recently, sir, not as lucky as you…’
Oliver didn’t care about the other man. He just wanted to get out of there. They’d take him to hospital and he might even meet another nurse. Always a silver lining. They’d take his statement and then he’d be back at home relaxing and planning his next attack. He might even get some compensation. He wouldn’t let a little thing like this affect him. He was no victim!
What the hell are you doing? Just get me covered up, man!
The officer picked up the blade from between Oliver’s thighs with his gloved hand. His face was very close to Oliver’s. ‘Evidence, always important, don’t you think?’
But Oliver recognised something in his eyes. Something that he saw in his own eyes when he looked in the mirror.
And suddenly, Oliver McIntyre wasn’t sure if he was a lucky bastard after all.