Two hours later, at five o’clock, Len was still asleep upstairs and Shelley and her friends trapped in limbo in the lounge. The revised plan was for Shelley to talk Len into leaving the house with her, so that one of the others could kill the rapist. However, the improvised blood-splatter protective clothing, which Shelley had been wearing, lay on the lounge floor unclaimed.
The problem was posed by the final part of the plan – body disposal. Firstly, it would have to be undertaken in the middle of the night and as none of them knew the length of time it took for rigor mortis to set in, there was consensual concern regarding its potential to prevent, or at best hinder, the malleability and manipulation of the body. Secondly, it required four of them to carry the body; it had already been established that with three, the body could only be dragged. Therefore, Shelley had to come up with a scheme not only to get Len out of the house, but also to keep him out and allow her to return.
“Can you hear him?” Shelley picked up her faux-fur coat.
“You don’t need that. Look outside.” Nicole pointed to the window. “Just go.”
Shelley listened to the footsteps getting closer. She walked into the hall, carrying her handbag. Even if she couldn’t get him out, it would be a good time to visit the bathroom.
“How long’s this party going on for?” Len asked Shelley by the foot of the stairs. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
“We had a deal. Five-hundred pounds for one night, isn’t what it was.”
“Something happened... It was coming on top. I had to come back.”
“What happened?”
“I didn’t mean— It’s nothing. Look, Shelley, man, this is my—”
“Can you score for me?” Shelley grabbed the sleeve of Len’s brown leather bomber jacket and pulled him towards the front door.
“Back up, love. It’s in my pocket.” At the front door, Len pulled his arm free from Shelley and then lurched his way into the kitchen.
Shelley chased after him. “Not here. Not in front of my friends.”
From his position by the draining board, Len curled his hand around the edge of the worktop and propelled himself out of the kitchen, gaining velocity from his swimmer-like push-off. He stopped at the undersize door opposite, his fingers on the gold handle.
“I don’t wanna go in a fucking cupboard. For God’s sake, come upstairs.” Shelley walked to the staircase, hoping Len was behind her. When she turned, she saw that he wasn’t. “Come on. Hurry up.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t fucking speak to me like that.” Shelley retraced her steps until she was outside the kitchen. In front of her, she saw Len kneeling. His head was cradled sideways in his arms and his arms were resting, opened flat, against the small door.
***
“Listen, can you hear that?”
“I can’t hear anything,” Shelley said. “You’re tripping. Have you seen the state of your eyes?”
“There’s something down there and I know what it is.” Len turned the handle. “I’m going in.”
“There’s nothing there. Come on.” Shelley tugged at his sleeve, but he didn’t move.
“Unless you wanna see ratty’s mate, you best go in the lounge,” Len warned. “This is the fucker that won’t die with poison.”
Shelley sprinted into the lounge and frantically waved her arms in the air, signalling for her friends to come close. Huddled in the centre of the room, she whispered into the space between them.
“I’m not leaving you,” Nicole said.
Shelley heard the squeaking of the cellar’s wooden steps.
“Say hello to my little friend.” Len’s unconvincing American accent drifted into the room.
“What the—” Nicole started.
“He thinks it’s a rat. Just get out. Go. I’ll sort it.”
Shelley’s friends stayed where they were. The cellar stairs creaked and as the sound became louder, Shelley knew Len was on his way up.
“Shelley. A word. Now,” he yelled.
Before she left the lounge, she turned to her friends and vigorously poked her arm in the direction of the window. She listened as she made her way slowly down the hall, but she didn’t hear them make a sound. They weren’t leaving, at least not yet.
In the kitchen, Len stood in front of the work surface near Shelley’s bottle display. She kept her gaze high as she walked in, trying to avoid looking at the vinyl. She fought the images that were firing in her mind, and went to stand next to Len. She couldn’t look at him either. The spot where he stood marked the area of the work surface where the rapist had...
“Give me a minute.” She took a deep breath. It wasn’t the time to suffer now. She had to be composed. She needed to come up with a lie, an excuse, an explanation, but nothing came. Nothing, except the intrusive images.
“What kind of fucked-up freakery is going on in my cellar?” Len slurred.
Shelley raised her hand. “I need a moment,” she said. To escape the heat from his stare, she faced the worktop. And to escape her mind, she picked up the green bottle of gin, took a glass and filled it halfway. The internal burning she felt from downing the half-glass of neat Gordon’s allayed the razor-wielding vandal inside her. Having poured herself a second measure, she put the glass to her mouth, tipped back her head and slugged it down until the glass was empty. With her third glass of gin in her hands, she turned to face Len. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I was... we’ve been...”
“You’re taking me for a cunt. Mi casa, si casa, I said, but not for this.” Len gestured vividly with his arms, more accurately Mediterranean than his words were. “A fucking show home, you said. A fucking show home. You never fucking asked to host the fucking Torture Garden.” He dipped his hand into the pocket of his leather bomber jacket and pulled out a handgun.
“That’s where it is.” Shelley’s thought escaped from her mind and into her mouth from where it departed.
“Nah, love, it ain’t. My cellar ain’t a venue for your fucking S and M party.” With the ‘F-A-T-E’ fingers of his right hand, he placed the gun on the work surface.
“What are you doing with that?” Shelley edged her hand along the Formica, closer to the gun.
“Sometimes I have to— Fuck this.” Len slammed his hand down next to Shelley’s and his arm nudged the gun into the bottle of gin. “That sadist cunt’s gotta be out of my house in the next two minutes. End of party. Capiche?”