Shelley wondered if the shadowy figure sitting in a hunched position on the floor was an hallucination. She turned to Tara with the intention of whispering the question, but seeing Tara’s dropped jaw and bulging eyes, she got the answer without the asking.
“What the fuck?” Shelley’s body shuddered.
Caught in the light, the figure spun round. Len’s pale face was illuminated. “I’m doing this for you.”
“What are you doing for me? What do you think this is?”
“I know, Shell. I’m putting it right for you.” Len held the handgun to the rapist’s head.
“Cover his fucking face. What’ve you done? This is nothing to do with you.” Clasping her knife, Shelley approached the vermin on the floor. “I said cover his face!”
“Let me go,” the rapist groaned.
“Shut the fuck up, cunt.” Shelley pressed her blade against his neck. The purple face of the pernicious man, even though barely recognisable, started the replay. The magnetic force pulling her temples together increased. It set off a shooting pain behind her eyes.
“You have to believe me. They’re the scum of the earth these whores. Don’t listen to them.”
Shelley increased the pressure on the knife and drew blood.
“Look, it’s all right, love. I’ve fixed it.” Len shoved a scrunched-up wad of clingfilm into the rapist’s mouth.
“No, it’s not all right. It’s all fucking wrong. Why did you do that? I don’t want to see his face. I don’t have to... Fucking sort it!” She pulled off the yellow Marigolds, tossing them onto the floor. Her revulsion to the rubber was unbearable. She stood over Len, watching his fumbled attempts at rewrapping the savage’s face. “I can still see the cunt. You’ve fucked it up. It was all tidy. Why’ve you messed it up?” She jabbed the knife in the air.
Len fiddled with the clingfilm, but his ‘F-A-T-E’ and ‘L-U-C-K’ fingers couldn’t return it to the state of tight binding that Shelley hands had originally perfected.
Fleas scurried, crawling their way up her legs, to her chest, her neck, in her hair, down her back and over her arms. She was swarmed. She hurled the torch. It crashed on the concrete. Shards of glass scattered across the room.
“Give it to me.” She threw out her free hand in Len’s direction, catching her nail on his cheek.
“No, love, I’m gonna do this... for you.”
“You don’t know me. What are you gonna do for me?” She swooped down and seized the gun from his hands. With the walnut grip in her shaking fist, she edged away and aimed the gun at the rapist’s head.
“Not yet. It’s too early,” Len said, rushing to his feet. He picked up the pillow he’d been sitting on and placed it on top of the face that was torturing Shelley.
“What do you know? If you knew... it’s too fucking late. That’s what it is. Too fucking late!”
The fleas entered her blood. The itching transferred from the top of her skin to underneath. With a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, she was unable to scratch. Her eyes twitched, then her nose and her chin. She jerked her head, her arms and her torso. She stomped her feet on the hard floor and it hurt.
“Why is he here?” Shelley looked at Tara, stood by the stairs, providing their only light. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got no idea, honestly, Shell.”
“I’m carrying on where you girls left off.”
Shelley pointed the gun at Len. “What does that mean?”
***
“Nicole! Get the fuck down here now!” Shelley’s hot tears felt like spikes against her tingling face. “Bring my fags.”
The stairs creaked as Nicole walked down to the cellar. Shelley passed her knife to Tara then snatched the box of cigarettes from Nicole’s hand.
“What are you doing with a—” Nicole started.
“Shut up and gimme a light.” With her trembling fingers, Shelley put a cigarette in her mouth. She grabbed the Zippo lighter from Nicole’s hand. “You gonna tell me what he means by carrying on where we left off?”
“He knows.” Nicole looked guilty.
Shelley pulled deeply on her cigarette. Her tears stopped flowing but her temples still felt compressed. “You told him?”
Nicole nodded.
“Everything?”
“I had to, love. I thought you were dead. I didn’t know what to...” Nicole started to sob.
Questions reeled in Shelley’s mind, though none came out her mouth. Watching her friend cry stumped her words, but it was worse because she was dying for a hit and for the itching to stop and nothing could happen until she’d dealt with the man who’d...
She marched to the other end of the cellar, stopping four or five feet from the rapist. He was worming on the floor. His moaning infuriated her. She aimed the gun at his head.
“Get out,” she shouted at Len.
“Give me the gun.” He stood next to Shelley and looked into her eyes. “Let me do this. I’ll do it with the pillow.”
She turned away and stared at her target. She lowered the gun, levelling it at his groin.
“Give him the damn gun,” Nicole cried.
“He’ll do it, Shell. You don’t have to,” Tara called from her position by the stairs.
“Why should he?” Without moving the gun, Shelley turned to face Tara. “He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know any of us.” She looked at Nicole. “How can he know what you said is the truth?”
“He does. He said he owes you,” Nicole answered.
“I do, Shell, big time. More than you—”
“Yeah, you fucking do. But if you knew that, why did you come back? Why didn’t you fuck off when I said?”
“C’mon love.” He reached across and placed his hand over Shelley’s on the walnut grip. “Go home. This ain’t for you.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot. You’re gonna risk going down for me?” Shelley shook him off.
“What else is he gonna do? This is his house,” Nicole said.
“How do you know it’s his house?” Filled with fear, Shelley turned to the board. They couldn’t be certain this was Len’s house. What junky kept a wider variety of kitchen utensils than the cookware department in John Lewis?
“This is mad, Shell. I live here. It’s my place. Do you want ID or something?”
“Don’t move.” Shelley glanced at Len. If she let him leave, he might call the police. No one could leave, not yet. She kept the gun pointed at the glistening, plastic-wrapped target.
In her head, the song started up again – happy, happy. It made her smile. Then a wave of warmth similar to mild heroin hit washed over her. It washed away the creeping fleas. Her shaking stopped.
Holding the gun steady, she lined up the sights with the rapist’s chest. The process of estimation reminded her of shooting pool, looking down the cue to judge her shot. Most of the time, she was a good judge and she was a good shot.
“It’s not even midnight. My neighbours, Shelley, they’ll hear.”
“Fuck your neighbours!”
“Pull back, shoot the cunt, get the fuck out.”