The Devil Plays an Evil Tune

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Her eyes began to flicker and slowly open, the light bright and harsh. Before her sat a man in a latex Nixon mask, his hand inserted into the waistband of his trousers. She attempted to move but found she was restrained. She tried to scream but found she was gagged. Fear raced through her body like an out of control juggernaut.

He rose slowly from his chair and she could quite clearly make out that he was fondling himself, his hidden hand moving in a rhythmic manner. Coming closer he gently rubbed her cheek with his free hand, let it slip down the nape of her neck and come to rest upon her left breast, his fingers circling her n****e.

She closed her eyes and tried to flinch away, but had nowhere to go. She recoiled as he pinched her n****e rather too hard. He was closer now she could feel his hot breath upon her neck, smell the stench of stale tobacco, as his hand travelled southwards. She tried to squeeze her legs tightly together but he managed to inch into the gap and violate the part she had been saving for that special man. If he were to enter her she would be spoilt and unfit to take up the position of wife, her life would not be worth living even if she did get out of here alive. She would be a spinster, one of the unclean, even though she had been taken against her will.

Tears spilled from her closed eyes and ran down her cheek, she so desperately wanted her dad. She tried to recall his aroma and the warmth of his smile. Recall when she was a young girl, flying kites on Hampstead Heath, or racing with her brothers upon the golden sands of Western-Super-Mare, father lolloping behind pretending he could not run fast enough to catch them, mother in stripped deckchair howling with laughter as her brood approached with melting ninety-nines.

Those days seemed like yesterday.

Happy days.

Think happy days.

She could feel his finger probing.

Think happy days.

The rip of his fly zipper sounded like the first orders to a firing squad;

Ready!

The feel of his erect p***s upon her knee;

Aim!

His hands on her thighs forcing her legs apart;

Fire!

Think happy days.

I got to The Greyhound around quarter-to-six, Ian was setting up his kit, Paul and Will were schmoozing at the bar, chatting up a couple of rock chicks. Will was dressed in his usual nineteen forties three piece de-mob suit, button down collar shirt and pencil tie, Paul in his rock guitarist outfit of drainpipe jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket. I nodded to Ian who nodded back and made my way over to the bar and scored a pint of Watney’s Red.

The Red was lukewarm as was the reception from the barmaid who seemed to sneer at me as she placed the pint before me; ‘Problem’ I asked as I parted with my money, she ignored me, rang up the till and thrust my change on the bar.

Will saw what had taken place raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘Happy hour,’ he remarked with derision.

Just then Nev arrived, lugging his heavy base and what looked like a bag full of woes.

‘You okay?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Just asking.’

‘Nah… Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘You look shattered.’

‘Oh, it’s me mum, that’s all.’

‘She not well then?

‘Nah, and she never will be, her mind’s gone.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s no more than she deserves.’

I was a bit taken aback by this comment; ‘you not get on then?’ I asked.

‘Nah, we weren’t that close.’

‘Still, she is your mum though, and as they say, blood is thicker than water.’

I brought him a lager, and he took a long appreciative swig.

‘You know I have never quite understood what that phrase means,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘All that blood and water shite?’

‘Well it’s family ties and all that.’

‘Yeah, but what does it actually imply? That your family runs on blood whilst all your mates run on water. It don’t make any sense.’

‘Well I suppose not when you put it like that.’

A tall wiry geek with long greasy hair, straggly beard and a belt weighed down with tool pouches called for Tiger Tale, the first support, to sound check. I noted that Paul and Will had made for the dressing room at the rear of the stage and I was left in no doubt what they would be up to. I signalled for Nev and Ian to follow for a little pre-gig pep talk.

The dressing room was about twelve by twenty foot. A mirror framed with fifty watt bulbs, most of which were dud, hung on the wall above a small table on which Paul was chopping out lines. We all, apart from Ian, took a line. I told them of my visit to the AR guy and that I had given him a list of our next five gigs and how important it was to look professional and not forget your lines, looking at Will as I said this.

‘What about his bum notes?’ he sneered, c*****g his head toward Paul

‘They are not as obvious.’

‘They are to me,’ Will shot back.

Tiger Tale sounded s**t and finished their check and we were next up. We sounded pretty good but the main band sounded fantastic, a seven piece with an Afro Jazz kind of groove and the lead singer was hot, not only her vocals but also her look. Paul was onto her like a fly to s**t but was forced to buzz a hasty retreat when her chunk of a boyfriend turned up.

The gig went well but the AR guy never showed which in a way was probably for the best as we were headlining our next couple of gigs. I drove home and noticed there was no light on in Jenny’s flat, which was a shame as a bit of company would have been nice as I was still pretty wired.

The stench hit him the moment he came through the door, he turned on the light and, after laborious flickering, it revealed her to be sitting in her own excrement, a pool of urine beneath the seat. Her head was lolled to one side; her eyes all puffy, streaks of mascara staining her cheeks and lines of dried spittle spilled from the gag and soiled her chin.

He had planned more fun with his captured toy and had not expected this. After all the toys he had in his youth had never shat and pissed everywhere, but then again he had never had a toy that had been alive before, apart from a mangy gold fish that one of mother’s beaus had one at a fair. Mother had strictly banned all pets; ‘flea ridden parasites,’ she had called them.

He lifted her chin and her eyes slowly opened and finally widened as the horror of her predicament dawned. The fact he was not wearing that hideous mask must have only added to her fear as the realisation of seeing his face would greatly reduce her chances of getting out alive.

No darling this is no horrific dream.

This is reality baby!

He pulled the chair before her and placed his hands in hers, gently stroking her palms, she seemed oblivious, all fight had left her as she had appeared to succumb to her fate, although he felt he could spot a hint of pleading in the depths of those sorry eyes. For a split of a moment he actually felt sorry for her.

‘Why her? he thought, ‘Of all the women in the world why her?’ It could have been anyone, but it was fate waiting at that bus stop with expectant thumb raised.

‘It’s all your fault really,’ he said in a hushed tone. ‘They tell you not to hitch rides from strangers. If you had left on time and caught the bus you would have been safely home by now, all tucked up in your nice warm bed, mummy and daddy downstairs cooking breakfast.’

He let go her hands and stood, pulled a barbers razor from his pocket and swivelled open the blade.

‘Time to let you go,’ he said. ‘See I told you I would set you free.’

Carefully he ran the blade across one wrist and then the other. Blood liberally flowed from the severed arteries and he watched with fascination as her life force drained away. Soon she was coffee coloured no longer just a pale husk of what she had once been.

For a fleeting moment he felt a small slither of shame slip into his mind as he looked down on his handiwork. What might she have become? What had he denied the world of? Obviously he had denied her whole existence, future children and grandchildren, but maybe she had something to offer the world.

A brilliant doctor discovering a cure for cancer.

An inspiring politician bringing fairness to the world.

‘Oh…but what the f**k, she was dead now and the dead tell no tales!’

He had no choice, that was the nature of the game and that tiny slither of shame was soon shoved aside by a feeling of empowerment and immense satisfaction. At last his fantasies had become a reality, and the next one would be even better.

This one had been a learning curve.

He undid the straps and laid her face down on the floor, attached the hose to the tap and hosed her and the floor down, the polluted water running down to the drain in the corner. When finished and all evidence of blood and excrement had been washed away he checked outside to make sure no one was around. Opening up the double doors he then backed his car into the gap, opened the boot and manhandled her into it, quickly closing the lid before anyone might catch a glimpse.

He looked up into the bright blue sky, a few wisps of early cloud evaporating in the growing heat of the sun; ‘it’s a nice day for a trip to the countryside,’ he thought.

On Wednesday evening I was heading over to Ian’s. He had, quite out of the blue, invited me round to dinner; apparently Sandra made a fantastic Coq-au-vin. So I headed out Tottenham way. He lived on the fourth floor of one of those towering sixties tower blocks, concrete jungles that reached high into the sky. I opted for the stairs as the lifts, if working at all, usually stunk of piss and vomit. The stairwell carried the pungent aroma of weed, the walls decorated with the usual graffiti, giant c***s and guns.

‘Anything that shoots,’ I thought. The givers and takers of life depicted in technicolour aerosol.

As I neared the fourth floor the smell of weed grew stronger and I could hear male voices above me.

‘So I fuckin’ tellin you man, I told it to ‘im straight, you carry on messin’ wiv that stuff and yer a dead man...’ and then as I turned the corner this lanky piece of s**t said to me; ‘And where the f**k do you think you’re going?’

‘Fourth floor and what’s it to you?’

‘Well I ain’t seen your boat around here before and we’re like your kinda neighbourhood watch man. Like to know who’s coming and going if you get me drift.’

‘Well I’m coming and I am going to visit a friend on the fourth floor.’ I told him.

‘And who might this so called friend be?’ he asked.

‘Not that it’s any of your business, a guy called Ian Jackson.’

He broke into a broad smile and exhaled a cloud of sweet smelling smoke. ‘Oh Ian man, that’s cool. That geezer is a cool dude man, plays the drums and is into some pretty groovy sounds an’ all.’

He passed me the joint and it would have appeared rude to decline so I took a couple of tokes handed it back and went on my way.

Sandra let me in. Ian was on the settee with one of the twins on his lap, I was not sure which one as Sandra insisted on dressing them identically, and as they were already identical made identification virtually impossible. The six-o-clock news was on the telly and the breaking bulletin was of the discovery of a young girl’s body being found in a small copse in Hertfordshire, details were sketchy as the body had not been identified.

‘Poor girl,’ Sandra said, turning off the television, ‘there are some right sick bastards in this world.’

‘Yes there certainly are,’ I had to agree.

‘What makes a man do something like that?’

‘Could have been a woman,’ Ian interjected.

‘Unlikely though.’ Sandra replied.

As Ian had said, Sandra could rustle up a mean Coq-Au-Vin and when dinner was over and we had drunk the last of the Valpolicelli Sandra prompted Ian with a; ‘Go on tell him!’

‘Well it is like this...’ Ian began.

‘He’s quitting the band. He’s got responsibilities now and he can’t keep running around trying to be a pop star anymore. Tell him about your job.’

‘Well they have offered me...’

‘A promotion,’ she continued, ‘means an opportunity for loads of overtime and we need the money then hopefully we can get out of this s**t hole. So the band is going to have to go.’

Ian nodded in agreement, ‘’fraid so.’

Well I was a bit dumbfounded but not entirely surprised, I should have spotted it coming, ‘the boys will be sorry to lose you; you’re a good drummer Ian.’

‘I’ll do the next five gigs that we have booked. I won’t leave the guys in the lurch.’

‘You’re not doing that one that clashes with my mother’s birthday.’

‘I’m obligated Sandra.’

‘Yes you are! You’re obligated to me and your family.’

‘I’ll do the next five gigs unless you can find a replacement sooner.’

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Sandra huffed, picking up the plates and taking them through to the kitchen.

‘You will be missed,’ I told him. ‘As I said you’re a good drummer and a replacement as good as you will be hard to find.’

Ian stuck three skins together and broke open a Silk Cut, laid the tobacco out in a neat line. ‘I’ll miss it that’s true, I have always lived for the skins, it’s in my blood. My dad was a drummer in a brass marching band, so I must have inherited the gene from him.’

‘I didn’t know that. Does he still play?’

‘Naw, he’s long dead.’ He cooked up a nice sweet smelling bit of Zero-Zero Moroccan and crumbled it into the tobacco, mixing it in with thumb and forefinger. ‘Died when I was six, so I don’t really remember him, but my mum says that from an early age I bashed anything the sounded like a drum. I got my first set when I was twelve and must have driven the neighbours mad.’

‘And that filthy habit is gonna stop and all!’ Sandra barked as she whirlwinded back in the room sweeping the remaining dishes from the table.

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

‘No, you just sit there and enjoy your nice smoke,’ she served with a healthy slice of sarcasm. ‘At least one of us is aware of their responsibilities,’ she left dangling in the air.

Ian raised his eyebrows and lit the spliff, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

Twenty-four and he could have so much more.