Those Crimes of Passion

By Lee Allen

We are all capable of the most unimaginable things. But many of us never find out what they are.

A school is locked in an atmosphere of unease and suspicion, and a young woman is brutally raped by a dangerous assailant. But events are soon to spiral out of control for Jennifer Kraystone and her friend Jonathan Baker. Caught in a web of crime and corruption, they are finding they can truly trust no one, while finally embracing the feelings they have denied themselves for so long.

But as their lives rip apart, can their growing passion protect them through all they must face, or will it ultimately threaten to corrupt their relationship with tragedy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Allen
• Release date: Aug 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476081533

Lee Allen

Born in South Wales, Lee Allen was writing from a young age, developing his fascination with mystery and thrillers. His debut Those Crimes of Passion was published in 2012, and he is currently working on his second novel.

Book preview

THOSE CRIMES OF PASSION

Lee Allen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Lee Allen

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters and events portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Acknowledgements

There are so many people I wish to thank for their support throughout my work on this book, from its humble beginnings in a teenage mind, throughout its writing, tweaking and finally its publication these years later, resulting in what now sits in your hands. And it’s not just for their support of my work that I’d like to thank them, but also for making me believe I could achieve what I’ve wanted to do from such a young age.

Firstly, huge gratitude goes to Bridey Lee for her design work on the cover. Numerous discussions on concepts and themes led us always to the original idea of scissors and blood, and I shall always remember how exciting it felt when I first saw those scissors in the form of the original sketch. She produced the cover with such enthusiasm; I adored watching it being created before my eyes, and the result became so much more than I imagined. I’m not sure you know how important it was to me, signifying the realisation of something I’d dreamt of for so long – thank you. It means so much.

Thank you to my mother who was always my first reader, probably back when I was writing what I can no longer remember, and to my father who always told me to aim for what I wanted to do. And to my sister Clare, who could never contain her excitement at the prospect of me being a published writer, always taking it for granted that it would happen. Also to the rest of my family who have given encouragement and support.

It seems fitting to also dedicate this book to my old schoolmates, both those who I still know well, and those who are part of that chapter of the past, who would always be asking me about my book, their interest driving me on. I hope you all get a chance to read it, and that it doesn’t disappoint.

Perhaps the biggest hold back has been for me the lack of confidence in that I was capable of achieving everything that I strove for. With that in mind, this book is also for those who considered me wanting to become a published writer an impossible dream. My impossible dream came true. Yours can too.

My work colleagues, old and new, have also provided me with so much support, both with an interest in my writing, and becoming my friends. For the team who grew together – Katy Driscoll, Louise Thomas, Linsey Tucker, Laurie Davies and Kate Bowen. I still miss you all. And to all the rest of the unforgettable team that made that chapter of life at the Yard full of so many memories.

Further special mention must go to Tim Moore, Nina Richards, Vicky Williams and Gemma Perman, for both their support and advice, given in their own unique ways. Plus, of course, to Julie Phillips, who showed me the direction I needed to finally publish this long-awaited story. I will forever be grateful for you showing me that path, which may have otherwise remained in obscurity for so much longer.

For everyone mentioned here, and many more, you have no idea how important just a single word of encouragement or enthusiasm has been to me, how it helps to strive on to the next page, the next chapter, to reach the conclusion that seems so far away when you begin, and to then begin that process all over again. I love you all for that. I hope I’ve given enough back to you, both in these pages, and in whatever the future holds.

Only those who are passionate themselves can arouse passion in others.

ADOLF HITLER – Mein Kampf

Beauty is no quality in things themselves. It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them.

DAVID HUME – Essays Moral, Political, Literary

Prologue

Dark shadows coiled tightly around the little light eyes could find, as fingers of ice caressed every inch of bare flesh. He’d have sworn it was set to be warmer than this, after the unusually bright and shiny day they’d had. But he supposed it was now winter – at least, that’s what this night marked; the beginning, though it was now an excuse for complete debauchery. But that was the way he liked it. He took a final drag and stamped out the cigarette in the gravel, a quiet wisp of smoke rising from the sodden ground.

As he turned to head back inside, he felt he was being watched. He looked out into the darkness, and something from the not-so-distant past seemed to return to the forefront of his mind, and he smiled to himself. An old friend whispered in his ear. It was as if he was back. It was time again. Nearly time anyhow. He took one last look at the desolate darkness before disappearing back inside.

As he went in, the figure hidden in the bushes moved uncomfortably, before emerging from their prickly cover. The blood coursed to his crotch, the aching, straining pleasure becoming almost too much to bear in his tight trousers. But that only made it all the more interesting. He crept to the window, gingerly looking inside to see his adversary moving across the dance floor. He was desperate to get inside, spying out his prey sat at the bar, bare legs entwined around each other; almost tighter and tighter, like a vice. That’s how it would feel. For both of them.

He shrank quickly back as two people headed for the door, laughing merrily. Their macabre costumes did nothing to deter their obvious attraction. Had they been anyone else they’d have disappeared already tonight, however these two seemed to be afraid of something. It only worked in his favour – he’d always be the first to go there. He shrank back into the bushes as they appeared outside.

Nat is clearly completely off her face now, the girl said, standing close to her male companion.

You know Simeon’s still got the hots for her.

And how about you? she giggled playfully. Who have you got the hots for?

I don’t think I need to answer that.

Why not?

You know.

No. I don’t.

Yes you do, you little minx. She broke down in a fit of giggles, staggering slightly, and he grasped her, their bodies clashing comfortably. Her giggling abruptly stopped, as she looked up at him.

You know what? she said, her face getting closer to his.

What? He stared at her slightly parted lips, his own moving closer.

Jen! The girl in the doorway seemed unaware of what was happening.

What is it Rox?

Just need to talk to you for a bit. Do you mind Jonathan?

He paused, the look in his eyes saying he minded very much, but he slowly shook his head. The girl in his arms looked at him, the glistening blue crystals apologising as she was yanked away. Jonathan soon followed them back inside.

Having been reluctant to breathe, the figure began to emerge from the bushes, just as his adversary appeared, as if from nowhere.

What are you doing here?

Nothing, came the hoarse reply.

You know I thought it was you when I was having a fag earlier. He neared him, a hint of menace in his posture. You won’t do it you know. You never could. You lack my assertiveness, my charm, my…magnetism.

He simply turned from him and disappeared into the night. Give it time, then he’d show him. Rage burned in his heart, and he thought of those unassuming, pretty little things he’d watched through the window. With all their short dresses and prim little bodies bursting out in a carnal delight. One day they would feel his wrath. And still he felt the moaning ache in his trousers.

Still stood by the open door, his adversary lit another cigarette, quickly puffing on it before stamping it out. Droplets of rain fell on him, and he felt a chill wind on the open neck of his shirt. Retreating inside, he bumped into an attractive brunette and grinned to himself.

Natasha, he whispered. You alright?

She looked up at him, her eyes huge and drugged. She murmured something and stumbled forward, her head resting on his chest, and she laughed quietly. He tilted her head up towards his, and she moved closer to him. He covered her open mouth fully, his tongue roughly passing her lips, her feeble drunken kiss responding to him automatically. As he withdrew, she still seemed completely unaware, and sank into a nearby chair.

He walked off toward the toilets, catching the eye of the blond stood by the door. He glanced around the room and saw Jennifer at a table; drink in her hand. She tilted her head and took a long sip. It wouldn’t be long now. He entered a cubicle and undid his trousers, closing the cubicle door. He looked down at the girl on her knees, pushing her head toward him as he leant back against the cubicle partition.

What a night, he muttered, as she pulled back from him, her wide eyes looking up at him, her mouth wet. He zipped himself up and opened the cubicle door, dragging her to her feet before returning to the dance floor, the heavy sound of disco filling his eardrums. Glancing around, he saw his prey leaving the group of girls she was dancing with and disappear to find a seat. He found her and sat down beside her.

Fancy a dance Jen?

She shook her head, suddenly feeling quite dizzy. Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed uncomfortably, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She began to stand up, not quite sure of where she wanted to go – before she was suddenly on the ground, aware of people gathering around her, someone calling her name. The lights danced in front of her glazing eyes, the music pounding inside her head. She could feel herself slipping away, disappearing in a haze of blackness.

Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

I CORINTHIANS 13:6-8 – The Holy Bible, NIV

Chapter I

Darkness had filled the school. It was cold and silent. It had been desolate for hours now; the caretaker had finally finished and locked up the building at around eight o’clock. Monday was always the busiest, and most gloomy, day of the week and the teaching staff would usually stay later than usual; sometimes until as late as seven to half past. But it was quiet now, apart from the scurry of tiny, clawed feet and the rustling of leaves outside the windows. The moonlight cast shadows into the darkest corners, where the school’s nightlife hurried for cover, before disappearing under the loose floorboards. It was a clouded night, and the moon only partly illuminated the vast long corridors for a few seconds, before casting the building once again into deep darkness, accompanying the sombre silence.

But the silence was soon abruptly broken, as slow and careful footsteps descended the stairs. A gloved hand slithered down the handrail. The figure moved along the corridor slowly, as if not wishing to make a sound in the silent, deserted school building. The figure breathed deeply – he had been running – and the rubber mask he wore made him sweat, but he couldn’t remove it. It excited him when he had it on – he liked the feel of the thick latex against his skin.

The corridors were bleak and lifeless. They seemed forlorn to not be full of the diluted life of the daytime, when they were crammed full of bustling teenagers rushing to their lessons – so as not to avoid a late mark being recorded next to their names; or when they were greeted with a scene of young love, or more commonly lust, at break times, where a prolonged kiss or quick grope between girlfriend and boyfriend would take place. But he knew this naïve love never lasted, all the hearts and the roses and the joy, it never lasted – it became bitter, twisted and vile – and died, slowly and in agony. All that remained was the sexual hunger that would forever more need to be satisfied.

The leather-gloved hand pushed open a swinging door and entered the sixth form corridor. It was even gloomier there; the windows surrounded by trees on the outside, blocking out the dim moonlight. He grinned to himself as he remembered what had happened in this corridor. When he had been younger, he had come to this corridor to escape one evil bitch and it was here that he had encountered another – in the form of the school secretary telling him he shouldn’t be in the corridor. He had shown her then that she shouldn’t mess with him – and it was at that time that he had first realised how much it excited him. Tomorrow, somewhere here, he would take what he wanted again. In darkness, he would take it – take it from a defenceless girl he had specially selected. He longed to touch that unflawed, soft skin he had fantasised about torturing from afar. His footsteps quickened and made their way to the end of the corridor, where the door to the common room was. It was large and heavy, like a gateway – a gateway he had likened to the gateway to Hell. He had dreamt of the large, three-headed Cerberus guarding it – and behind the door he always found such terror and strife, which he thrived upon. He reached it, and his gloved hand pulled down the handle and pushed open the door.

He entered the room slowly and pushed the door closed behind him. A single window opposite allowed some moonlight to enter the room. That faint light was enough for him to see the photographs on the walls. They were of the sixth formers on their nights out together – photographs full of happiness, love, friendship – but they were just a mask for ferocious fights, vindictive arguments, distressing break-ups, emotional back-stabbing – but they were a good veil. They cleverly hid all the problems; the darkness that surrounded these parties – in the same way the rubber face upon his head hid his darkness. But in the memories of these nights there was still a window to the dilemmas of those same nights – much like the eye slits in the latex that showed the anguish in his dark eyes. He viewed the pictures – everyone looked so happy, so joyous. He couldn’t abide their carefree attitude to life. He’d show those benighted bastards what life was really like – he’d show them, and he’d make sure they saw all.

He ventured closer towards the photographs on the wall and stood before them, looking at each one through the slits in the rubber mask. His victim was sat there among all the others, unaware her fate had been sealed. Her skin was white and smooth; her body shapely, but slender – perfect to break. He smiled to think of the terror he’d see in her eyes – she wouldn’t even know who he was, and yet she knew him so well. He felt sheer ecstasy running through his blood at this anticipation. But then he saw her smiling face and those soft, kind chocolate-brown eyes filled with gaiety, and he was now ashamed of his own arousal, angry at her for making him, angry at the photograph for making him forget what he could see behind it. His head filled again with thoughts of how he would torment her, hurt her, accompanying the rage he now felt boiling up inside. He picked up a near-by chair, his eyes flashing in fury. He’d show the bitch that life wasn’t so happy after all.

He plunged the chair leg into the photograph, the frame smashing as he did so, the photograph inside distorting. He began to beat the chair continuously against the wall. Glass shattered, frames fell from their positions, and the paint on the walls began to split and disintegrate. The legs of the chair buckled and splintered, but he continued to batter the wall as if he were battering away some mighty force that was about to consume him unless he fought it off with all the strength he could congregate. Once he had finished, he cast the chair aside like a piece of rubbish he’d encountered in the gutter. But the rage still boiled inside of him. He overturned the table forcefully, and kicked at it again and again, more fiercely, more rapidly. He grasped another chair and raised it high above his head, and hurled it at the window. He adored the exhilarating violence, the destruction he could cause. Glass smashed and flew through the air, as the chair landed in the soft, sticky mud outside the window.

He viewed his handiwork with increasing pleasure. His perspiration made the rubber cling more closely to his skin. He breathed deeply, calming himself, but he couldn’t help but keep smiling at the adoration of this destruction. He looked once more at the room, and then retreated into the corridor. It was empty, quiet – in contrast with the room he had just left behind, and it helped calm him. His breathing quietened, becoming more normal. He paused. He then opened a window adjacent to the large door, and leapt through it. He disappeared into the darkness of the forest, leaving behind the chaos of the common room, objects smashed and obliterated, the presence of a tortured soul still hanging in the air.

****

That was how the sixth formers found their often tidy common room the following morning. They thought it was just yet another incident by the hand of a persistent trouble maker, so they decided not to allow him to make too much trouble; else he would get what he wanted. They had little idea that this was only the beginning of the madness.

So their response to this seemingly pointless vandalism was to simply carry on as normal. There was no fuss, no teachers, no police. The common room was tidied up, the photographs removed from their cracked or smashed frames and put in new ones - the crumpled photos were partially flattened under a pile of heavy textbooks for a while. The shattered window was boarded up - they’d have to ask the caretaker to organise putting in a new pane of glass. Everyone then just carried on as usual. It was a normal school day - teenagers from eleven to eighteen wandered around the school to their lessons. There was more chatter than yesterday - Tuesday was never as glum as Monday. The school day was as monotonous as it always had been.

****

Jennifer Kraystone, an immensely pretty girl of eighteen years, sat in the corner of the sixth form common room on the big, comfortable armchair – the only one in the room. The boarded-up window looked conspicuous in the now meticulous arrangements of the common room. Not that it would remain meticulously arranged though.

Jennifer’s crystal blue eyes surveyed the room. Her brilliant mind was calculating and adventurous, and she longed to know the motive for the vandalism of the room. It seemed so pointless, and yet she knew that there must be a reason, and why had the attack seemed aimed at the wall of photographs? Thinking this, she turned and looked sadly at the wall, seeing the damage done to it now. She realised how easy it was to destroy in a matter of seconds what had taken hours to produce. She had helped put up those photographs last year. They were creased and damaged now, and the new frames did not match with the colour scheme of the room, as the original ones had.

She turned her gaze over to the opposite corner of the room, where her cousin, Simeon Gregson, sat with their friend, Jonathan Baker. She had a bit of a soft spot for Jonathan, and she often felt he worshipped the ground she walked on, but nothing had ever come of their relationship, except for a solid friendship, which had often promised something more but never progressed beyond exasperatingly close.

Jonathan felt her eyes upon him and looked up in her direction. She smiled at him, and he sheepishly smiled back, pleased at her attention, and yet embarrassed at the same time, knowing others would see the way he looked at her with adoring eyes. Simeon looked at them both, and then nudged him hard below the ribs.

Just ask her! he whispered

Ask her what? Jonathan replied vaguely, pretending he hadn’t a clue what Simeon was talking about, despite his mind being full of images of him kissing her lusciously glossed lips. He couldn’t help but smile at these thoughts; these dreams. He could imagine running through a grassy field in the midst of summer, his hand in hers, passing the intricate blue bells that danced in the breeze. They were laughing in sheer joy – their minds free of the woes of the world.

His dreams were cut short by Simeon passing further comment.

You’re well in there, he hissed, delightfully. She clearly likes you – and you know what? – I would if I were in your position.

Jonathan glanced distastefully at him. He was glad Simeon was not in his position. The previous year, Simeon had been accused of rape by a fellow student, who had since left claiming that this further education was simply not for her, though others had believed there was a completely different reason for her departure. The charges against Simeon had been dropped, when a witness had come forward and said how the proclaimed victim had been frequently performing oral sex on Simeon before this; and she hadn’t wanted that to come out in court. Simeon had always denied the allegation of rape, but Jonathan had never been sure whether to believe there was more to it or not. The girl may have been slightly promiscuous, and she may have been willing to add Simeon to her list of conquests before, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t forced her to have sex with him on that occasion. Jonathan was glad that Jennifer was Simeon’s family, because even if Simeon was violent and abusive towards women, then he surely wouldn’t pursue and attack members of his own family and hurt them, would he?

At that moment, the door opened and Natasha Winfield entered the room. She had been Jennifer’s friend for many years, and was currently the focus of Simeon’s attentions, which she seemed to dislike immensely. He was currently staring fixedly at her, his eyes gleaming in delight at what he saw. She wore a skirt that showed more of her legs than it did cover them – it was a dress rehearsal for the current production. Her face was as pretty as Jennifer’s, though hers was a different beauty, and her eyes were a deep chocolate-brown. She leaned on the chair to talk to Jennifer.

Hi. Have you…?

The lights suddenly flashed off. Everyone fell silent in the darkness. Nothing could be seen in the black room, but everyone could feel the atmosphere intensifying – they were expectant of something more. Jonathan stood up to find if there were any candles in the cupboard to the side. He tripped over something and fell heavily against the wall. He steadied himself, and there was silence once more.

Jonathan could hear no one else moving. No one could see in the pitch blackness. Without the aid of the slight daylight that would have been coming from the window if it weren’t boarded up, it was worse than a cloudy night inside the room.

There was a sudden scream from the corner and a loud, heavy crash. Jennifer’s voice was heard in the darkness.

Nat! Nat!?

Silence.

Are you alright?

A groan.

Natasha!?

The lights flashed back on and everyone saw Natasha lying on the floor. Jonathan was still leaning against the wall, and Jennifer had dropped to her knees and was now kneeling beside Natasha. Everyone else in the room looked shaken at what they’d heard, and now by what they were witnessing.

What the hell happened? Jennifer asked her, concerned. Natasha also looked shaken, and nervous.

Someone grabbed me from behind and wrenched my necklace off. Then he slapped me, pushed me over, she gasped, her hand going to her neck, where there was a red mark where the necklace had been ripped from around it ferociously. Jennifer helped Natasha to her feet, as Simeon rushed forward and pulled out a chair for her to sit down.

Can I get you anything? he asked, concern showing in his voice.

A drink of water, she replied gratefully. Simeon quickly rushed out of the room to pursue her request.

Jonathan approached Jennifer and Natasha. He bent and looked at her neck, and then her face, where she had been hit hard enough to fall loudly to the floor.

Who the hell would do this? Jonathan whispered to Jennifer. She met his eyes, agreeing with his question, and then raised her voice.

Would everyone…submit to a search? she queried. Everyone was willing, but the necklace wasn’t found. Their third mystery across as many days was scandalous. It was all very well locking doors and stealing keys, and vandalising common rooms and smashing windows, but assaulting and stealing from one of your piers was going a step too far. Either they were a string of coincidences, or one single person was playing a sinister game – and if today’s incident was linked, it certainly looked as if it was one of them.

Jonathan stood aside as people left the common room. It made him cold to think that one of these people had so viciously snatched the jewellery from around his friend’s neck. He was also puzzled. How could they have possibly managed it? No doors had opened, meaning no one had come in or gone out. It had to be hidden in the room somewhere. But there was nowhere really in the room that something could have been quickly hidden in a hurry in the dark. He hated it when one of his friends was hurt, and he was a lot closer to Jennifer and Natasha than most other people, except Simeon of course. The whole thing was a mystery, and a horrible one at that, and he knew the police were inadequate when it came to petty crime connected to a school, although they may put in a little effort as Natasha’s father was a Detective Sergeant. He remembered about four years ago, when thefts had become pretty bad at the school, they had called in the police; and everyone, even the victims of those thefts, had refused to say anything of any help to them. It was as if the pupils in the school felt a loyalty to the others, whatever they had done to them, and therefore refused to drop them in it. And after all, it was dangerous in a school to be known as a grass – the bullies didn’t like it.

Simeon soon came rushing back in with a glass of water for Natasha. She thanked him appreciatively and he smiled at her, as she drank from the glass he had handed her. He seemed completely infatuated with her, and Jonathan knew in that moment he would do anything to help her. He sat down and talked to all of them, a serious tone in his voice.

I know we can all trust each other, he said. Because we all care about Natasha. He squeezed her hand supportively and Jennifer put her arm around her shoulders, while Simeon continued to smile dotingly at her. We need to find out what’s going on here… Jonathan continued. …before it gets any worse!

They all knew that he was deadly serious. They all nodded in agreement and leant forward to hear what he planned as a course of action. Jonathan had obviously thought it out – he could never stand for violence towards anyone.

We all need to keep our eyes and ears open for anything that could help us find out who’s behind this, he explained. If you find out anything let us all know, so that we can try to get to the bottom of this sordid mess together.

****

Jennifer had an English lesson the following period. She had only taken it as an A-level because she was interested in writing screenplays and stage plays as an option for the future, but now she couldn’t see why she had bothered. So far, they had done nothing about writing anything of their own - stories or scripts, which are what she’d hoped they’d start with. They hadn’t even written so much as an essay yet.

She had once wanted to be an actress - someone had told her when she was younger that she had the face for it. Everyone had their dreams since childhood, something they cling on to into adulthood, but she’d wondered if it was ever possible. It was the same person who told her that who had also told her she had a body to match - he’d only wanted her for one thing and she wasn’t going to give it to him; he’d had a smack in the mouth instead - arrogant slimy bastard! That was really when she’d decided to change her ideas - she didn’t want to attract these idiots who just wanted to sleep with her. But, still clinging on to that faint fantasy, she had chosen Drama and then English - she thought if she wouldn’t have a starring role in the stories, she could be a little more creative and write them.

She sat in the lesson, the phrase ‘bored out of her skull’ springing to mind. The teacher was wittering on about Shakespeare, but they hadn’t even looked at one of his plays yet, let alone studied one, or written their own scenes. She glanced across at Jonathan, who had also opted for the subject. He, too, looked terribly bored.

She turned and looked out of the window. All she could see was a thick net of leaves and branches blocking out the sunlight. It was so, so dismal in the room; the only light coming from the electric light which hung from the ceiling. Damp had begun to affect the outer walls - it would have to be sorted soon, moisture already seemed to be climbing the walls of the room. She turned again to face the front of the class. The teacher was now reading a passage from a book, which she recognised as Lady Macbeth, convincing her husband to commit murder.

‘…look like th’ innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t.’ Lady Macbeth already has murder in mind before… Jennifer’s mind drifted again. She had heard this all before - why were they doing it again? She liked Macbeth, but her favourite had to be Romeo and Juliet. She liked all the tragedies - they were always more interesting, she thought, showing how so many people can be brought down by one, single flaw in themselves. It made her think of their thief, and she wondered what made him steal from others. Did he need money, or did he just enjoy the power he had over people?

Suddenly, the lights flickered out. They were all left in total darkness. No one said a word - it was as if they thought they were not allowed to speak, or maybe they were just waiting for something to happen. It was almost inevitable that something else would follow the extinguishing of the light, as they had previously seen during the events of earlier today.

The door crashed open and a dark figure, silhouetted against the dim light from the corridor window, rushed into the room. Jennifer instinctively put her hand to her neck and grasped her necklace, ready to keep hold of it if he were to come anywhere near her. But he didn’t. The figure darted past Jennifer to the back of the room. She automatically turned to see what was going on, but could obviously see nothing in the blackness of the room.

A shriek pierced the air as the figure wrenched a necklace from around the chosen girl’s neck. The figure rushed past Jennifer again and ran out of the room, once again silhouetted in the dim light for a split second, before he disappeared up the corridor. Jennifer’s eyes had now become accustomed to the darkness and she noticed that whoever the thief was had worn a balaclava to cover his face completely - he’d left nothing to chance; he wasn’t going to get caught so easily.

Everyone remained sat there in the darkness, except for someone trying to help Roxanne at the back of the room, who had fallen awkwardly from her chair after being smacked in the face. A shout was heard from up the corridor, followed by an almighty crash. Running footsteps followed as someone ran down the corridor away from the scene.

Jonathan stood and felt his way between all the desks and chairs and out into the corridor in the dark. In the dim light, he could see someone sprawled across the floor. He slowly ventured toward whoever it was, wary in case it was actually the thief who was lying there - he didn’t want to grapple with the thief and receive his own smack in the teeth if he attempted to escape.

The lights suddenly flashed on and Jonathan saw that James Martin, another sixth former, was the one lying on the floor. He rushed forward and knelt down beside him, checking that he was still breathing - he didn’t know what the thief could have done to him. He looked up to see Jennifer standing beside him.

Is he okay? she asked.

His breathing’s fine, he told her. He’s probably just been knocked out. Maybe he hit his head as he was pushed or whacked over. Other pupils in the school were appearing out of their classrooms to see what was going on. They all looked surprised, some shocked, except for the few boys, twelve years old, stood at the back, in fits of laughter over seeing the sixth former sprawled in the dust.

No one expected this type of thing to happen at school. For all their talk and brashness, this was the world they would only have come into contact with when substances had completely affected their judgement, when the following day they would have forgotten what it was about, and make not much effort to remember. For it to happen here, where, despite their dislike of it, they actually felt some security, actually made them a little fearful.

In that moment there was the shared held breath of vulnerability, hanging with the naivety that this was the worst that could possibly be. For the majority of them did not know the outside world, the real edge of violence. This was horror - and no one really believed it could get any worse.

He silently opened the store cupboard and peered out. The corridor was deserted. He had watched her go into the common room about five minutes before. She’d had a fright this morning – he would give her an even bigger one now. His breathing intensified even as he thought about it. He had waited for this for a long time. He smiled to himself. They always said absence makes the heart grow fonder – they should also add to that, waiting makes the urge grow stronger. But people always seemed to shy away from truths like that – they wanted to think of the love and devotion shared between people; but he wouldn’t think like that anymore, couldn’t think like that – he concentrated on his lust because then you knew where you were; love was too complicated. And there was nothing like an experiment of superiority.

He left the store cupboard and pattered quietly up to the common room door. He stopped and listened. There was no talking inside, nothing that could suggest there was more than one person in the room. He pushed the door open slightly and squinted through the crack in the door. She hadn’t heard him. She was stood next to the table putting some pieces of paper in order; stood there in her short skirt and white blouse. He looked to her feet at her stilettos – they’d have to go. They were too dangerous for him. His eyes travelled up her bare white legs, the skin smooth and unmarked, until