Watch Your Back

By Jillian Ward

Revenge is a two edged sword and it cuts both ways. When it does, it hurts - everyone.
Hamish McKinnon is a decent, law abiding man until his sister, Heather, is drugged and raped by a sexual predator. As the siblings seek out and get their own back on the perpetrator, their crusade begins to take its toll on Hamish, who is soon overwhelmed and in danger of losing himself. How much can he take before he cracks under the strain and if he does, how will Heather get her due retribution?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Quill Books
• Release date: Oct 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215793442

Book preview

WATCH YOUR BACK!

One

The last chime of the town hall clock echoed through silent, empty streets.

Four o'clock on an early summer morning and outside the White Lightning Laundrette on West Wynd, a car in an eye-watering shade of electric blue pulled up. It paused momentarily before reversing into the pitch blackness of a covered alleyway, its twin beams glowing like cat's eyes, emerging seconds later into a cobbled courtyard, the murky home to scavenging rats, feral cats and skips overflowing with rubbish from the surrounding businesses.

There it sat, engine quietly ticking over until the driver's door opened and the figure of a man climbed out.

Using shadows for cover, he looked around the courtyard, making his assessment of the location.

Three storeys of dead black rectangles, one single bulkhead lamp over the rear door of the laundrette, dull yellow glow of a streetlamp oozing over the roofs. With the sun not yet over the horizon, the yard would stay in damp and dreary shade for at least another hour.

The dark mouth of the alley yawned into the street beyond. Nothing moved in it save for a stray sheet of newspaper, pushed along by a stiff breeze funnelling through the opening.

Eyes now accustomed to the gloom, he picked out what he needed - a rusting yellow skip heaped with building rubble, and a black lidded blue dumpster loaded with waste from the takeaway, and between the two, a heap of flattened cardboard boxes.

Perfect.

He popped open the car's passenger door and reached inside, emerging again with his arms filled by the inert, scantily clad form of a young woman, blonde head resting comfortably against his shoulder, eyes closed, silent.

He carried her to the cardboard stack and lowered her onto it as if it were a feather bed, turning her on her side in a rudimentary foetal position, arms folded and tucked tight against her stomach, knees drawn up almost to her chest.

Squatting by her head, he put his face close to hers, taking one last look at her perfect fair features, a final sniff of her scent and a last lingering touch, smoothing and tidying her hair before running his fingertips down her cold pale cheek and over her slightly parted lips.

He reached to his back, to her clutch bag stuffed into the waistband of his trousers, and slid it under the cardboard box at her head. In a final act of ersatz kindness, he covered her with a large flat sheet of packaging, once a box for an oversized flat-screen television, leaving only the top of her hair and the heels of her sparkly sandals visible.

'Night night.’ He stood. 'Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite.'

Two

The man let himself into his apartment, kicked off his shoes and headed for the bottle of vodka he kept on the kitchen counter, poured himself a double measure and took a deep, satisfying swig.

He didn't allow himself to drink while 'on the job'. Alcohol dulled the wits and he needed to keep his about him at all times. He always worked best when stone cold sober. Only when every detail had been satisfactorily taken care of could he permit himself a restorative drink. He knocked back the rest of the glass in a single large gulp.

It had been more than eight hours since his last meal and the alcohol hit an empty stomach, its effect immediate. Comforting warmth spread into his head and limbs.

The break of the new day signalled the end of a long night, and he felt exhaustion catching up with him. It always did when he entertained. The sheer amount of mental and physical effort he put into an evening to make it perfect wore him out. But now he could sleep in as late as he liked to make up for it. He had nothing else planned for the day.

He strolled into the bedroom and peeled off his black shirt and trousers, folding them neatly and placing them on a chair. His underpants and socks he tossed into the laundry hamper in the bathroom. He took time to pee, to wash his face and to brush and floss his teeth before climbing into bed. The silk sheet felt gloriously cool against his bare skin. He plumped the pillows into comfortable softness, reached over to his nightstand and turned out the light. The blackout blinds at the window shut out the strengthening daylight, and the room fell into soporific dark and quiet.

He lay on his back and breathed slowly and deliberately, each breath deepening his relaxation. Under the duvet his hand wandered to his groin to find his cock.

He squeezed and stroked it as he brought to mind a most pleasurable evening in the company of the young girl recently discarded in the filthy yard - her flawless skin, her perfect smile, the silky smoothness of her hair, her light, female scent...

He spotted her as soon as she came through the door of the nightclub, the middle of a group of three, her arms linked with a girlfriend on either side. Young, lithe and blonde, she shone like a beacon, and once his eyes fell on her he could not tear them away.

The little company of girls huddled against the wall, holding onto each other for mutual support as they took their bearings. Their decision apparently made, they skirted around the already well populated dance floor towards the area where he sat - a tiered section segregated from the main dance floor by a low, thick rope.

The central area offered an open plan arrangement with a selection of tables and chairs. Nestled against the back wall were booths with padded bench seats, open fronted yet divided from each other by curtained panels, affording a modest amount of intimacy.

He followed the girl's progress across the room without appearing to actually notice her - one of a series of skills he had perfected over the years.

All the booths were occupied, so she and her friends took a vacant table a few yards to his right. It only took a subtle shift in his position for him to get a better look at them.

Now he could see how very young they were and how none of them should ever have been granted admission. Feathers was a club for adults only, and if the doorman had been doing his job properly and asked for their ID, he would have discovered that not one of them had yet celebrated their seventeenth birthday. He should have turned each of them away from the main door and sent them back home to their mummies and daddies with a flea in their ear.

But there they were, and he observed them from his seat, assessing each of their attributes in turn.

As under age girls were wont to do, they had tried to make themselves look older, more sophisticated and more sexually alluring, with varying degrees of success.

To her detriment, the brunette's hair had been teased and tormented into unnatural straightness, and her over-plucked eyebrows and over-decorated face gave her the look of a surprised doll. Barely restrained mounds of breast threatened to spill out over the neckline of her low cut top, and her skirt resembled little more than a wide belt. Although she had obviously set out to make herself as attractive as possible, in his eyes she succeeded only in achieving the opposite. He moved on.

The redhead talked too loudly and laughed far too brashly for his liking. She continually adjusted the hem of her scarcely there skirt ever higher, exposing more and more of her slender spray tanned legs, until he caught a glimpse of white and a flash of the gusset of her panties - brassy and trying too hard. He passed on her too.

His eyes finally settled on the one who captured his interest and held it, the one with the mane of shoulder length golden blonde hair. As if on cue she smiled and a dimple formed in her left cheek. The smile became a laugh, not forced and coarse, but light and effortless. She accompanied it with tossing her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her hand.

Slender of frame, with a small waist and pert breasts, she too wore her skirt short, but rather than being vulgar, it flattered her figure. High heeled, strappy sandals adorned her feet. She wore a little carefully applied make up, a touch of mascara and lipstick, and because she hadn't overdone it, she glowed with natural beauty. This one he liked the look of very much indeed.

Soon the girls were approached by a couple of young men who appeared seemingly from nowhere. Without waiting to be invited, they pulled out chairs and sat. The redhead and the brunette were soon engaged in flirtatious small talk with their respective admirers, while the blonde looked on. After a few minutes, the two girls tottered down to the dance floor with their beaux to disappear into the fine mist in which coloured lights pulsed to the beat of the music, abandoning their friend at the table.

The man kept this one on the edge of his vision and surveyed her with feigned indifference.

Soon she also found herself a focus for attention. Twice she received an invitation to the dance floor; twice she graciously refused. From her cordial smile and hand gestures he made a guess at the excuse she offered – Thanks but no thanks. She had been nominated as chair minder and it was her responsibility to reserve and protect the seats for her friends, who would be returning presently. Nice of you to ask though.

He suspected the truth to be more straightforward - she simply didn't like the look of them and he didn't blame her. It was all he could do not to laugh out loud himself at the sight of the sad specimens.

One was a nervous looking, acne-plagued youth with greasy hair, possessed a mouthful of metal braces labouring to tame a degree of overbite seldom seen outside of a stable yard. The other gave the impression of being stuck in a time warp, dressed as if he had stepped out of a 1970s disco movie, complete with huge medallion dangling from a thick yellow metal chain about his neck and grinning like a toothpaste ad. He may even have been wearing a toupee.

Their advances spurned, politely but resolutely, the men moved on to seek other quarries.

Surreptitiously he continued to watch her, noticing how she rested her elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her hand as she let her eyes wander around the cavernous, noisy nightclub, the foot of her crossed-over leg bouncing in time to the beat of the music. At length, her roaming gaze came to rest on him. Their eyes met for the briefest instant and, startled by the contact, she coyly averted hers.

He took a sip from the glass in his hand, plain orange juice with ice and a slice of fruit, and bided his time. His timing, another thing learned from past practise, had to be exactly right.

When he glanced across at her again, he saw her looking directly at him. They exchanged almost imperceptible smiles before she quickly turned her head to look at anything, at anyone, but him.

He swallowed down the rest of his drink and made his move.

Empty glass in hand, he negotiated the few yards of space between their tables to stand by her side. Suddenly aware of his presence, she looked up.

He beamed a broad friendly smile down at her. 'Hello.’

'Hi.' Her salutation came out as a half formed timid sound, and her hand moved to her throat in a nervously protective gesture.

'I don't like to see you sitting here alone.’

'I'm not alone. My friends are down there.' She flicked a finger toward the dance floor. 'They'll be back soon.'

'Would you allow me to sit here and keep you company until they do?' He placed his hand on the back of a vacant seat beside her; an action which concurrently sought permission to sit, yet stated his intention to do so whether she gave it or not.

'Sure. As long as you don't mind moving when they come back.'

'Not at all.' He pulled out the chair and took his seat. 'What's your name?'

'Heather.'

'That's a sweet name. I'm Alex. It's nice to meet you, Heather.' He offered his open hand into which she placed her small, dainty one. His fingers closed around it and they shook in greeting. 'Nice to meet you too, Alex. Is it perhaps short for Alexander?'

'It is.'

They sat in agreeable silence, watching the dancers on the floor as they gyrated and swayed in time to the upbeat tune.

'You don't have anything to drink,’ he said. ‘Can I get you something? You look like a vodka and orange girl, which, it just so happens, is my favourite tipple too.' He indicated his empty glass. 'I'm going to have another. Shall I get you one?'

She shook her head. 'Vodka? Oh no. I don't drink alcohol.'

He feigned innocent surprise. 'Oh? Why not?'

'I don't like the taste...or the smell.'

'Ah, well you see, that's the beauty of vodka. It really doesn't smell or taste of anything. You get all the pleasure and none of the pain.'

'Is that really true? I thought it was an urban myth.'

'It's quite true, trust me.' He smiled again, employing his carefully constructed 'butter wouldn't melt' expression.

'Okay.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve persuaded me. I'll give it a try.'

He seized his glass and stood. 'I'll be back in a minute. Don't go away.'

He headed down the steps toward the nearest of the three bars, returning a few minutes later with identical glasses in either hand - squat, cold tumblers beaded with condensation, three quarters filled with an orange liquid and thin slices of orange and lemon floating between a pair of ice cubes. He placed hers on the table.

'There you go.’ Held his out to her. 'Cheers.'

She picked hers up, studied the contents carefully, before their glasses touched with a gentle clink.

'Cheers.'

She took in no more than the barest sip, then another, licked her lips, nodded. 'Hmm. You’re right. It is nice.'

He hadn't lied to her. He had no need to. He knew she would firstly taste the sweetness of the orange juice, and then the alcohol would begin to warm her tongue and the back of her throat and she would find the sensation to be rather pleasant.

'Told you.' He took a mouthful of his own drink. His, of course, contained no vodka.

They sat and chatted as best they could over the loud, pulsing music. He tried, and it appeared succeeded, in flattering her with his superficially undivided attention. He made her laugh with his well rehearsed lines of sharp and amusing banter, and turned her head with his loaded wallet and Hollywood smile.

'Is this your first time here?' he asked.

'Yes,' she nodded as she sipped her drink.

'And what do you think?'

'It's a lot busier than I expected, and a lot noisier.'

'The innate nature of the nightclub, I'm afraid,' he said, proud of his witty alliteration. His hands itched to touch her, to see if her skin felt as soft and smooth as it looked. He angled his head toward the dance floor. 'Do you want to dance?'

He felt a pang of dismay when she declined. 'Would you mind if we wait until there's a slower one? I don't trust these shoes.'

'Sure.' He pulled on a smile. 'Whenever you're ready.'

Patience was also a crucial key.

Two frenetic songs later, the rapid, pulsing beat died down, the lights became low and a softer, gentler tune began. 'How about this one?'

She nodded. 'Much better.'

He stood and put out his hand. 'Come on then.'

He led her down the tiers to the dance floor where they integrated themselves into the other slowly moving pairs of bodies. She allowed him to rest his warm hands on her bare waist, exposed by her cropped top. She put her arms around his neck and as she stretched he could feel her ribs move under her skin. Lovely.

To the slow and melodic tune, they merely moved each other around the floor. She put her face close to his and her hair brushed his cheek, tickling it. He inhaled and could smell the delicate floral aroma of her shampoo.

The dance ended prematurely. Not concentrating on his feet, he carelessly stepped on her foot. She squeaked with pain and clutched at her toes. It had been a genuine accident and he apologised profusely, at the same time inwardly cursing himself for his clumsiness.

Unable to continue with their dance for the time being, they returned to the seating area to find their table had been taken by another group. She spotted another one by the wall being vacated and they took it.

He continued to apologise while she rubbed at her bruised foot, assuring him no permanent damage had been done to either her toes or her sandals. She could still walk without any problems, and to prove it she excused herself to go to the ladies' washroom.

She returned to their table ten minutes later to find he had replenished her drink.

Three

The Ladies' washroom was crowded and airless and Heather had to wait her turn for a cubicle. When she eventually managed to get one, she found it none too salubrious. In fact it was disgusting. The bowl was stained, the seat looked grubby and there was no paper.

She relieved herself as best she could without physically touching the toilet seat and managed to press down the flush with a fingertip, before edging her way to the basins to wash her hands, tidy her makeup and comb her hair.

Finally satisfied with her appearance, she returned to her table and her new friend Alex. A fresh glass of the orange drink sat in the middle of the table. He pushed it toward her. 'It's warm in here and I thought you might be thirsty.’

'I am a little.'

'It's also my way of saying sorry for treading on your foot.'

'You didn't have to; it's perfectly fine, really.'

'It's the least I can do.'

'You're very kind, thank you.'

Heather sipped demurely at the drink. It tasted different than the previous one - stronger, saltier somehow. Maybe, she thought, the orange juice was off. It often happened at home when the carton had been left open too long. Not wanting to offend Alex's generosity, little by little she forced the drink down.

They stayed at the table, watching the other dancers, and chatting some more, mostly about her friends and her time at college.

It took no more than fifteen minutes before she began to feel what her mother would have called, 'Not quite right.'

It came on her finely at first, as vagueness at the edge of her consciousness. Alex continued talking to her, but her concentration began to waver. The room grew hot and stuffy and she found it hard to breathe. Suddenly it felt claustrophobically crowded and overly noisy, and the lights had begun to form stars which hurt her eyes and made her blink.

She felt a touch to her arm and Alex was looking at her, a concerned frown on his face. 'Are you alright, sweetheart?'

Her head felt fuzzy and her mouth numb, and she had difficulty moving her tongue. When she spoke her words came out slightly slurred. ‘Yes. No....I don’t know.’

She made to stand up, but couldn’t. Her elastic legs didn’t want to support her. 'I think I need a bit of fresh air. Where's the way out?'

Alex helped her to stand, one arm around her waist. 'I'll take you outside.'

‘My bag.’

‘I’ve got it. Don’t worry. See?’ He tucked the small clutch bag into the waistband of his pants.

Her feet felt like lumps of clay as he steered her down the tiers of chairs and tables and around the thronging mass of bodies on the floor, and he had to almost carry her up the stairs and out through the main entrance and into the street. As soon as cool night air hit her face, a wave of dizziness overcame her and she swayed unsteadily on her feet.

‘Whoa. Steady.’

Another voice. The doorman. 'Is everything alright, sir?'

Alex again. 'It’s gone straight to her head, silly girl. I told her to eat something before we came out. She’s going to have a helluva hangover in the morning.’

‘Do you need a taxi, sir?’

‘No thanks. Got my car. And before you ask, no I haven’t had a drop. Can’t. Antibiotics.’

‘Fair enough.’

Heather gagged, making a soft yurp sound.

Alex: 'I think she's going to be sick.'

A clack of heels as the doorman stepped back, not wanting vomit on his immaculately shiny footwear. ‘Take care of her, sir.’

‘I will. Don’t worry.’

Alex tightened his grip on her and she felt herself being bodily shifted along the pavement, away from the club.

'I feel all sort of floaty,' she mumbled. 'I feel like I'm flying. Am I flying, Alex?'

‘You will be soon. Come on, a little bit further.'

They reached a car parked at the kerbside under a the urine yellow glow of a street lamp.

Heather smiled. 'I like your car. It’s yellow. I like yellow. Like daffodils...and buttercups....buttercups and daisies...no, daisies are white, but they have yellow bits...'

Alex ignored her incoherent ramblings. He had her pinned against the car as he took out his key fob and pressed one of the buttons. The car emitted a shrill double beep and the indicator lights flashed twice. He pulled open the door and lowered her into the vehicle's passenger seat. ‘In you get. You a little rest here until you feel better then I'll drive you home. Where do you live?'

'At home with Mummy and Daddy and my big brother. I call him Big Bear. He's lovely. You'd like him. Did I tell you he plays rugby?' A wave of nausea rose in her. She moaned and put her hand to her mouth. 'I feel sick.'

'You're not going to be sick. Just lean well forward and put your head between your knees. Take a couple of deep breaths and you'll be fine.' By now Alex's voice had taken on a far-away, muffled quality.

The car door closed and she sat doubled over with her forehead resting on her knees, hauling in deep breaths through her mouth until the nausea eased. In and out. In and... her eyelids grew heavy and dropped closed.

Through the fogginess she became dimly aware of Alex getting into the car beside her, of him arranging her hair over her shoulders, of his hand moving down her back, warm skin on the cool bare flesh at her midriff. The touch left her, the car’s engine started and they began to move.

She made one last gargantuan effort to open her eyes. Almost succeeded. Then the gentle vibration of the motor and the motion of the vehicle lulled her out of consciousness and into a vivid, vision filled torpor.

She dreamed she was a princess, locked in a room at the top of a high tower surrounded by some terrible fairyland forest, hidden from the world by a jealous, merciless witch.

Prince Charming had risked his life to kill the fire-breathing dragon and scale the tower to rescue her from her cruel incarceration, and was now holding her in his strong, manly arms.

So handsome was he, with his close cropped black hair and his dark, dark eyes in which she saw a miniature of herself reflected.

He scooped her up and carried her with such ease she may well have been made of straw. Gently he laid her down on a bed so soft and yielding she felt herself coming free from the constraints of her body, of floating free high above herself, caressed by the wind.

She felt his breath in her ear, murmuring, ‘You perfect beauty,’ over and again, and something moved inside her, deep and hard and so...

With a sigh, she surrendered herself.

Four

Alex's own dream world enraptured him. The whole of the previous night had been captured in intricate detail by his internal memory bank, and replayed back to him, complete with all the sensations of taste, smell, sound and touch, like a movie behind his eyes for him to revel in all over again.

He could see himself as he gently set the naked slumbering girl in the centre of his king sized bed. She lay still, breathing softly, head turned to one side, arms limp at her side, top teeth just visible through slightly parted lips. He spread out her hair, arranging and re-arranging until it surrounded her head like a shimmering golden halo. He then stood back to admire his prize. The perfect nubile virgin – just as he liked them. His cock, stirring in anticipation, agreed.

Starting at her slightly flushed cheeks, he ran his hands over every inch of her smooth body, unblemished and flawless in its youth. He coursed them over her small pert breasts and flat stomach, over her protruding hip bones.

He pushed her legs apart to expose the part of her no man had yet seen, a flower not yet plucked. His fingers toyed with her fine, blonde pubic hair, before parting her labia and touching around until he found her small warm clitoris. He rubbed it with his thumb as he slid his fingers inside her vagina - first one, then two.

Aroused against her will, she moaned in her sleep. He removed his fingers and put them against his nostrils, closed his eyes and sucked in air, inhaling her scent.

He pushed her legs wider and buried his face in her pubis, licking, sucking and kissing her labia before finding her clitoris with his tongue. He flicked at it like a snake tasting the air, before kissing and sucking on the soft nub. Her breathing rate increased in her unconscious excitement, yet she did not wake.

He looked down at the cataleptic girl, his erection now complete and straining painfully against the fabric of his undershorts, freeing it to stand engorged and hard in front of him.

He turned her face and kissed her on the mouth, moving down her neck, across her prominent collar bones and down to her breasts, teasing at the soft mounds with his tongue and lips until the nipples stood hard and erect. Her body was reacting to his demands without her co-operation. Nature was now under his control.

He fleetingly broke off from his pleasure to reach into his bedside drawer from which he pulled out a small silver packet. Carefully he ripped it open and extracted the prophylactic. He didn't like using them, but he wasn't stupid. He may be deflowering this young lovely, but he still had the presence of mind to not leave any evidence.

It took no more than ten seconds for him to slide the lubricated sheath over his swollen, erect penis, almost bringing himself to orgasm in the process.

'Easy. Easy. Not yet. Not yet.'