Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter Twenty-TWO

Damien wasn’t sure why he lied; perhaps only because it was funny. Harry had made himself look like a right muppet in front of Steph and Damien couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. She ain’t going to shag you now, sunshine.

Was that why he’d done it? Because of Steph? Did the thought of her and Harry copping off together irritate him? Steph wasn’t like the usual girls Damien boned. She was strong, with a mind of her own, and took control of people in the same way he did. He admired that.

Fact that she’s fit-as doesn’t hurt none either. Too good for that drunk, Harry.

But it was more than simple jealousy. Damien had actually gained pleasure from Harry’s predicament and that was what troubled him most. Over the last few hours, Damien had seen that Harry wasn’t that bad a bloke. The guy’s heart was in the right place, and it turned out that he did have a backbone after all. Despite all that, Damien still couldn’t tolerate the way Harry always played the wounded soldier. Always making people want to come up and ask if everything was okay. Always moping and drinking himself into a stupor. Oh, poor Harry, they would say. That man is so full of pain and anguish, yet he still keeps going. What a guy!

Damien scowled. Screw that! Everyone had it hard and Harry had no right to make out like his problems were worse than everyone else’s.

He did lose his son though...

Damien shook his head and stood away from the now-cushionless bench he was sitting on. Nearby, Jess and Jerry sat with the dying polish kid. Damien had chosen to stay nearby just in case the kids needed help. He’d been impressed by the way Jess had glassed the old bird giving her grief and respected her for it.

Took balls.

Damien sat back down on the cold bench and carried on his brooding about Harry. The man didn’t deserve sympathy because Damien had it just as bad as he did. No one cared about his problems though. No one had ever given a damn when his dad was wasted and beat him black and blue. Trying to toughen you up, boy! Teach you to be a man. No one cared when Damien’s dad had made him deal drugs at ten years old. No one will suspect a kid, so get yourself on that corner and don’t come home till you’ve sold it all. And no one cared when Damien’s dad had tried to pin an assault charge on him.

The rage that flowed constantly through Damien’s veins began to hot up. When his dad had gone to prison last year, Damien had felt free for the first time in his life. But it didn’t last. He’d been ordered to take over operations and report to his father in prison daily. Keep the money safe for me, Dame, for when I get out. Make me proud, son.

Yeah, I’ll make you real proud, dad!

Damien thought back to when his dad had gone down, and what for. Kicking the shite out of that lad until he was a whimpering, bleeding mess. Kid was no older than I was.

Gazz Brown had been a tough kid. When he’d knocked Damien spark-out and taken his stash, Damien’s father was not happy. Not happy at all. So, in a drunken rage, his dad – along with a group of the ‘boys’ – had taken Damien to go find Gazz. And find him they did. The well-built lad was at the back of a local supermarket selling Damien’s supply to the warehouse workers. His father saw red – had gone red. Like a wild bull, he tore into the youth, cracking bones and shattering teeth, stamping and kicking long after the boy’s beaten body covered the ground, motionless. It was almost ten minutes before Damien’s father was dragged away, and by that time someone had called the Police.

Even now, Gazz was still in a coma, and Damien’s father had gone to prison for the crime. Who knew supermarkets had so many CCTV cameras? The worse thing about the whole situation was that his dad had ‘the boys’ circulate rumours that it had been Damien to put poor Gazz Brown into a coma. Damien’s father had even tried to convince him take the fall for it. It would increase his rep, he’d said. Despite the CCTV exonerating him, Damien had nonetheless become feared on the local estate as a vicious, animalistic thug. His father had finally become proud.

But tonight was supposed to be the night where Damien did something to make himself proud. He was going to disobey his father for the first time and do the right thing for once. But instead he found himself trapped inside a rotten pub with a bunch of losers.

Like Harry. A loser who only cares about his next drink.

Finally it clicked. The reason Damien hated Harry was because the man cared more about getting wasted than anything else. Just like Damien’s father had. Every time he looked at Harry, downing another pint, night in night out, he had thought about his father. He’d pegged Harry as just another, selfish – fuckface – father that would rather get pissed than look after his family.

But I got it all wrong, didn’t I? Tonight Damien had learned that Harry was a good man and a good father; a bloke that cared so much about his son that, when he’d died – however it’d happened – he’d just given up on life. Harry’s family had obviously been his entire world, and when they died part of him went with them. Damien finally understood the man’s drinking.

And he could forgive it.

“I should apologise,” Damien told himself, “but first I gotta take a piss.”

###

This is it! Nigel’s body teemed with excitement. Harry had gone downstairs, freaking out about something, and Lucas had followed him. The grumpy shrew, Kath, had disappeared somewhere to clean the gore off her ugly face and Damien was at the other end of the pub, along with Jerry and the young girl, Jess. If he played his cards right, she would be next.

But first he had Steph to deal with.

I’m finally going to have her.

Nigel had watched with delight as everyone gradually departed, then Steph had gone into the toilets alone. Now was his chance. He would follow her in, knock her out cold, have his way with her, and then slit her throat with his trusty pen knife (sharpened to perfection). By the time he dumped her body outside in the snow no one would be any the wiser. Nigel would plead ignorance of Steph’s whereabouts and, while everyone would worry, that would be it. What else could they do?

First thing in the morning, he’d hop in his lorry and get the hell out of there, spend a few months in France maybe; ensure that he never returned to the area. Easiest thing in the world. Raping and killing women had become as second nature to Nigel as taking a leak; just another bodily function.

Silently, Nigel pushed open the door to the men’s toilets where he’d seen Steph enter. The door creaked ever so slightly, but the sounds coming from inside, of Steph gathering up supplies, drowned out the noise. He slipped inside.

The toilets smelt of stale piss and the room was lit only by a single candle Steph had placed on the middle of three sinks. She was at the far end of the small space now, gathering up bundles of handtowels from a storage cupboard. Her back was to Nigel.

Perfect! She won’t even see it coming.

With cat-like grace that belied his lumbering appearance, Nigel struck. He punched Steph from behind, hooking his fist round into the side of her jaw and knocking her cold; the thick Dolphin ring on his pinkie figure helped with his purpose. Steph’s limp body flopped limply to the side, falling into one of the cubicles. Her head hit the toilet bowl inside with a resounding thump!

“Good, girl,” Nigel grinned, “helping Daddy like that. You’ve found us a room and got yourself ready.”

He bent over and groped with his hands. He couldn’t see Steph’s body very well in the dark but that only made it all the more exciting. He’d dreamed of having her for so long that each touch of her flesh was enough to send small beads of ejaculate spurting from his swollen cock. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d gotten hard. It was a natural occurrence to Nigel, like breathing.

He rolled Steph onto her back and slid his eager, trembling fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans. Despite the perishing cold in the toilets, the flesh of Steph’s belly and upper groin was surprisingly warm, almost hot. Nigel’s swollen penis throbbed furiously, demanding satisfaction.

“Not long now, buddy. Just a little longer while I get this whore naked.”

A soft murmur from Steph caused Nigel to halt. Maybe she needed another whack? He considered it, but then decided that he’d prefer her conscious; her quiet murmuring would only turn him on more. “That’s it, you little slut, cry for Daddy. You love it, don’t you?”

He fumbled excitedly at the buttons on her crotch and had to fight against his frustrations when they refused to pop. Taking a deep breath, Nigel steadied his hands and tried again. The buttons came loose one at a time.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

“That’s it, darling, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Just as Nigel was about to start tugging down Steph’s unbuttoned jeans, he was alerted by a presence behind him. He turned around.

Before he lost consciousness, due to the heavy blows that suddenly rained down upon him, Nigel heard someone ask the question: “What the hell is going on!”

What the hell indeed, thought Nigel as he unwillingly went to sleep.