CHAPTER 12
THE CURATOR
‘Scream for me, bitch.’ The room stinks of sweat, leather and a faint, metallic tang – blood, both old and new.
It’s claustrophobic, with a single bulb humming above, casting Charlie Thompson’s hulking shadow across the floor.
I let my wrists fall against the chair, they’re bound but loose.
He thinks it’s the rope keeping me here. Cute.
Charlie leans in close to my face, his foul breath hot with beer and exhaustion. ‘So, are you gonna scream, or talk?’
‘Neither,’ I answer.
His lip curls, a classic London snarl. These kinds of men wear them when they want to feel powerful.
How I’d like to rip that from his face, and start a new collection.
He pulls a photograph from his back pocket; a boy – soft-eyed, innocent, like he’s unaware that he’s the grandson of a man who cracks ribs like walnuts.
I lean back, tilting my chin. ‘Tell me, Charlie. How’s he holding up? ’
His fist slams against the wall. It’s an act. If he really wanted me dead, we wouldn’t be talking. He exhales through his nose. ‘Your lover – what’s his name? Sal? Yeah, Sal – he’s screaming right about now. Thought you might wanna know that.’
I laugh. It’s a proper belly laugh. It’s so loud it rolls through the room, unwelcomed.
Charlie watches, confused, unsettled. He wasn’t expecting this.
I lean forward, as far as I can go. ‘You think Sal means something to me? You think torturing him bothers me? Let me tell you something, sweetheart – pain is temporary, but regret? Oh, that shit sticks.’
His jaw tightens and begins to twitch, so much so, I see the vein at his temple throbbing, pulsing with each second.
‘We both know the boy is dead. Not missing. Not taken. Just dead. D. E. A. D.’ I spell out. ‘He bled out, and then your fire swallowed him whole. This isn’t about finding him. You want someone to blame.’
‘So, which one of you did it?’
I exhale, long and deliberately, like a cat stretching in the face of a dog. ‘That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?’
Charlie exhales. He’s a man teetering on the edge between patience and violence. He rubs his jaw. ‘I should just kill you both,’ he mutters, low like he’s talking to himself, weighing in on the satisfaction.
I grin. ‘Not a bad plan, Charlie. Clean, quick. No loose ends.’ I pause, savouring the tension. ‘But you won’t.’
‘Sal’s spilling his guts in there, screaming your name.’
I laugh again, loud and unbothered. ‘So why aren’t I dead already? And Sal?’ I shake my head. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Sal isn’t my lover.’
‘Oh, good, he won’t mind me doing this then...’ he snarls as he unzips his trousers and rolls up his sleeves.
I don’t blink.
‘Among the wreckage, among my grandson’s body, we found jars of blood. Rather peculiar don’t you think?’ he asks, baring his forearm, showing old scars, and veins thick beneath his skin. ‘Would you bleed me dry, Stella?’ His lips twitch – half amusement, half challenge.
He’s convinced it was one of us – mostly me – who slit his grandson’s throat beneath moonlight, whispering incantations as blood spilled into a waiting glass...so I could drink it. It’s almost funny. Almost.
I tilt my head back, watching the way his pulse flutters at his wrist. Tempting. I watch his face, trace each line and shadow, then softly hum,
‘Your grin so smug, ugly and wide,
I imagine a blade across your pride.
I’ll carve that smile, erase your sin,
Your reign will end, so no more wins.’
His jaw tightens, eyes locked on mine. With a clipped edge to his voice, he repeats the question – louder this time.
‘Come on, Stella...would you...suck me dry? Go on...’ he urges, his voice both mockery and menace as he shifts his weight an inch closer. ‘Sink your teeth in, make it real.’ He pushes against my lips.
‘That’s not how it works,’ I growl.
‘Then make it work,’ he snarls. He snatches my chair forward, again forcing his forearm between my lips. ‘You will bite!’
My teeth graze his skin, and he groans breathlessly.
‘Fuck.’ He pulls up my skirt. ‘No panties? Perfect.’ He pulls his cock out and straddles my lap, bending his cock between my legs.
As he thrusts, rocking us both back and forth, my teeth dig into his flesh a little harder.
But the more I bite, the harder he groans, and the harder he thrusts.
‘I knew you’d have a dripping, wet cunt. ’
The chair rocks back and forth, and my eyes begin to bulge as I struggle for air. My stomach churns, and as his blood coats my tongue I gag. ‘Tell me you want me. Tell me you want to devour me.’
My instinct to survive wars against my demand for air. My lungs scream and claw at my ribs, but I refuse to swallow. I refuse to surrender to swallowing his blood as it pumps into my mouth, to claim me. The metallic tang stings, my throat burns, but still I hold onto the agony of empty lungs.
Charlie narrows his eyes, the gears turning behind them. He pauses. ‘If Sal isn’t your lover...then what was he doing there?’
‘He was there to kill me,’ I gasp. ‘You’ll be doing him a favour, actually.’
The room holds its breath, then Charlie’s whole stance shifts.
‘Your next question would be, why?’ I breathe.
Charlie steps back, studying me like a problem he hasn’t solved. Exhaling through his nose, he straightens his jacket, and jerks his head towards the door.
‘We’re going for a drive.’ He stands before me, gun raised steady, his finger flexing against the trigger. There’s no more negotiations, so I gesture at the gun nonchalantly. ‘Is that supposed to scare me?’
‘It’s supposed to make you talk.’
‘Talk is cheap, killing me, now that can be expensive.’ He cuts the rope, and hauls me to my feet without reacting. ‘I hope the car is comfortable,’ I murmur, walking past him.
The car hums, tyres cutting through the wet asphalt. He drives in silence, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Two muscle heads flank me on the backseat, watching. Waiting.
I stretch my legs and roll my neck. Then – BOOM.
The warehouse erupts behind us in a fireball licking at the night sky, sending smoke snaking into the stars.
The shockwave rattles the car. I don’t flinch, instead, I watch the blaze through the rear windscreen.
‘You know, Charlie,’ I murmur,’ you really have a thing for blowing things up.
’ He doesn’t look at me. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, but he says nothing.
‘Oh, darling,’ I sigh, ‘you’re going to hate how this ends. ’