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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 gri
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.
Chapter Twenty-THREE
Harry had already been on his way to the toilet when he heard the ruckus. After seeing the apparitions in the dance hall, he had hurried downstairs into the cellar to regroup. The vision of Thomas Morris had reached out and struck Harry, but he was almost certain that was the extent of the threat. If it could have done any real harm then it would have done so, he was sure of it. Harry had no clue what was going on, but for now he decided to think on it. There was no need to panic the others with what had happened just yet. They would only think him mad anyway. For now it seemed like something else was happening anyway, a scuffle from inside the men’s toilets.
It had turned out that what Old Graham wanted to speak with Harry about was a rather embarrassing matter. The old man had needed to piss bad, but couldn’t get up with his leg the way it was. Harry had understood the predicament, but at first didn’t know what to suggest. Then he’d spotted the half empty bottle of Famous Grouse that Lucas had brought down. He gave the bottle to Old Graham who immediately necked most of the contents. “For the pain,” he had said. Then Harry had given him the old man a few moments alone.
Now Harry was on his way to the urinals with a candle in one hand, and a whiskey bottle full of geriatric piss in the other, ready to empty the contents down one of the drains. He hadn’t expected to run into trouble again so soon after his last encounter, but something was definitely happing inside the toilets.
The room was partially lit by candlelight when Harry entered, but it was still too dark to see clearly what was happening at the far end by the window. There was a scuffle going on, and a soft wet thudding that he immediately recognised.
Someone’s getting a beating.
Candle in hand, along with the whiskey bottle full of urine, Harry ran forwards, lighting the room in a narrow sphere as he moved. At the end of the space, he found…Damien…and then he found…Nigel. Damien was beating the other man as though he were tenderising a piece of beef, hands covered by blood and ruptured skin. His knuckles made soft whapping sounds as they bounced off Nigel’s swollen face. What upset Harry the most was the sight of Steph also lying on the floor unconscious…with her jeans undone.
Finally, Damien looked up and noticed Harry – but it was too late for the lad to give any explanation. Snarling, Harry smashed the whiskey bottle of piss over the young thug’s head, so hard that he wondered if he’d killed him.
Part of Harry hoped so.
###
In front of the fireplace, Jess watched over Peter with Jerry. She watched her sleeping friend turn paler and paler, and could not tell whether it was due to the cold or loss of blood. Most of Peter’s wounds were bandaged, but they still wept constantly and had even begun to emit a sickly smell.
“You think he’s going to wake up?” Jerry asked, tugging Jess away from her thoughts. His usual child-like exuberance was absent from his voice now and it had been for a while.
Ever since he watched his best friend turn to blood and dust.
Jess shrugged. “He woke up once before, so who knows. How are you doing?”
“Me? I’m cushdy? It’s this one we need to look after.” He pointed at Peter. “He looks bad.”
Jess shrugged again. “I think he might have it easiest of all, being asleep. Right now, I want to know how you are. You know...about what happened to Ben.”
Jerry’s face crumbled like a moist sandcastle and, for a short moment, Jess thought he was going to cry. He didn’t. “It’s stupid,” he said, “but I miss him already.”
“That’s not stupid at all.”
“Feels like it. I just keep wishing it was me. I wish I were the one who’s dead and he were still alive.”
“Now that is stupid,” said Jess, shaking her head. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be dead, would he?”
Jerry shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. All I ever did was a
“Then why did he always keep you around?”
Jerry looked away from her then and stared into the fire. “Fate I guess.”
Jess wasn’t sure she understood. ”What do you mean, fate?”
Jerry rubbed at his eyes and somehow succeeded in making them look even more tired. “Ever seen the play, Blood Brothers?”
Jess shook her head.
Well,” Jerry explained. “It’s a film about these two brothers that get separated at birth. A mother has twins and can’t afford to keep them both, so she gives one away to a rich family that she works for.”
“Okay,” said Jess, still not following, but willing to listen.
“Somehow, the baby boy she gave away ends up making friends with the son that she kept – his twin. They have completely different upbringings, one rich, one poor, but somehow they become best friends. Despite everything, they’re really very much alike.” Jerry stared at Jess and this time she was certain he would cry, but still he did not. He smiled instead. “That’s like me and Ben. You get what I’m saying?”