Lance considered he had used his time well in the four years since Greg’s transfer. He’d made no enemies but many useful contacts with both inmates and guardians. He’d been generous, but not foolish in the dispensation of largess, and thus was admired—even loved by both his fellow prisoners and the guards who let him have a private room whenever he demanded it.
The reality was somewhat different from the febrile imaginings of the unpleasant young man.
The guards reckoned he was a total nut case; dangerous if he ever realised the other inmates called him a slimy fag and only tugged their metaphorical forelocks in order to get cash and other handouts.
Several official requests to have the unstable prisoner transferred to a psychiatric ward…or anywhere…were rejected.
The prison psychiatrist, a neurotic and angry man, judged Lance to be dangerously unstable and of inferior intelligence. His suggestion that the young man be given a single room, fitted in well with the common practice of torturing prisoners with solitary confinement at the slightest hint of recalcitrance. Lance’s frequent sojourns in a dark, windowless cell, deprived of human contact, stimulation and exercise, successfully turned an unpleasant bigot into a raving, homicidal, deluded lunatic.
In the final weeks of his incarceration, however, Lance was given every privilege possible, including unrestricted visitor access, to ensure he did nothing stupid that might interfere with his release.
Two days before that long-awaited liberation, Lance’s father was discovered dead at the bottom of the stairs of his Real Estate office. Slight bruising and a knock to the back of his head would not have been enough to kill him, but in the absence of any other indication of violence—no forced entry, nothing stolen, it was assumed he had suffered a heart attack and simply stopped breathing. Had he been alive the following morning, however, he would have bewailed the loss of a secret cache of sixty thousand dollars in used notes, kept in case of emergency. But as the safe hadn't been tampered with and no one apart from Lance knew the money was there, or the combination, no one missed it.
The elaborate church memorial service, as befits a wealthy man, was well attended by men and women of similar financial status and values who, like their host, had not seen the inside of a church since baptism. None had time to attend a wake, which was fortunate as there wasn’t one because Lance wanted to spend the afternoon with the lawyer signing documents. By nightfall he was not only owner of Osbairne Enterprises, Osbairne’s Real Estate, and Oz Cleaners, but his signature was sufficient identification for him to access every bank account, share portfolio, security box and other financial asset accumulated by his father.
After Greg’s transfer to another prison, Lance had been alarmed to discover that the magnificent orgasms engendered by his cellmate’s firm embrace during daily buggery sessions, could not be replaced by a mere hand job, so as it was four years since he’d achieved satisfactory sexual release, his first recreational foray on receipt of his fortune was to the brothel where he had pleasurably shared a pretty little whore with his father, in the halcyon days before his unjust imprisonment.
The visit, however, was a disaster. Without the visual stimulation of his father’s thrusting manhood, or Greg’s strong arms wrapped around his chest and hard rod up his bum, his own soft tube of pale flesh refused to respond, causing him to deliver several solid punches to the prostitute’s head and belly. They cost him dearly in hush money, but salved his masculine pride.
Then he remembered that at high school he’d had no erectile problems when his sycophantic acolytes, Earnest and Nigel used to watch him screw Mandy and Raylene, whose complaints that he was much too big and hurt them had been an added stimulation. And then he thought of Desmond, the weight and mentally challenged underling who had been released from prison three weeks before Lance, to whom he had entrusted the whereabouts of the keys to his father’s office, and safe combination. A generous handful of dollars easily persuaded Desmond to act as bodyguard while Lance was screwing a young woman he’d booked on the Internet.
She agreed to an observer if she was paid double, but then Desmond decided he wouldn’t do it unless he could fuck her after Lance. A considerable sum, therefore, changed hands before Desmond got a hard on watching Lance dip his ginormous wick, then Lance managed a second erection and satisfactory manual orgasm watching Desmond plough his furrow.
Meanwhile, the pretty young tart acted her part with commendable zeal, and only Desmond was disappointed when Lance refused to let him demonstrate how he’d stopped Lance’s father’s heart from beating before tossing him down the stairs.
‘Why not?’
‘Her pimp knows where she is and I can’t think of a way to dispose of the body. Next time….ok?’
‘Ok, but you owe me.’
Within two weeks Lance had assembled a willing band of four henchmen prepared to do anything for money. They staked out Robert ’s flat for a week, recorded his schedule, discussed plans, prepared their tools of trade, and on the same day that in the previous week Robert had arrived home alone for lunch, and remained alone for a full hour, they lay in wait.
What they didn’t know was that the previous week had been unusual. A 3V client had requested emergency counselling, so Bart had remained at the Gym while Robert had cycled home to lunch alone. And what they could never have guessed, was that this week it was Robert and Bart’s turn to host the ‘family’ luncheon, when all five friends shared a meal. Thus it was that Robert again cycled home alone—a little earlier than the previous week, to get the meal started while Arnold, Fidel and Hylas helped Bart to prepare for the afternoon sessions.
Robert whistled happily as he took his feet off the pedals and drifted down the ramp into the car park under the block of flats. He put his bicycle in the rack, shouldered his pack, gazed happily up through three stories of encircling balconies to where Hazel’s parting gift, a potted cactus in full flower caught a ray of sunlight, then ran swiftly up the stairs, fitted his key in the lock and breezed into the flat. The place smelled unusually sweaty and stuffy, so he opened the sliders onto the balcony to create a draught, returned to the kitchen and bent to look for a pot in the cupboard under the sink. A light cough made him straighten up and swing round.
‘Tidy house you keep,’ Lance sneered. ‘Quite the little housewife, aren't you?’
Robert’s eyes popped, his mouth dropped open and he stared in gormless surprise at four men dressed in army fatigues, preventing his retreat.
‘Lance,’ he managed to whisper, wishing he felt braver. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘How?’
‘You look stronger, healthier, much more…’
‘Attractive? Is that what you were going to say? Don’t tell me the queer black boy fancies me. I always knew you were a whore.’
Robert decided it would be sensible to ignore that and pretend unconcern. But all he could come up with was a nervous, ‘Why are you here?’
‘I owe you something.’
Robert remained silent. It was midday so all the other flats would be empty. Hazel had been the last of the permanent residents. Now she was in a retirement home the entire block was rented to students or young couples working several jobs to make ends meet.
‘Want to know what it is?’
Not trusting himself to speak, Robert shook his head.
Lance nodded and his three companions grabbed their prey, slammed him into a dining chair and lashed his arms and ankles to the back and legs with Velcro ties while their leader pulled a polished skinning knife from a sheath on his belt. ‘I went to prison because you murdered that old fuckwit Nikelseer.’
‘No, you went to prison because you murdered Murray Corso, tried to murder me by setting fire to a shed after locking me in, tried to murder Bart by tossing him over the rails outside this door, and tried to murder us both by interfering with the brakes on his car. Nikelseer’s death had nothing to do with me.’
‘You lying black turd-pusher. I know bloody well you're the killer, and the cops reckon you set me up at Nikelseer’s. Corso suicided, everyone agrees on that. But this time your lies will get you nowhere. Justice is at hand.’ He stopped and adopted what he imagined was a statesmanlike pose. ‘Remember when we studied Merchant of Venice? Well I'm Shylock, come to claim my due. For every lie, for every little thing I suffered in prison, you are going to lose a piece of that black flesh.’
He laughed unpleasantly as Robert gave an involuntary squirm. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t kill you—I'm not a murderer despite your accusations, but you won’t be able to walk, or talk, or see, or hear afterwards, so no one will ever find out how it happened. But I'm not totally without pity; I will leave you your sense of touch. You will feel everything. You will feel pain forever until you wish I had killed you. But it’s probably best if people out on the street don’t hear you.’
A gag was thrust into Robert’s mouth and tied behind. He watched in utter, paralysing fear as Lance tested the knife on the hairs on one of Robert’s arms. They shaved off easily, taking with them a sliver of skin, leaving a small gash that began to weep blood.
‘Now, where will I start?’ He stood back and smiled. ‘At the bottom, I think.’ Bending, he separated his victim’s little toe on the left foot, inserted the blade between that and the next, grasped the toe and suddenly sliced. He must have been lucky because the blade found the joint and he stood in surprise, holding aloft a twitching thing, which he dangled in front of Robert’s face.
The action had been so swift Robert had felt nothing, but when he saw his toe and a few drops of blood, a red-hot wave of pain engulfed his foot and he arched in agony.
His persecutors were laughing.
‘Fuck, if he reacts like that to a little toe, imagine what he’ll be like when his nose and lips come off. Who’s got the plasters?’
That set off another round of laughter as a pot of liquid tar was produced. ‘This stuff stops bleeding, so they reckon. Might sting a bit, but hey…what's a bit of pain among friends?’
A few minutes earlier, Bart had drifted silently down into the car park on his bike, but instead of parking it, something made him look up. A shadowy figure was lounging against the handrail on the second floor. Silently, Bart walked the bike back out and stopped the others when they arrived.
‘There's a stranger who seems to be waiting halfway up. I don’t like it so we’ll take the fire escape.’
Quietly placing their cycles against a wall, they went round the back where a locked gate guarded a rear staircase.
‘Luckily, Robert made a secret catch.’ He reached into a hole, pressed something, the gate opened, they ran softly up the stairs and a minute later were creeping towards the open door of Bart’s apartment. At the sound of voices Bart signalled to the others to wait, then peered into the opening. Backing away, he explained the situation.
‘It’ll be four against four. I’ll take the guy with the knife and leave the others to you. Last one in, slam the door to keep the guard out in case he comes up.’
‘What'll we do with them? We've nothing to tie them up with.’
‘Drop them over there,’ Bart pointed to the railing. ‘That's where Lance tried to throw me over.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! There’s no one around to see. Ready? Go!’
It should have been easy, but although none of Lance’s henchmen would ever be considered the sharpest knife in the drawer, their reflexes were good. They’d all learned to fight and didn’t care if they hurt. But neither did Bart. His mind emptied of all thoughts except the desire to destroy the person who was hurting his lover. Nothing else mattered…certainly not his own safety. He raced into the room screaming like a banshee, grabbed the knife from Lance and slashed wildly at his hands, arms, face and chest when he tried to regain it, backing him into a corner, drawing blood at every swipe until Lance collapsed, whimpering, begging for mercy. Bart slammed his shoe into the side of his head then picked the pathetic creature up, carried him out and draped him over the rail above the three-storey drop to the concrete floor of the garages beneath, head well out over the gap, his waist pressed against the rail to prevent him breathing properly.
Lance coughed, gasped and whimpered when Bart tossed the knife into space where it spun lazily before clanging onto the concrete below.
‘You're next.’
‘No! No! Please don’t let me fall. Please….’
‘You tried to push me over once, but I was saved by an old woman. If I spare you, you’ll only come after us again, so it’s good bye and good riddance.’ Grasping Lance’s belt, Bart lifted him slightly and sent him on his way to fall soundlessly before landing with a squishy thud that Bart didn’t hear because he was back inside assisting Hylas, who was on the point of having his neck broken by a large hairy brute. A powerful set of sharply bent knuckles smashing into the brute’s tattooed temple triggered a high-pitched scream. He dropped, groaning slightly. Before he could recover Hylas’s foot stomped several times on his face, crushing nose, lips and eyes. Together, he and Bart dragged him out and rolled him, still moaning, under the rails to join his leader.
There was no sign of the lookout, who had apparently decided not to get involved after seeing his boss so casually tossed overboard. Inside again Arnold was enduring a battering from another hefty hulk who was too engrossed to notice Hylas’s solid kick to the testicles and Bart’s sharp knuckles between the eyes. Weeping, kicking and screaming foul abuse he was kicked, dragged and squeezed under the bottom rail to join his mates.
Fidel’s target had decided discretion was the better part of valour, and was standing in the open window that led onto the balcony, nervously watching the solid brass lamp stand Fidel was wielding.
Suddenly he drew something from his pocket, brandished it aloft and shouted, ‘This is a grenade! If you come any closer I’ll use it!’
‘Then you’ll die too.’
He laughed wildly, backed out onto the balcony and drew the pin, but held the lever closed. ‘I might survive a leap from here, but you won’t have time to escape.’
‘You won’t survive a three storey drop,’ Fidel said urgently, ‘but we don’t want to die, nor do you. We stopped Lance, so we’re finished. Let’s call a truce.’ He turned to his friends. ‘You guys go. He’s not going to kill himself,’
Arnold and Hylas backed away, watching carefully while Bart released Robert from his bindings, then all except Hylas left the flat.
‘We’re going, Ok?’ Fidel retreated a couple of steps towards his brother who was beginning to panic.
‘Come on, Fidel. Leave him!’ .
The guy with the grenade risked a quick look back and down to the ground below, then shuddered and moved back into the doorway, distracting himself for exactly the time it took Fidel to race forward and shove him backwards. His foot caught on a heavy metal doorstop causing him to tumble, head slamming against the concrete balustrade. He dropped the grenade, slumped to the floor on top of it and lay still, eyes flickering, mouth opening and closing as if in silent speech.
In the few remaining seconds before the explosion, Fidel and Hylas raced out to join the others who were already halfway down the stairs. With one flight still to go they felt rather than heard a boom that seemed to shake the entire structure. Stucco fell off walls and broken windows sent tinkling shards of glass to join the three bodies.
Robert insisted he was Ok and they shouldn’t fuss as they half carried him down and out to the open air. While Hylas bandaged the bleeding foot with his handkerchief, the others went round the outside to see the damage. Bits of human were draped over what was left of a balcony hanging by reinforcing rods.
As it seemed safe enough, Bart and Arnold ran back upstairs, returning with a fireproof case containing every important document they owned—kept ready in case of emergencies, and two paintings.
‘What’ll we do with the bodies?’ Hylas asked, indicating the heap of dead flesh in the centre of the well.
‘It’s not our day to take out the trash,’ Robert quipped sourly.
Twelve and a half minutes after the blast they were cycling through Spring Hill on the way to Arnold’s apartment, discussing whether to buy fish and chips, or scratch up a meal from whatever was in the cupboards.
That afternoon, having installed themselves in Arnold’s luxurious spare room, where he insisted they were to remain permanently as he was sick of living alone, Bart and Robert were visited by two policemen who informed them that their flat had been bombed. They expressed suitably horrified surprise and asked if anyone had been hurt. When told the names of the victims, Robert appeared devastated.
‘But that's terrible. I had a call from Lance saying he was coming to see me to see if we could forget the past and I’d help him adjust to life on the outside. But I wasn’t expecting him till tomorrow.’
Bart asked who could have done the bombing, and was told, in confidence, that they feared JECHIS was again on the move, and as Bart and Robert were gay, they'd been targeted.