Criminal Revenge by Conrad Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

black leggings and knee-high boots, turning every head in the place. He hoped she was wearing a skirt tonight, easier to get into, and he didn’t want to be fumbling around with buttons and zips. She would think he was an inexperienced virgin. He was, but he didn’t want her to know that. Mamood had come close a couple of times, but never actually gone all the way. Tonight was the night. In her letter she had promised to make it worth his while, what else could she mean?
    He reached the water’s edge and picked up a flat stone. Mamood cocked his throwing arm and skimmed it across the surface. The lockups were less than a hundred yards away now; once used as boatsheds, they’d been empty for years. A number of drownings one summer had prompted the reservoir owners to stop all leisure activities on the water, but people still came here because it was picturesque. The double doors of the lockups came into view, one of them almost intact, the other broken and shattered. A dull light flickered and glowed from behind the missing panels. She was already in there. His mouth went dry, and he put his hand in front of his mouth to check his breath was fresh. He broke into a jog, eager and excited, only stopping as he neared the buildings.
    Mamood peered into the gloomy lockups. Boat racks were fixed to the walls, cobwebs and dust now hanging were canoes and paddles had once lived. There was a smell of decay.
    “Vicky?” he called into the gloomy interior. A paraffin lantern dangled from an ancient roof truss. The light from it glowed orange, flickering and inviting, tempting him inside. He stepped through a gap in the rotten planks, ducking low to avoid banging his head.
    “Vicky, it’s Mamood. I got your letter.” He tried to sound cool. His hands were shaking with nervous anticipation. She had gone to a lot of trouble. He hoped that he wouldn’t disappoint her when the time came. Malik had told him to think of his dream England squad for the next World Cup; that way the sex would last longer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think of anything else, but then Malik had already had lots of girls, so he should know. The older girls in school were scathing about their sexual encounters, especially if they’d been disappointed or jilted. A guy’s reputation could be ruined in the course of a lunchtime break.
    A shifting noise from the back of the lockup brought him back to reality. There was a doorway fixed to the back wall, probably leading to a storeroom. The door was ajar, and he could hear a radio playing quietly, the disc jockey was chatting aimlessly to his co-presenter, between tracks.
    “Vicky!” he called a little louder, uneasy about penetrating the gloom at the rear of the lockup. She would think he was a nancy boy if she saw him dithering. He steeled himself and walked to the rear of the building. “Vicky, it’s Mamood, I got your letter.”
    “Meet me at the reservoir, and I’ll make it worth your while.” Nick stepped from the darkness as he mimicked a female voice, sounding nothing like one. There was an evil sneer across his face.
    Mamood froze and inhaled sharply, confused and frightened. The man was tall, well built, and somehow he knew what Vicky had put in her letter.
    “Who the fuck are you?” Mamood tried to sound aggressive, but he didn’t. “Where’s Vicky?”
    “Vicky is probably at home, tucking into her spaghetti bolognaise. She will not be coming, I’m afraid,” Nick spoke in a monotone voice. His face was distorted by a nylon stocking. His nose looked flatter and elongated, his chin hooked with a dimple in the middle. The beard and hair he had grown for the bombing were cropped to the bone, exposing his high cheekbones and Neanderthal forehead. Nick was ugly, frightening to look at, especially in the flickering shadows, even more so with the stocking pulled tight over his features. “Do you know why you’re here?”
    “Get out of my way, weirdo!” Mamood shouted. He was scared witless.