Cold Revenge - Alex Howard Page 0,1

her head through the material of the hood.

She felt her skirt being pulled up and then she heard her lover say softly, ‘I thought I told you. White underwear, not black.’ There was a pause and then he murmured, ‘Now I’ll have to punish you.’

‘I’m sorry, Teacher!’ she said. Her lover insisted on her using the title. Not to do so was to be punished. At the start of their relationship he’d made her write a contract out, detailing her slave duties. Everything they did together was rigorously, relentlessly planned and choreographed. There was a script written by him that she had to follow. Nothing was left to chance. Everything was controlled, even down to the music playing in the background.

Especially down to the music in the background. He was insistent upon it. Always dance music. She guessed that it meant more to him than simply a soundtrack or just something to drown out the noise of their lovemaking. The intensity of his expression was sometimes frightening.

‘Sorry doesn’t cut it,’ the voice said.

‘I’ll do anything you say,’ she said, her voice muffled by the material of the hood.

‘Yes, you will, won’t you,’ said the voice, calm and in control. Always in control. ‘Arms behind your back.’

She did as she was told. Now her wrists were secured behind her back with handcuffs, depriving her of the use of her arms. She felt her underwear being pulled down and then a searing pain across her buttocks as the riding crop swished down. She bit her lip in pleasure at the stinging sensation. Her laptop pinged as someone emailed her; she felt a twinge of irritation that she’d forgotten to log off. Bloody thing.

She felt the weight of the other leaning across her body momentarily. Was he reading the blog? Surely it had moved to screen save?

She felt the familiar, strong fingers close around her throat. She arced her neck upwards submissively to allow him a better grip, the index finger against her jawbone. She felt the pressure closing, tightening, then her airways constricting as she heard the voice whispering, ‘Who’s been a naughty girl then?’

The artist changed on the iPod and the music shifted up a gear. A voice from way back when, a voice from long before she was born, Donna Summer’s voice, ethereal and urgent, sang how she felt love, over and over again, floating above the robotic, synthesized drums.

The fingers closed around her again, but it was not like it had been before, not gentle, not fun at all, and she bucked beneath the other body, now pressing down on top of hers so she couldn’t move, in genuine alarm but to no avail.

They had a code word to use to stop any activity, but she couldn’t speak.

This wasn’t part of the script.

This wasn’t how it should be.

Now her alarm changed to fear, and as the pressure continued, naked terror.

Please God, she prayed, make this stop! She could hear the song in her ears about how it felt good, so good, so good, but it didn’t feel good. Not good at all.

She was choking. She couldn’t breathe. It was like a nightmare and fear changed to terror. Now she could hear the blood hammering in her ears, as insistent as the music, and wild patches of iridescent colour seemed to explode in the darkness behind the hood. The music swelled to a crescendo and still the iron grip tightened.

Above her, straddling her body that was trying so hard and so ineffectually to buck him off, he hummed along to the music, his head nodding in time with the beat while his grip never slackened.

Gradually he felt her movements slowing and ceasing, and her body relaxed as her life departed.

Her killer rolled off her body and stood momentarily looking down at Hannah with genuine regret, then leaned forward and with gloved fingers delicately deleted the last section of the blog.

2

At the central ring in the large, vaulted space of Bob’s Gym in Bermondsey the fighters were training in the background; around them, almost centre stage, the multilayered noise of a boxing gym.

The decibel levels were high. There was the thud of gloves on the heavy bags, on bodies and on pads, the grunts of explosive effort as the punches were launched, the swishing of skipping ropes, the tacketa-tacketa-tacketa noise of the speed bags, the squeak of training shoes on polished wood and the shouts of instruction or encouragement.

Freddie Laidlaw, the owner and trainer at Bob’s Gym, looked at Hanlon speculatively.