The Beach House Ch. 02

Lucy smiled. Everything about this guy was unsurprising. 'I like it. Well, I'm ready when you are, Mr. Hardwick. Make it look real as that really turns me on.'

Peter nodded. 'All right.' He set down his drink on a nearby table. 'Well, Candy, You'd better come with me.' He grabbed her arm and marched her from the bar, just as she had wanted, and she screeched and writhed in his grasp and begged to be released. There was a group of girls at the door and they drew aside with curious eyes.

Lucy whispered to one as she passed: 'Call the Cops'. She saw the girl nod and reach for her phone.

The van was in a secluded corner and he flung open the door and thrust her inside. Lucy lay on the blankets strewn over the floor and regarded him with bold eyes.

'Oh Mr. Hardwick, I'll give you anything if you let me go,' she said in a girlie voice.

Pete slowly unbuckled his belt. 'I know, Candy, but you've been a naughty girl and I'm going to teach you a lesson. Take off your skirt.' He watched Lucy with hungry eyes as she slowly peeled off the tank top and little black skirt. She was wearing a lacy half-cup bra and tiny knickers and her body was small and sleek like a kitten. He tore off his shirt and crawled towards her.

'No, wait,' Lucy said. 'Let's not hurry this.' It looked as if the dolt might really hit her. 'Uh, what can I do to make you change your mind?'

'Nothing, honey. I'm gonna strap that pretty little butt and then fuck you senseless.' He was nearly upon her, the belt turned in his hand so the buckle was outward.

'Wait...wait,' Lucy said. 'Why don't you just fuck me now.' She opened her legs. 'You'll be my first, Mr. Hardwick. Just think how tight it will be.'

Pete stared at the girl's crotch. The outline of her sex was clearly visible through the thin fabric and a few hairs peeped from around the elastic. He could smell the warm animal odour of her arousal, thick and syrupy in his nostrils, and it was irresistible. He dropped his belt and fumbled with his pants. 'Can I do you in the arse?' he whispered.

'Sure.' She watched him shuck off his underpants and shuffle on his knees towards her. His cock was small and bobbed obscenely like a rubber toy, and Lucy felt scorn rise like bile in her throat. Everything about him was repulsive - from the thin hairy legs to the expression of imbecilic delight on his face.

'You know what Pete?' she said. The tone of her voice stopped him dead.

'What?'

Lucy smiled. 'You picked the wrong girl,' and she kicked him in the groin.

Peter clutched at balls and fell on his side in the van. His mouth was open but the scream of agony was almost silent: just a thin squeak, like a rodent being boiled alive. Lucy shuffled forward and peered down at him.

'Did you think it would be that easy?' she hissed. She pulled aside the gusset of her panties and thrust her loins towards his face. 'Look - I've already got one cunt in my pants - whatever made you think I'd want another one?' she said. She thrust her hips closer and giggled softly. 'Look...look, two twats together - except mine is useful.' There was blood oozing between his fingers where the heel of her shoe had torn into his scrotum, and leaned forward and smeared it on her fingers and wiped it on herself. 'The cops will be here soon,' she said, 'and statutory rape is goal time. And when you're locked up you can see how you like being fucked, lover boy.'

That had been a year ago, but Lucy still remembered how she had felt when the police arrived and took him away, whimpering like a child. She'd learned two things that night - that the cops were suckers for a pretty, crying girl who had been brave enough to fight back, and that revenge was irresistibly sweet.

And now she wanted revenge on Sarah. She could taste it like warm honey on her tongue, and she imagined the look on the girl's face when she understood what was happening. Little Sarah Ryan. She'd had her chance to come back and now it was too late, and her and her fuck-buddy brother who'd stolen her away must pay the price.

And so she picked up the phone and dialed the number of a guy who owed her a few favours.

**

Olivia Ryan sat on the bench and gazed out over the view to the north. She had left home an hour earlier, walking briskly on the bridle path that wound its way through the woods to the lookout on Leonard's Ridge.

The view was stunning: the whole coastal fringe from Torbess to Hammersley set out before her like a patchwork quilt. Her eyes sought out Thurston, sleeping in a little fold in the land, where her home nestled next to the big Cyprus trees marking the eastern boundary. A wisp of smoke curled from the tall chimney and she smiled: despite the mild weather Sarah felt the cold and had probably lit the fire as soon as she was out of sight. Beyond the house the land fell away to the coast, the mottled green and gold of fields surrendering to the steel grey hue of the Atlantic. It was too far to see any detail but Brinsley's Head was easily visible, jutting into the bay like the head of an arrow.

Brinsley's Head. Seeing it again reminded her of the cottage that Michael and Sarah were renovating. It seemed months since they started and she'd not given it much thought, but it seemed to have drawn them together. Before then the two hadn't had much to do with each other, but they were close now: there wasn't a day when they weren't out together, either at the cottage or in town looking in the second-hand shops for bits and pieces.

A shaft of sunlight struck her face and Olivia closed her eyes and luxuriated in its warmth. Life was busy - there was hardly time to think about anything and the chance to sit and let her mind wander was a welcome break. She remembered her husband, so far away, and wondered what he was doing and whether he ever stopped to think about her; and she thought about her children. She was happy they'd found something in common, and working in the open air had done them good. Sarah had always been a pale girl but the sun had burnished her skin to a light gold and she'd looked all the better for it. She'd lost weight, too, although it seemed to be coming back now. Olivia remembered the conversation they'd had at breakfast a week or two back, and the unease she'd felt at the time.

She opened her eyes to gaze over the lush landscape but saw nothing, for her mind was suddenly busy remembering that day: her daughter's expression as she read the morning mail; the purple bruises of exhaustion under her eyes and the look of panic that flitted over her face when asked if she was gaining weight. Olivia remembered too the way that Sarah's hands had clutched her midriff in response, the fingers spread over her cotton shift as if cradling it, and in a sudden moment of clarity she understood something she'd missed at the time: that the gesture was not to cover her belly from critical eyes, but to protect it.

Sarah was pregnant! The thought came like a bombshell. Sarah, who didn't have a guy, who stayed in every night and whose only friend was her brother. There was no way she could be pregnant - but it explained everything: the pale, haggard look in the morning; the thickening of her waist, the mysterious visits into town, and the sense of withdrawal. So who was the father?

Olivia's eyes lifted to the horizon and settled on Brinsley's Head again, and the little pieces of the jigsaw tumbled in her mind like dice in a roulette wheel, clicking round and round before finally coming to rest. Michael and Sarah, alone on the island day after day; their whispered conversations at home; the furtive glances she was not supposed to see and the touching of hands behind her back. Gestures of friendship, she had thought, but suddenly they seemed so much more. Michael and Sarah, her children, touching...touching. Surely it couldn't be true. Surely not her children.

After a while Olivia rose to her feet and started back, her mind full of unease. The sunlight shimmered through the trees either side of the path, a dappled spectrum of gold and green playing on her eyelids like the flickering images in her brain - Michael and Sarah...touching. Michael and Sarah...kissing. Michael and Sarah lying together in the little cottage, their limbs entwined as they joined in dreadful incest.

*

'What do you mean, you haven't done it yet?' Lucy's voice was shrill with anger.

The man's voice was sulky. 'I've been busy.'

Lucy felt the familiar winds of rage building in her head but she managed to keep her voice level. 'Then you need to get your priorities straight. You haven't forgotten the little agreement we had, have you?' Lucy had discovered the man sold crystal meth as a sideline and she had threatened to tip the police if he didn't do the occasional job for him.

'How can I forget? You remind me every time we talk.'

'Well, you seem to forget it. Look, I don't want any unpleasantness - just do this last job and you won't hear from me again.'

'That's what you said last time.'

'Last time was only a little job. This one will clear the slate.'

There was silence for a moment while the man thought. 'All right. So how do you want it done?'

'They have a boat to go to an island near where they live. Could you arrange for it to disappear?'

'Sure. Do you know which boat it is?'

'It's in Thruxton harbour. I have a photograph of it.'

'Send it to me - and two thousand pounds in used notes to buy what I need.'

Lucy opened her mouth to protest but shut it again quickly. She really didn't know the going price for murder but it seemed good value for money. She allowed her mind to dwell on the sweetness of her revenge, to picture their final moments: the flash of flame, the sudden bloom of ignited fuel that would envelop the two shrieking figures in a firestorm of unimaginable pain. She imagined them burning, their skins crisping like barbequed chickens as the fire consumed them, and she envisaged their screams of agony as they threw themselves into the sea. Ah, Sarah, that is the price you will pay for your betrayal...you and your bastard brother!

A feeling of immense satisfaction infused her being, and she laughed softly to herself. The only regret was that she would not be there to see it, to look into the girl's eyes a moment before her life was snuffed out. Perhaps, in that final second, she might warn her: let her live as a hideously scarred monster, but she knew it was not possible. She could go to Torbess though, and watch from the headland. With a good pair of binoculars she might even see them as they died.

'All right,' she said. 'It will be in the mail tonight.' She put down the phone softly, still smiling, and her mind turned to Amanda, the new girl in her life. Lucy was grooming her for their first night together, and she promised to be the best yet.

*

Patrick John Doherty shone his torch over the boat, seeing the white paintwork and the red trim, and he laughed softly to himself. This was going to be easy.

The engine was under the deck and he lifted the hatchway and peered down. He'd been hoping for a petrol engine but the reek of diesel told a different story - a pity, as the oil wasn't as flammable as gasoline, but it wouldn't matter that much. He propped the torch on the engine block and clambered into the narrow space with difficulty, locating the fuel tank to one side and the wires to the starter motor on the other. So far, so good.

The charge was a small slab of Semtex and he tucked it under the sump, pressing the detonator into the soft putty and running the connecting wires under the engine to the timer delay before connecting it to the starter motor terminals. The wires were all black and he was sure they would not be visible in a cursory inspection. He was also sure the device would work: power to the timer when the engine was started, and power to the detonator fifteen minutes later when it opened the circuit. In fifteen minutes he estimated the boat would be in the middle of the bay, well clear of witnesses - unless another craft happened to be going by. Even if there were, there would be little to see and even less to pick up. He had seen the effect of high explosive on soft body tissue, and it wasn't pretty.

The job took less than half an hour and the man clambered ashore, his hat pulled low over his face as he slipped into the shadows, whistling his favourite tune softly to himself. He walked quickly towards his car for was one other job to do tonight, and then he would be free.

*

'Do you still want to go to the island today?'

Michael was sat at the breakfast bar, eating a bowl of cereal and eyeing up his sister who was trying to cook her breakfast with a degree of difficulty. Sarah was not a cook, that was for certain, but she sure looked good in a pair of cut off shorts and tank top.

She peered into the saucepan, stirring it vigorously. 'Jesus! This looks like a murdered omelet rather than scrambled eggs.'

Michael shrugged. Cooking was not his thing either. 'Don't sweat on it, Sis - it all tastes the same, anyway.' He regarded her critically. Even to an untutored eye there was a definite bulge in her figure, and she hadn't told her mother yet. She seemed to be in denial, whilst he was in awe of the thought of being a father. He had secretly downloaded an app that showed him the baby's development week by week, and it was fascinating.

'So what do you think?' he asked again.

'What?'

'About going out to the island today.'

'Oh - sure, if you want to.'

'We could stay the night,' he suggested shyly. 'That is, if you felt like it.'

Sarah stopped stirring the saucepan and looked at her brother. She knew very well what he meant by that, and she knew also that the whole issue of their relationship had yet to be sorted out. He was watching her closely with his blue eyes filled with concern, and she cringed at the intensity of his expression. He deserved answers but there were none to be had.

'Let's just go for the day,' she replied gently. 'Perhaps we'll stay overnight another time.'

'OK.' He tried not to show his disappointment. Give her space.

'Do we need to take anything?'

'Some food, I guess, and the grout so I can finish off the bathroom.'

'Well, that's easy then.' Sarah smiled at him. 'Make sure we take plenty of eggs - they're my thing at the moment.'

After breakfast they carried the two boxes down to the quay and set them down on the wooden bench whilst Michael boarded their little boat and quickly carried out his safety checks. He lifted the engine hatch and peered inside with a torch, noting the bilge was dry and there were no apparent leaks, and he carefully checked the oil level using the dipstick on the side of the engine block before replacing the hatch and looking up at his sister.

'Looks OK, Sis.' He glanced at his watch. 'Ten o'clock...we'll be there by half past.'

She handed down the two boxes and he stowed them in the little midships cabin before turning to help her down the ladder. She moved to the bow thwart and sat down, staring forward as he started the engine.

Michael cast off and carefully maneuvered the boat through the little harbour before exiting the breakwater. It was another beautiful day, the sea as flat as a pancake and the forget-me-not sky clear. He opened the throttle and set course for the headland on the far side of the bay. Through the salt-encrusted windscreen he could see his sister in the bow with her hair blowing in the breeze like a flickering curtain of gold, and his heart was suddenly filled with an overpowering sense of responsibility. She is my life, he thought. She and the baby within her.

The boat headed out into the bay and in the small, noisy cabin Michael Ryan wondered how he could convince her that they could spend their lives together. Perhaps if I give her time, he thought. She will come to see that I can be a father to our daughter or son. The thought comforted him and for the first time in a week he felt happier about the future.

And the Gods above laughed and nudged each other, amused by his assumption that they had time when they could see the little device under the deck beneath his feet was already counting down the minutes.

*

Lucy Carter-Bayliss lifted the powerful binoculars to her eyes and stared out over the bay. It was ten past ten and the day was hard and bright, the water a shimmering curtain of speckled silver and blue. To her right the headland jutted out, the blue haze of distance obscuring its detail but she knew the Beach House was on the island just off its tip; and to the left the curve of the coast obscured Torbess, just behind the low ridge.

She had been watching the small white craft in red and white angling towards her, its wake arrow-straight across the bay. A single figure sat huddled in the bow and for the first time Lucy could discern the fluttering curtain of her hair and the pale shape of her arms as they clung to the thwarts, and her heart leapt in her chest. Sarah!

With a beating heart she observed the image of the girl changing as the boat drew closer, each second bringing greater clarity - the colour of her dress and the shape of her face; the tinge of scarlet lipstick and the shadow of her eyes. She was leaning forward, her body tense as if seeking out her first sight of the little cottage - and then she turned to call her brother, her arm waving to attract his attention.

And as her profile changed Lucy saw her face clearly for the first time: the angle of her cheekbone and the shape of her jaw, and the little button nose crinkling as she laughed; and she imagined she was there, touching the soft warmth of the girl's skin and gazing into her smoky grey eyes just like she used to do. And in that moment Lucy realised that Sarah was not just a memory but a human being, vibrant and young and vital, and that she was living the final few moments of her life.

Almost at once the boat lost way and a second figure appeared, moving quickly to join the girl in the bow. Lucy saw her gesturing forward, the arm slim and delicate, and the flash of her bracelet as it caught the sun; and she observed them laughing together, saw him place his hand on her shoulder in a moment of intimacy. And then the vision was suddenly blotted out as a column of water rose from the very spot they stood and, a moment later, she heard the dull thud of the explosion. She saw the two figures flung forward, their bodies jerking like marionettes, and she saw the impact as they struck the ocean and were lost from view.

For a while she scanned the spot where the boat had been. The plume of water cleared quickly and the gentle southerly breeze swept the smoke away. She could see the bigger pieces of wreckage but there was no sign of the two people who had been aboard, and despite the lack of any fire she imagined they had perished. She had thought there would be exhilaration or perhaps even joy, but she found instead a strange melancholy, as if she had lost an old friend.

And after a long time Lucy turned away and walked back to the car, where she sat in the driver's seat staring out over the bay. There were other boats there now, quartering the area where Sarah's craft had been, but it was too far away to see if they had found much.

With a final sigh she fastened her seat belt and swung the car around before accelerating quickly across the car park towards the junction with the main road. Now that the job was done she wanted to get home quickly, to ring Amanda as they had arranged and see if she was free tonight. Better to ring her from home, though, where she could speak quietly, could touch herself and dream of what the night would bring. She glanced at her watch: forty minutes to go...it would be tight but she could make it. In forty minutes I'll hear her voice again she thought, and I'll hear the wanting in it. She'll be mine to do with as I please. The thought was intoxicating, and she pressed her foot harder on the accelerator.