Definitely Dead by Kate Bendelow (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

them, not treated as if he was just a bit of a kid like that Connor. He was a man – a real man’s man. He may not be a senior SOCO like Kym, but he had years of experience and that meant he should be afforded the same respect. If not more.

Still, he was patient. He would calm himself down and bide his time until the right opportunity arose so that he could show them all. And as for Kym bloody Lawson, she could stamp her prissy little feet at him as much as she wanted, he wouldn’t rise to the bait. He’d been married enough times to know when to say and do the right things to buy himself some peace and quiet. Those women would rue the day that they ever crossed Andy Carr; he would make sure of that.

13

When she opened the door and saw it was me, she had laughed. Not the reaction I had anticipated. Her eyes had widened fleetingly in surprise before she tossed her head back and barked that hollow laugh of hers. I asked her what the point of expensive electric gates was if she was going to leave them wide open.

‘Anyone could come wandering up that huge driveway of yours,’ I had said. ‘Anyone did! Come here, you,’ she replied. Then she pulled me into the hallway in a huge embrace as if we were old friends. She had wrapped her bony arms around me, smothering me with her sickly scent, oblivious to the fact my arms remained pinned to my side.

She had ushered me into the lounge where unsurprisingly, she already had a bottle of something open. She clumsily forced a glass into my hand, as quick as most people would blink. She pushed me towards the sofa. One of those monstrosities that you sink into and wonder if you can ever get back out. She sat too close. Our knees were touching and as I talked, I noticed she still had that unnerving way of staring. It was as if her eyes were like maggots boring into an apple. She didn’t flinch or blink. She just stared, her gaze level and unwavering. I’d forgotten how distracting it could be.

She was dressed to the nines as always. She wore a lightweight designer trouser suit meant for a woman much younger than her. She still had that stick-thin figure and it was obvious that she was no stranger to Botox. Her features were frozen in the recognisable mask of a telltale cat face, and I wondered how many facelifts she had endured. Probably so many that by rights her nipples should be on her forehead.

Her make-up was plastered on. Foundation battled against the warm weather to stop her sweating, and I noticed that her lipstick had bled into the thin smoker’s lines around her mouth. Her mascara was so heavily applied it looked like she had a host of errant spider’s legs jutting from her eyelids. She was definitely past it but was clearly deluded. She undoubtedly saw the woman of her twenties pout back at her every time she looked in the mirror.

That was probably why she drank. It was like the photographer’s trick of rubbing Vaseline on the camera lens to soften the edges. Back in the day she had been beautiful, and she had known it. She used her looks and her body to manipulate people so she could get what she wanted. But our old friend Time had well and truly caught up with her.

As the saying goes, beauty is only ever skin deep. Even in her heyday, on the inside she had always been one hell of an ugly bitch. She was cold and ruthless with a sinister streak that would chill even the most hardened criminals to their core. She had the morality of a sewer rat and the only thing in life that motivated her was money. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for the right currency.

Whatever she was up to these days was clearly still financing the lifestyle to which she had always been accustomed. I couldn’t help wondering which poor bastard she had pincer-gripped by the bollocks as she squeezed the cash out of them. Her house screamed affluent although the crass furnishings muttered ‘woman with no taste’. The place looked like a tart’s boudoir. It was all animal print, feather boas and canvases of naked women. There were tits and arses displayed on every wall; not that I’m complaining about that – I just prefer to think I have a more refined sense of taste.

And speaking of taste, can you believe she tried it on with me? As if I would ever consider going with a woman like her. At first, I thought I was misreading the signs and that she was just being tactile. But the way she leaned even closer towards me, oblivious to my personal space, pressing herself against me, the flick of her hair, the constant licking of the lips and the hand that persistently wandered above the knee. Oh, and the fact she blatantly announced that she wanted to fuck me.

She had asked me about Louisa. She wanted to know if we were still together. She enquired in that husky voice of hers, her head cocked to one side, I assume to look coquettish. In reality, she looked like she had whiplash. It took me every ounce of self-control not to smash my fist into her ugly, vicious mouth. The juxtapose of Louisa’s beautiful name on her cesspit lips was unbearable.

Fortunately, I managed to restrain myself for the sake of the plan and even managed to play along with her. Out of all of them, I knew she’d be the hardest to kill. She was no fool, after all. I knew I would have to tread very carefully to make sure she didn’t second-guess my intentions before it was too late. She thought I was an old friend eager for a walk down memory