A Grudge Unleashed

“Well hello mister sleepy head, you were starting to worry me.”

He raised his head slowly and through half closed eyes scanned his surroundings. His face? Totally dazed and confused summed it up perfectly. All the peace I’d snagged for the past few hours vanished in a flash, replaced by a creeping panic. After weeks of planning, I had gone totally off-script within a couple of hours of arriving at his flat.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my flat?” he spat with a venom that made me immediately think I may have bitten off more than I could chew.

I took a moment, breathed in deep, and got a grip on my emotions. Even though I was winging it, I still had a loose plan for how the game would unfold. But before diving in, I was curious about his reaction after waking from his deep slumber. “Hey Charlie, why’d your first two questions skip right past ‘Why am I gaffer taped to this rather kitsch but nonetheless stylish 1970’s wooden rocking chair’ and straight to, ‘Who the fuck am I and what the fuck am I doing here?’ If I were in your position, and thank the Lord I’m not, I think I’d be more concerned about the former. Then again, that could just be me.”

“Who the fuck’s Charlie?” His only response to what I thought was a perfectly reasonable question.

“Now, now, let’s start as we mean to go on. This, what some may describe as a slightly surreal situation, is going to be much more productive for both of us if we can at least agree to be honest with each other. Your name is Charlie Phipps, but I’ve a feeling you might’ve forgotten my name, but don’t worry, by the end of the day you’ll remember it all too well—maybe even wish you hadn’t.”

So far so good. I’d managed to navigate the first couple of minutes of our liaison without any significant hiccups, but holding it together as things deepen, that would be the real hurdle.

“Look love…”

“No, no, no, no, no… Stop right there,” I yelled. I’d gone from calm to incensed in an instant. “You do not get to call me love, darling, duck, beautiful, dear, sweetheart, or fucking treacle. Do we understand each other?”

“Pardon me for breathing darling.”

“You won’t be breathing for long if you fucking continue,” I warned him.

An adorable miniature hammer, winked at me from the coffee table. Who knew what such a thing was for, besides, I suppose, hammering minuscule, equally adorable nails? But today, it became my unlikely weapon of choice, arcing through the air towards Charlie’s unsuspecting skull. It landed on his left temple with a satisfying crack and in a slightly delayed reaction caused him to groan in pain. “I stumbled upon that in your tool shed last night. What a find. A proper testosterone fuelled man cave, packed with seriously cool tools. Just take a sec to look around—lots of them have made their way onto your coffee table.”

“That fucking hurt, you crazy bitch!”

In a move that I thought was pretty cool and a staple of the countless gangster movies I’d watched, I turned and grabbed a dining chair and placed it backwards in front of my trussed up play pal. Slowly, some might even say provocatively, I attempted to sit astride the chair before realising my ten quid skinny Primark jeans were not going to be that forgiving. I turned the endeavour into a badly choreographed erotic lap dance as I swung my leg over the back of the chair instead, with the intention of turning it the right way round to face him. How I ended up on my back with the chair on top of me remains a mystery. Why Charlie chose not to comment on the comedy of errors unfolding before him, I’ve no idea, but perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the last time he opened his mouth, he was hit with a hammer. I aimed for a composed transition as I moved from my current position to settling into the chair, neatly crossing my arms and legs. However, despite my efforts, any semblance of dignity had unmistakably departed by then. Desperate to regain control I said, “I’m gonna let that one go Charlie. I am a little crazy and I can be a bitch, but I think what we’re missing at the moment are some ground rules.”

“I think what you’re missing lady, are some brain cells. Trust me, this is not going to end well.”

“How very perceptive, it absolutely isn’t going to end well,” I leaned in very slightly, “but for who, that is the question. In the spirit of being honest, open and truthful with each other, let me take you on a very quick journey to the end… You’re going to die.”

He had no response. He was seemingly taking a moment to gather his thoughts. In that brief silence, I sensed he was digesting the candid yet direct depiction of the conclusion of our time together.

“So, back to the ground rules. Normally, I’m not big on swearing, but I’m not exactly a prude either. I just feel like everyday chats get overloaded with unnecessary profanity, and it loses its punch, you know? However, given the current situation, which is likely to get a little tense at times, I’m happy if you are to allow as much foul language as our filthy little mouths can muster without either of us taking offense or feeling the need to create a Facebook post to let the world know how offended we are. Insults? No thanks, let’s keep it civil. Though, truth be told, I might be the bigger offender in that department.”

“Look, whatever you’re called, I don’t give a flying fuck about your ground rules. Let’s backtrack a bit to the question I didn’t ask when I woke up. Why am I gaffer taped, stark bollock naked, to this rather kitsch but nonetheless stylish 1970’s wooden rocking chair?”

“Oh, I’m so pleased you asked, but before the why, aren’t you interested in the how?”

“Not particularly,” he said.

“Please indulge me just for a moment because I need to establish just how stupid you are. What do you see when you look at me?”

“What?”

“The questions are going to get much harder Charlie, what do you see?”

Clearly reluctant to answer my question, he said, “Which bit of ‘my name isn’t Charlie’ are you not understanding?”

“I’m not understanding any bit of it Charlie.”

“How about calling me by my real name.”

“Which you claim to be?”

“Colin.”

“I get why you might have changed your name, but why would anyone choose Colin, it’s a bit… Well, a bit fucking boring if I’m honest.”

“I didn’t choose it; my parents chose it.”

“Look, Charlie, I get it. Maybe the bump on your head made things foggy. But honesty is the best policy, even with foggy memories, I know you know your name, so let’s cut the bullshit. Now, what do you see when you look at me?”

“Is it a trick question?” he said, suspiciously.

“Why would it be a trick question?”

“Because you’re a delusional fucking psychopath, everything you ask could be a trick question that results in me being twatted round the head with a pein hammer.”

“With a what?” I said puzzled.

“A pein hammer. The little hammer you so happily cracked my skull with?”

“Oh, do stop exaggerating, it was a mere tap on the temple that may or may not have caused a bit of memory loss. More importantly, why is it called a pein hammer?”

“How the fuck do I know?”

The origins of the name ‘pein hammer’ really shouldn’t have been so important at this juncture, yet my inherent curiosity drives me to collect seemingly pointless trivia that will serve no useful purpose in my life other than being the star of the show at the local pub quiz. I couldn’t move on with my cunning, yet flawed plan until I knew how a pein hammer earned its name. “Where’s your phone?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to look up the origins of the name ‘pein hammer’.”

“Use your own damn phone,” he snapped.

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you. Little Miss stupid, incriminating herself.”

“For looking why a ‘pein hammer’ is called a ‘pein hammer’?”

“You clearly don’t listen to many true crime podcasts, do you. In the unlikely event of me being considered a prime suspect in the unfortunate brutal slaying of an overweight bald, slob of a man named Charlie Phipps, I would not wish for an astute forensic analyst to connect any incidental evidence, such as the imprint found on the victim’s temple, with my innocuous searches regarding the historical origins of a ‘pein hammer’. It’s basic murder 101 Charlie, get with the programme. Now where’s your phone?”

“I don’t know where my phone is. I don’t know where my clothes are, I don’t know who you are, I don’t know why you’re here. In short, I know fuck all about fuck all.”

“Ok, stay right where you are, I’ll be back,” I said, as the ghost of Schwarzenegger flickered briefly, then died a swift and undignified death in my voice. Charlie’s clothes were scattered all over the flat, but in an ordered sequential scattering. I started at the crud stained boxer shorts discarded at his feet and followed the trail past his socks, jeans, shirt and into the kitchen where I stumbled upon a sartorial crime scene: his hideously hip camouflage vest, accessorised with corduroy shoulder patches. Then the trail went cold. No coat or jacket. I headed for the bedroom, more in desperation than hope as he’d not ventured in there since we arrived last night. I then tried the hallway and despite the presence of coat hooks, they were occupied by everything except a coat, including a dog lead. How had I missed a dog in a one bedroom flat? The dog conundrum now occupied my mind, and I was less interested in the origins of a pein hammer than I was in the missing pet. The plan was doomed to fail if there was frightened little puppy hiding somewhere watching my every move. Murdering someone was one thing, but traumatising a poor defenceless animal was something I knew I could never live with. And who would take care of it when I left. It could be days, even weeks before Charlie was discovered. Could I take it with me? No of course I couldn’t, it would raise too many questions and potentially link me to its owner. I was angry, not at Charlie or the dog, but at myself for missing such a vital detail. I had spent weeks watching, following, planning and at no point had a dog entered the frame. No wife, no girlfriend, no regular visitors and definitely no dog. My confusion morphed into something sharper. I stepped back into the living room, a shrill sound escaping my lips. “Why is there a fucking dog lead hung in your hallway?”

He looked at me perplexed. Here was a guy who I suspect knew by now he was in a precarious situation and he was desperately trying to rationalise why a dog lead had turned me into a screaming banshee.

“Because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to hang it?” he offered as a response.

I picked up a Stanley knife, curtesy of Charlie’s man cave, from the coffee table and exposed the blade. I leaned over him and held the tip at the bridge of his nose. I couldn’t explain my choice to target the bridge of his nose. A seasoned killer would have aimed for the throat without hesitation. Yet, inexplicably, I fixated on his nose instead. “Where’s the fucking dog?” I demanded.

“Jesus sweetheart, calm down. You’re going to do someone an injury.”

Love, darling, duck, beautiful, dear, sweetheart, or fucking treacle. The words rushed through my head as a quick reminder of what I thought we had agreed. With almost immaculate precision, I carved a straight line from the bridge of his nose to its very tip. His eyes filled with horror as I marvelled at the exactness of the cut I had just executed, standing back to admire my handiwork. The wound seemed to unfurl in slow motion, beginning at the bridge and unravelling downward, as if his nose was being unzipped. Where was the blood? There had to be blood. My fixation shattered abruptly when Charlie’s scream finally broke through, delayed. Instinctively, I clamped my hand over his mouth. “Shush, you’ll disturb the neighbours,” I cautioned him.

His tears, once brimming in his eyes, now cascaded down his cheeks, tracing a path over my surgically gloved hand and trickling into the contours of his first chin, before winding their way onto his second chin and finally finding solace in the salt and pepper carpet of coarse hair that covered his chest. They began to mingle with crimson droplets as the blood finally started to flow. I bent down and reached for the crusty discarded boxer shorts. Still holding my hand over his mouth, I grabbed them and pushed them into his face to try and stem the bleeding.

“Tilt your head back,” I said, “I’m sure that’s what you’re supposed to do if you have a nosebleed.”

Charlie’s response was scarcely coherent. My hand muffled his words while shock and, I suspect, a degree of pain, further hindered his ability to communicate clearly. “I’m going to remove my hand, but only on the condition we don’t get any hysterics and you promise to be a good boy. Nod if you understand.”

His head barely moved in what might have been a nod, but enough to spark a flicker of hope that he understood. I retracted my hand, fingers twitching to return should he feel the need to start screaming again.

“Please just stop. Why are you doing this, who the fuck are you?” Charlie said in a voice choked with sobs.

“Easy tiger… There’s plenty of time for questions, but first, let’s give your nose a little makeover. It might help us focus better once it’s sorted.”

Ripping the boxer shorts away, I exposed the wound anew, a gruesome masterpiece I’d sculpted in mere moments, a feat that would take Hollywood hours to replicate. “Charlie, I’ve got some not-so-great news—I’m not exactly known for my sewing prowess. I did manage to crochet a scarf for a teddy bear my grandfather gave me for Christmas once, but I’m not sure that minor accomplishment will be much help here. Got any super glue?”

“Super glue, really?” he spluttered.

“We’ve gotta try something, it’s fucking grotesque. Making me feel a bit queasy if I’m being honest.”

“And how the fuck do you think it’s making me feel?”

“While I accept it might sting a little, you don’t have to look at it.”

“Sting a little? You sliced my nose open, we’re way past ‘sting a little’, it’s agony.”

“All the more reason we try and patch you up then. So, super glue, yes or no?”

“You’re not super gluing my nose,” he said, defiantly.

“Ok, your call. I’ll just slap on a bit of gaffer tape, but if it gets infected, don’t blame me.”

I leaned forward and grabbed the tape, tearing off a strip with my teeth. I stood in front of him and gentler than he deserved, I stuck one end of the tape to his left cheek bone, before pressing it up the side of his nose. Charlie yelled out in pain. “Jesus Charlie, keep it down, I’ve warned you once about alerting the neighbours, they’ll think someone’s being murdered.” He didn’t respond, his face a mask of contradictions. I couldn’t decide if the look in his eyes was one of fear, anger, pain or hate, but more likely a combination of all four. The open wound pulsed beneath my fingertips as I navigated the tape’s edge. Little by little, I tugged the left skin flap, coaxing it to the heart of his nose. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple as I mirrored the movement with the right flap. A swift press of tape, a sigh of relief - and the fragile repair was complete.

“There you go,” I said triumphantly, “no one will be any the wiser.”

“Hardly an invisible repair,” he replied.

“Only yourself to blame I’m afraid, I wanted to go down the super glue route, remember?”

Charlie’s head inexplicably dipped with a slow, almost theatrical movement, his chin sinking into the matted jungle of his chest hair. My first thought was he had died right there in front of me, but logic told me a little cut to the nose was hardly a life threatening injury. But the eerie silence stretched, and a sliver of doubt pricked at me. Was he playing a game? I had to find out. “Come on Charlie old bean, no time for a nap. I’ve got a yoga class at eleven and a guy coming by to sort out my washing machine at twelve. I know you don’t wanna be responsible for my zen disruption and sudsy disaster.”

No response. I wasn’t inclined to inflict any more pain at this juncture, as it might be wasted effort, but I needed to know if he was still alive. Recalling the recent resurgence of smelling salts at the gym, I briefly entertained the idea of spraying a couple of squirts of Marc Jacob’s, Daisy eau de toilette up his nose as a makeshift stimulant, albeit absurdly. Eventually, I decided on a quick twist of his nipple with a pair of pliers, a crude yet cost-effective alternative in the absence of smelling salts. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your viewpoint, I never quite got to that point as Charlie rose from the dead with a fart that could have knocked over a small child (or at least ruffle their hair.) Truly, it was a flatulent masterpiece, a cacophony of chaos that left no doubt as to its origins.

Charlie recoiled like he’d been slapped, his gaze darting around the room in confusion. After a beat, realisation dawned, accompanied by a grimace. “Wow, that one could peel paint,” he declared.

My voice deserted me, swallowed whole by the putrid fog that clung to the air. It felt like the world itself had held its breath. As nausea clawed its way up, I braced myself for a different kind of eruption and vomited all over Charlie’s feet.

“Are you serious?” Charlie said in disgust.

“Are you serious?” I said. “That blast from your backside could have triggered seismic alarms. If it weren’t for the pressing matter at hand, I’d be dialling the authorities for a geological survey of your arse.”

“Well excuse me for having a bit of a nervous stomach?”

“I thought you’d died, and now I’m wishing that you had. No one should be subject to anything that evil.”

“Bit rich coming from a lunatic who’s tied me to a chair, hit me with a hammer and sliced open my nose, don’t you think.”

“You deserve everything you got coming. Maybe I haven’t been your friendliest date, but I didn’t deserve that.”

I left Charlie to wallow in his own stench mixed with the fragrant bouquet of my last meal, while I ventured into the kitchen in search of anything to cleanse the bitter taste of nausea from my palate.

“Got anything minty?” I yelled. No reply. I had the distinct feeling he was a little bit miffed at me. I ransacked his cupboards in desperation, but everything turned up empty. Defeated, I retreated to the bathroom, where a tube of Colgate Total Active toothpaste came to my rescue, along with a can of Meadow Fresh Febreze.

Stepping back into the room, liberally spritzing air freshener with scant regard for the ozone layer, the contents of my stomach remained a distraction. The mere thought of touching his feet was an abomination, far worse than the noxious stench assaulting my senses. With a desperate heave, I flung a discarded hoodie over the offending articles, leaving the cleanup for another, braver soul. The sight of Charlie’s hunched figure, his shoulders slumped in dejection, sent a jolt of urgency through me. It wasn’t the sting of inflicting pain, but the echo of wasted time, of us being no closer to a conclusion, which resonated within me.

“Ok Charlie, how about we get back on track and I promise not to get distracted by pein hammers.”

“How about you just fuck off back to whatever rock you crawled from under and leave me alone.”

“Hey, I’m always open to a little bit of negotiation, but I think were miles apart on this one. Let’s just clear up the dog dilemma real quick and move on. Why the dog lead in the hallway?”

Maybe realising resistance was becoming futile, Charlie replied, “I had a dog, he died, the lead is a reminder, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Oh… I’m sorry Charlie. What was his name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” I said, “just intrigued by what people call their pets I guess.”

“Buster, for what it’s worth.”

“Aw… Cute. Any pictures?”

“What happened to no more distractions,” Charlie said, irritated.

“Sorry, you’re right. I’m just a sucker for cute dogs. So, where were we?”

“You were about to cut me free and go on your merry way?”

“Nice try, but no banana I’m afraid… So the question was, if you can cast you mind back that far, what do you see when you look at me?”

“Aside from a crazy bitch?”

“Yep, that aside.”

“Well, a woman I guess.” It was the best he could manage.

“It’s a start Charlie, I’ll give you that. Age?”

“I ain’t falling for that one. I got a crack round the head for calling you darling, remember?”

“I promise, none of these questions will result in unnecessary violence,” I said, reassuringly.

“Everything’s resulted in unnecessary violence so far. Why would I believe you?”

“Only unnecessary in your eyes Charlie, not mine. C’mon have a stab at my age, I won’t bite.”

“Thirty five,” he said, hesitantly.

“Thirty five? You cheeky bugger.”

“OK, thirty?” he tried.

“Twenty nine Charlie, I’m twenty nine.”

“Wasn’t like I was a million miles out,” he said in his defence.

“OK, so you see a twenty nine year old woman. Colour?”

“Is that relevant?” Charlie asked.

“It could be later on. What colour am I?”

Charlie squirmed under the weight of the seemingly straightforward question. Despite the answer being a no-brainer, he seemed to be struggling to spit it out. After an eternity, he finally mumbled, ‘Not... white?’ in a voice barely above a whisper.

For the first time this morning he’d made me smile. “I never had you down as one of the PC brigade Charlie, but you’re quite correct, I’m not white, otherwise referred to as black.”

“Didn’t wanna take the risk,” he said, “I know how your kind can get.” Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. Did he just say that out loud? He held his breath, waiting for the fallout that never arrived.

“My kind?” I said laughing, “there’s the Charlie I know and hate. I prefer Cadburys dark milk, ever had one?”

“What?” he said, confused.

“Cadbury’s dark milk. Hold a bar up against my skin and it disappears, camouflaged.”

“Isn’t ‘dark milk’ a contradiction in terms?

“I don’t fucking know, I didn’t name it. All I know, is that it’s the exact same colour as my skin.”

“So when I give my statement to the police, you want me to describe you as a twenty nine year old woman with Cadbury’s dark milk skin?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s unlikely you’ll ever get that opportunity Charlie old boy, but I digress. Good looking?”

“Who?”

“Who d’you think? Me of course.”

“Not my type,” he said.

“Really? We’ll revisit that one shortly, but for now, do you think I’m good looking?

Being cautious, Charlie answered, “You’re not unattractive, if that’s what you want to hear.”

“I want to hear the truth. If you think I’ve got a face like a bulldog licking vinegar off a nettle. then say so.”

“Well, if I had to offer an opinion...”

“Which you do,” I interjected.

“Fine. You’re attractive.”

“Attractive or pretty? There’s a difference, you know.”

“Is there?”

“Hell yeah. Pretty is like, surface level. Attractive is… more, you know? Like, interesting, engaging, the whole package.”

“Alright, if it keeps you from going off the deep end, I’ll go with pretty, the whole package seems to have some issues.”

“Slim, fat, somewhere in-between?”

Charlie didn’t have a problem with this one. “Slim, definitely slim.”

“Nice arse, good pair of tits?”

“No comment. I haven’t checked out your arse or your tits,” he lied.

“Of course you have, you’re a bloke,” I reminded him.

“Don’t tar us all with the same brush love,” he said before realising his mistake.

“Love, darling, duck, beautiful, dear, sweetheart or fucking treacle,” I muttered under my breath, my voice tinged with frustration, “what the hell’s wrong with you, you got a death wish?”

“No, no, no, please,” he sputtered, voice thick with panic, “I’m sorry… Give me another chance, I swear I won’t mess up again. This whole thing... it’s just... ugh, so screwed up, but I’m trying, I really am.”

Hunched over the coffee table, I squinted at the array of tools spread before me. A glint of cold steel snagged my eye – a wicked little spike nestled in a smooth wooden handle, worn from years of gripping and twisting. “What’s this?” I said, holding the spike aloft.

“Please lady, no more,” Charlie pleaded.

“Tell me what it is and I might not use it,” I said.

“It’s a… erm… a…”

“A what Charlie? Come on spit it out.”

“A… bradawl, it’s a bradawl,” he finally said.

“Hmm… nasty looking thing, isn’t it. What’s it for?”

“Making holes in wood, before you put a screw in, I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m not a fucking carpenter, it was in the shed when I bought the flat along with everything else you’ve got scattered over the table.”

“OK… Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’m not going to poke you in the eye with it, well not yet anyway, I need your full attention at this point.”

Charlie didn’t respond, not even a begrudging ‘thanks’. His head dropped once again, this time in relief and not as a prelude to another guttural explosion.

“So, arse and tits,” I said, returning to our little Q&A session. “Thoughts?”

I suspected by this point, Charlie was simply in survival mode as he answered promptly. “Great arse and magnificent pair of tits. Are we done now?”

“I think we’ve established enough to move on. Now, tell me what you remember about last night?”

Frustration gnawed at him, his brow furrowing as he tried to crank the rusty gears of his memory. Charlie chewed on his lip, forehead creasing, desperately trying to pull up any scrap of his life before waking up bound to the chair, the scratchy gaffer tape whispering against his skin.

“Everything’s a blur. The last thing I remember was buying a packet of fags, maybe yesterday afternoon, maybe the day before, I’ve no fucking idea.”

“Yeah, Rohypnol can have that effect I’m afraid, it’s so damn unpredictable and rather frustratingly, so damn hard to get hold of if you’re a woman. Go figure.”

“What the hell’s Rohypnol?” Charlie said, confused.

“Now, now Charlie, let’s not play dumb. We both know, you know, exactly what it is. Though I seem to recall you prefer the name ‘Roofies’ or another one of your favourites, ‘Mexican Valium’.”

“You’re chattin’ shit lady; I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” His agitation growing in his voice.

I had to admire his tenacity. He clung to his story like a barnacle to a rock. I hadn’t anticipated I would be no further on getting his confession after taping him to a chair, twatting him round the head with a hammer and performing a rudimentary nose job. His resilience was a hurdle, but the stakes were too high to turn back. The game was afoot, and I was determined to see it through.

“If you insist Charlie, it makes little difference, other than maybe some fun with the bradawl,” I threatened.

Charlie had a sudden spike of defiance. “Listen, you psychotic, deranged piece of shit. Do what you gotta do, but it won’t change the fact that I don’t know what I don’t fucking know.”

I didn’t like angry Charlie, brought back too many bad memories. I was tempted to inflict more misery on him but doing it out of rage would mean I was losing control and I needed to stay level headed. I wouldn’t let him drag me back into the darkness. I would win, but not on his terms.

Calmly I said, “Then let me fill in some of the blanks. Last night you were enjoying a couple of pints, alone, down at the ‘Dog & Duck’. Then, in saunters this young, striking beauty — dark milk skinned, slim frame, a vision with curves in all the right places. She settles right beside you at the bar. Please feel free to interrupt when any of this becomes familiar. We struck up a conversation, you eventually caved and bought me a drink, although it took a bit of coaxing on my part. And before you knew it, I had you roped into inviting me back to your place for a nightcap. Any of this ringing a bell?” I said.

It was like a lightbulb finally flicked on. Charlie’s expression told me before he opened his mouth that the fog was clearing. His eyes, clouded and distant, flickered to life, tiny movie screens playing scenes only he could see, as the memories came flooding back.

“Jackie… No, Julie,” he announced triumphantly.

“Jenny,” I said, bursting his bubble.

“Yeah! Jenny. I remember now, you work at Amazon, delivering parcels.”

“There you go Charlie old bean. Jenny the delivery driver, though that wasn’t the whole truth,” I confessed.

“You’re not a delivery driver?”

“Nope, and I’m not called Jenny either, not that it matters. Here’s what does matter to me though. It’s been nagging at me since we arrived back here last night. Wasn’t there a point where you asked yourself why a young, pretty, African woman with a great arse and magnificent tits was making a play for a sixty something, fat, bald, grotesque slob of a guy and seducing him into inviting her back to his gaff?”

“I’m not sixty something, you cheeky bitch. Just turned fifty.”

“Really? Jesus Charlie, what the fuck happened to you. Thought I was being generous with sixty.”

“Is this what this is about? You’re pissed off that an old man took you up on your offer,” Charlie wanted to know.

“Not at all. I’d have been pissed off if you hadn’t taken me up on my offer. Just can’t get my head around how stupid you are and why you didn’t get suspicious. I really thought that part of my plan was going to be the most difficult.”

“So, you’re just some nutter who entices guys back to their flat and tortures them?”

“How dare you,” I said, offended, “never tortured anyone in my life until today; and to be honest, had I not found the stash of makeshift weaponry in your man cave, probably wouldn’t have bothered.”

“So how about filling in some more blanks and tell me why I’m gaffer taped to this fucking chair?” Charlie said.

I hesitated, deciding whether the circumstances that had lead us to this point really mattered. I still had a job to do and was still hoping to make my yoga class, never mind getting my washing machine fixed. But for some unfathomable reason, I found myself needing to help Charlie out on this one. He didn’t deserve an explanation as to why he was taped to a chair when I could have so easily killed him last night, so maybe it was more about me than him. Maybe it was about clawing back control after veering off track, proving to myself I wasn’t some loose cannon.

“The chair and gaffer tape situation? Well, let’s just say they were casualties of circumstance. I clearly underestimated the dosage of Rohypnol needed to knock you out. The shady dealer I got it from gave me some loose guidelines, but didn’t factor in what a fat fuck you are. So, I spiked your last pint at the pub, thinking it would hit you like a ton of bricks when we got back here and if all went to plan, you’d be comatose before the kettle boiled and then I figured a pillow held over your face would finish the job off.”

“So the plan was to kill me, pure and simple?” Charlie said matter-of-factly.

“Yep… But it seemed like you were immune or something. So, I figured I’d give you another dose in that brandy you insisted on pouring. That’s when things got a bit weird. You had it in your delusional head that you were on course to give me a good seeing to and began stripping off in the kitchen before finally planting yourself down in the rocking chair, stark bollock naked and beckoning me to come and ride ‘Willy the one eyed wonder worm’. Next thing I know, you’re unconscious.”

“And your plan to kill me changed, why?” Charlie said.

“Oh, the plan’s intact, don’t worry; you’re still headed towards your demise. I just deviated slightly when I saw you butt naked in the chair. It brought back some pretty dark memories and I kinda thought smothering you was too merciful and perhaps you needed to suffer a bit first. That’s when I went on a reccy and found your man cave. Next thing I know, I’ve gaffer taped you to the chair waiting patiently for you to wake up.”

He blindsided me with his next question. I was anticipating the storm of questions; the anger, the bargaining, the final, desperate ‘why?’ But all that came out was a croaky whisper. “Can I have a cigarette please?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said, “I quit five years ago and the smell still triggers me like nobody’s business.”

“Come on lady, it’s not like I’m asking you to cook me a last meal. There’s a pack in my jeans, right there on the floor,” he pleaded.

I picked up the nail gun from the coffee table and held it in front of me. “You don’t have to explain this one Charlie. Had a cute builder round at mine last year doing a loft conversion and we had many discussions about his rather impressive nail gun. He even let me have a play.”

“Why the fuck have you picked that up? What did I do? What did I say?”

“Calm down. You didn’t say or do anything, you’re not being punished. When I cut free your right arm so you can have a smoke, I just need to make sure you ain’t gonna use it to free the other arm, escape from that chair and do me some damage.”

“And where does the nail gun come in?”

I moved forward, leant over, and grabbed Charlie’s scrotum, stretching it forward so the wrinkled, saggy skin laid flat on the chair seat. As I lowered the gun onto his ball sack he yelled. “Stop! What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m nailing you to the chair, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“Because I want a smoke?”

“Because I don’t want you going anywhere, unless you’re willing to rip open your scrotum to get at me.”

“Alright, forget about the cigarette. I’ve been meaning to quit anyway,” he said with a misplaced sigh of relief as the nail gun triggered anyway shooting a nail through his knacker sack and deep into the wooden chair.

They say grown men don’t cry. I beg to differ. His scream tore through the air, a strangled cry as if the pain was suffocating him, leaving him gasping for air amidst choked sobs. Without hesitation, I fired off two more nails before he could even begin to recover. It seemed like the more humane option, in a twisted sort of way. Nailed it. Literally. Back in my chair, a sense of satisfaction settled in, mirrored in the gentle curve of my lips. Charlie might’ve been collateral, but the satisfying THWACK of a nail gun is pure therapy.

He blinked, speechless, and the room stilled. It was like someone had sucked the air out, leaving just prickling goosebumps on my skin. Maybe it was guilt, maybe a twisted form of empathy. Regardless, I fished out the pack of Marlborough from his discarded jeans. As I brought the cigarette to his lips, the line between help and harm blurred, leaving me adrift in a sea of murky motives.

In barely a whisper he said, “Any chance of a light?”

“Yeah sure,” I said, “that would just be cruel, I’m not a monster.”

My fingers fumbled in his jeans pocket, finally snagging a worn brass Zippo. The flame sputtered, casting flickering shadows on his face as he inhaled deeply, the smoke carrying away a sigh that spoke of more than just physical pain. He managed to satiate his nicotine craving without the need for an untethered limb, and the cigarette ash that had fallen and stuck to his clammy body was a small price to pay to ensure my safety. He winced as tiny embers landed on his bare skin, small wounds compared to the ones I’d already inflicted on him.

Feeling was creeping in, blurring the edges of my usual clarity. But I needed the pragmatist, the one who saw beyond the chaos and followed Charlie to the pub last night. I needed that voice to guide me, even if it meant swallowing down the emotions.

In a positive, almost cheery voice that I’m not convinced Charlie appreciated, I said, “Alright, the nail gun curiosity is satisfied. Now, the real question remains. What’s the story behind your current… situation. We’ve covered the how but not the why. I’m guessing you’re desperate to know?”

“Not particularly,” he croaked, “If I’m going to die, I don’t give a damn either way.”

“This isn’t about you, Charlie. Never was. Tonight, I sleep sound knowing your last flicker of thought will be of what you did to me. Fifteen years of nightmares for me, a couple of hours of abject fear for you. Consider it payback. So, let’s start with my name. Has it come back to you yet?” I said.

“Nope, and it ain’t gonna come back to me, because I don’t know who the fuck you are,” he said scornfully.

“It hurts, you know? Pretending you don’t recall the name you carved into my soul. You may have forgotten or didn’t even know my real name, but I’m finding it hard to believe you don’t remember the nickname you gave me. That was your masterpiece, the name you practically wore out from saying it so much,” I reminded him.

Charlie remained mum, his jaw locked tight. Was this his way of spitting in my face, a silent protest against his predicament? Had he decided to go out with a silent middle finger, refusing to give me the confession I craved? I wasn’t quite ready to give up. Yoga class could wait, promising myself I’d do a double session next week to make up, but I couldn’t go another day without my washing machine. Time was of the essence, so I decided to return to my new found hobby as ‘Torturer in Chief’.

“Silence is painful Charlie, let’s give you a little reminder. How about I write it down for you, would that help?”

I grabbed a soldering iron and plugged it into the socket behind Charlie’s chair. I dangled it over his shoulder and settled back into my seat, patiently waiting for it to heat up to its maximum temperature. This wasn’t about punishment, not entirely. It was about control, about forcing out the truth.

“Got to be honest with you, I’m no tattooist, this is not going to be a work of art,” I warned him.

The acrid scent of burning chest hair assaulted my nose, but it was overshadowed by the nauseating odour of searing flesh as I traced the letter ‘S’. Charlie’s breath hitched, his eyes wide and pleading as the first mark seared itself onto his skin, and he bit his lip as he writhed around as much as his gaffer tape binding would allow.

“Stop squirming Charlie,” I said, “my handwriting never won me any calligraphy awards as it is. If you don’t hold still, it’s going to look like the work of a four year old.”

Charlie’s frustration simmered, fuelled by the helplessness. The violation burned deeper than the searing mark etched into his flesh – a cocktail of fear, and a suffocating anger that threatened to consume him whole. He didn’t scream, wouldn’t give me the satisfaction. But in the silence of his defiance, a silent scream echoed, a raw plea for the nightmare to end.

The ‘S’ and ‘L’ were a bit of a tangled mess if I was being honest, and I wondered if they would be legible to anyone other than myself. I forced myself to slow down, focusing on the precise angles of the ‘U’ and ‘T’. Each stroke felt deliberate, a calculated cruelty that, despite my intentions, stretched the agony. My grip faltered, not out of empathy, but because my hand had cramped into a claw. Then my heart sank. Branding the message into his skin felt powerful, but the cruel irony hit me: he couldn’t even see it. My extreme attempt at clarity had become a pointless act of rage. I needed another plan.

The insistent trill of an unseen phone shattered the tense silence. I knew it wasn’t mine – silenced, stripped bare of its SIM, it lay inert on the table. The kitchen, then. Leaving Charlie to simmer in his own fear, I hoped a brief break might loosen his tongue. The source? His tragically unfashionable camouflage vest, accessorised with corduroy shoulder patches, buzzing with an unidentified caller. ‘Unknown number’, the screen taunted.

The ringing stopped abruptly, leaving a hollow silence in its wake. Panic clawed at my throat. Had the caller expected Charlie’s voice? What would they do now? Were they already on their way here, drawn by some unseen alarm? I needed answers, fast. I tried to open the phone to check if the caller had left a message, but it remained locked, a smug digital barrier mocking my desperation. Frustration surged through me. The phone demanded Charlie’s presence, a cruel joke in his current state. Rushing back to his side, I held the phone in front of his face, hoping against hope. Nothing. Had the gaffer tape sealing his nose affected the sensor? With a surge of desperation, I tore it off, ignoring his muffled groan of pain. The wound looked worse than before, its raw edges inflamed and glistening. I tried again, and his franken-nose, cobbled together with whatever I could find, somehow held up to the scrutiny of the phone’s scanner. Not exactly a work of art, but it got the job done. My finger trembled as I slammed down on the ‘1’ key, holding it there like a lifeline. Each second felt like an eternity as I waited for the connection. Finally, a robotic voice announced Charlie’s voicemail, a stark contrast to the panic within me.

“Oh Hi! I’m trying to get hold of Mr Bresden, Colin Bresden. I got your number from the estate agents. My name’s Charlie, Charlie Phipps, you bought my girlfriends flat. Was just wondering if I could call round when you’re home to clear out the shed and collect my tools. Sorry it’s been a while, but we’ve only just got the new garage built. Anyway, give me a call back when you can on 07491 468505. Cheers.”

A bitter taste lingered as the truth unravelled before me. After listening to the voicemail, not once, not twice, but three times, it dawned on me that I’d spent the last two hours tormenting the wrong man, an innocent soul caught in my misguided pursuit. Curiously, remorse didn’t tug at my conscience, but rather an irritated realisation that my true target still eluded me. Frustration tightened its grip as I turned to the bewildered, broken man, tethered to a rather kitsch but nonetheless stylish 1970’s wooden rocking chair. I raised an eyebrow, suppressing the incongruity in my voice, and asked, “Hey Colin, I don’t suppose you have Charlie’s forwarding address, do you?”

The End.