He cursed: he felt let down by Tania. It wouldn’t be that Sunday night. She had returned late with a man; both appeared a bit unsteady, they were talking loudly as they staggered out of a taxi and groped their way into her house. The lights came on, and a few minutes later they came out together, their cigarette ends glowing in the mist, Caesar sniffing around the man’s ankles. A brief walk to the canal; let Caesar do his business, and headed straight back inside.
Too many complications and too many imponderables to think about. The plan had to be perfect.
But he’d learnt one thing. Caesar appeared docile; no barking at the intruder, more seeking affection than being aggressive. He waited a good half-hour after the downstairs lights went out, then powered up his Cortina and drove off.
He parked in a multi-story nearest to the “Vatican” and strolled up to the entrance. Maybe he’d get lucky and capture one that looked like her. He had imagined the groper doing things to her that he wanted to do – needed to do to quench his excitement.
He was dressed in smart, casual clothes, wasn’t drunk but the two gorillas wearing dinner jackets turned him away. Parties only - sorry. He remonstrated, but they weren’t having any – told him politely to bugger off out of it.
He was turning away when a minibus shrieked to a halt and about twenty partygoers erupted from the doors and converged in a pack at the entrance. ‘Michael Smyth and guests,’ announced a balding middle-aged man, holding out a VIP pass. ‘We’ve booked.’
The gorillas took the pass, nodded, and stepped aside. One girl wrapped herself round the nearest bouncer and planted a slobbering kiss on his mouth. While he was distracted, he saw his chance and mingled; the crowd pushed through - he was in.
He wished he hadn’t bothered. Party night; a haven for middle-aged men making idiots of themselves with fleshy women half their age and half-undressed, unintelligible mantras reverberating from a multitude of speakers – and copious amounts of bottles strewn over every table top.
He hated being out of his comfort zone in the middle of a crowd: but he had to blend in, remain inconspicuous; he was hunting. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy avoiding the ever-lurking security cameras, but he had an irresistible urge – it needed to be satiated.
But it was no use; women having a good time - nothing more. A stranger was a no-go zone.
He left the club after an hour of fruitless searching; of tentative conversations, of suspicious looks, and shaking of heads.
Outside, he tracked down the street, past shop doorways, past dark alleyways, searching for prey. It wasn’t likely; too cold to be hanging around, but his hunger was incessant. At the end of the shopping area, he crossed over and began stalking back up the other side. He passed the ‘Vatican”, saw several partygoers bundle into taxis. No prey, they were safe. He carried on walking up the hill towards the multi-story car-park, hands in pockets.
‘Looking for someone?’
She was half-hidden in a shop doorway, a painted tart with frizzy hair and a fag hanging out of her mouth. All lipstick and mascara, but plenty of flesh on show - flesh that he craved.
He wasn’t fussy; a knee-trembler for twenty quid without a condom, then and there – no complications.
Not until she complained he was hurting her.
Then he hurt her a lot more...