Rod deposited the offending jeans and three socks on the floor of his bedroom where they belonged, found the stolen computer’s power button and switched it on.
‘Property of St Mike’s, funded by parents appeal’ said the label.
“Suckers!” he grunted, contentedly, and logged onto the Internet.
Breaking-in had been easy and, by the time the school alarms sounded, he was back in his green minivan half way down the road with the computer equipment safely secreted in the back.
Now, safely in his bedroom, surfing, his thumb and forefinger found a puss filled spot on his cheek. When it started bleeding, he casually wiped his finger on a handy crumpled shirt - and then dumped it on the floor with the others. His scrubby red hair was spiked in clumps, uncombed and unwashed for several days but that was OK too.
The world could go hang itself as far as he was concerned. Eighteen years old, 6 ft 2 in. tall and thick set, his philosophy was ‘keep out of my way or suffer the consequences’. His parents had long since given up. The cuckoo they reared and lovingly cared for would eventually leave home and release them from their nightmare. Good parenting wasn’t an option any more - just survival.
Releasing his cheek for a moment, with stubby fingers, Rod typed AMATEUR HOUSEWIFE into the address window of the browser. The response was rapid.
“Your keyword has been barred - refer to a teacher to continue your research.”
“Get stuffed” snarled Rod.
He backspaced the words ‘AMATEUR HOUSEWIFE’ and replaced it with the word ‘VIOLENCE’. This got better results.
“HI!”
The word appeared in large letters on the centre of the screen.
Rod stared. This looked interesting.
“Do you like violence?”
“What if I do, typed Rod, suspiciously. “As long as it’s me handing it out, of course. I’m not into S and M personally. But if you want someone thumped, you could do worse.”
He was not a great typist. Each word was entered laboriously using one finger from each hand and he usually avoided typing but was curious so continued.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your window on pleasure and opportunity” the words on the screen replied instantly.
“Cobblers,” typed Rod. “You sound like some government training scheme.”
“No way the government would approve of me, commented the screen.
“So you’re cool …” It was part statement, part affirmation. Where the words were coming from didn’t matter to Rod. The person was speaking his language.
“What’s your bag?” Rod continued.
“I want your help.”
“Yeh! I’ve heard that before. There’s always a catch.”
“There’s no catch. It’s doing what you like best. And the pay’s great.”
“How do I know I’m not being set up?
“As an ‘agent provocateur’ you mean?”
Rod hadn’t attended French classes since the age eleven and spat at the teacher. But he’d seen plenty of American movies and had a vague idea of what this meant.
“Sort of.”
“All you’ve got to do is chuck some bricks through a few windows,” the letters on the screen displayed casually.
“Is that the job … or is that the reward,” sniggered Rod.
“That’s the job and exactly what you must do - no more and no less!”
“And where do you want me to have all this fun?”
“I’ll tell you when you accept the job.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“Whatever you want?”
“A red Ferrari sports car!”
“Get real man!”
“Worth a try, you could be dumber than you sound.”
“1,000!”
“1,000?” Then Rod remembered he had to type it.
“Yeh, that’s what it’s worth.”
“So where do you want it done? Other side of the world?”
“No, just down the road from you.”
“How do I get the money?”
“Through your letterbox - when you’ve done it.”
Rod thought for a moment but thinking was hard work. He preferred action.
“Deal!” he typed.
An address appeared on the screen and Rod laboriously copied it down longhand onto a sheet of paper. The property was on the other side of town in a much posher area. Most houses there were detached unlike Rod’s home area where houses were mainly semis or terraced with small gardens.
The occupants of these big houses were the sorts of people Rod really hated. So smug in their achievements with easy lives and all the good things that the fast track had to offer. For Rod, breaking a few windows in one of their houses would be a pleasure. To be paid so well was beyond his wildest dreams.
“When do you want it done?”
“Tonight!”
“Your wish is my command,” Rod typed easily. “But you’d better pay up or suffer!”
“Your pleasure is mine …”
“Still sounds too good to be true.” Rod sneered.
“Just do as you are told and you’ll soon find out how good it can be.” The machine replied.
“No more schmaltz. You’ve got your deal. Now I’m off now for breakfast and a kip. Some people have been working all night!”
“Bye then … and the words were gone from the screen.”
Rod used his foot to turn the computer off at the mains switch - closing computer systems down properly was for mugs.
Later in the day, Rod worked his way across town. He had several ports of call. The arcades that he visited were warm with bright lights and the sort of young girls that didn’t mind his acne and found his rough indifference exciting. They wore bright lipstick and over tight jeans or brightly coloured short skirts and should have been at school. As he pushed past them, ensuring maximum body contact and swaggered up to the slot machines, they preened their hair, giggled, filed their nails and nudged each other.
Mostly he lost money but occasionally he would win a mini jackpot. This was his cue to turn to the girls whose eyes had never left his bulky frame and invite one of them for a celebration hamburger in the Greasy Spoon attached to the arcade. Then, in a dark corner, out of sight of the indifferent management, he would treat the girl to the appreciative fumbling that she liked best, egged on by the jeers of the other girls who waited their turn impatiently and not very discreetly, just out of sight.
Eventually he got bored and moved on. The squat he visited was an old boathouse on the edge of the river Thames. Previously used as a rowing clubhouse, it had fallen into disuse as the locals had found more fashionable entertainment. Broken boats were everywhere in this large wooden enclosure. By day, they became seats where teenagers could swap tales of great parties, share smokes and trade gossip. At night, with sleeping bags inside, the boats made uncomfortable beds for several occupants at a time huddled together to keep warm. There was a strong smell of urine in one corner and everywhere the smell of stale cigarettes.
Rod squeezed his way through a break in the wooden wall. Even before his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, a stubby joint was pushed into his hand by a girl whose jeans were more rips and tears than denim. She had a broad friendly face and straight blonde hair. Rod drew on the stub appreciatively.
“If I’d known you’d got this,” he said,” I’d have come round earlier.”
“Now you’re here,” said Jasmine,” will you be staying for long?” She was used to Rod drifting in and out of her life. She didn’t seem to mind but liked to know where she stood.
“Just thought I’d pop in for a few minutes. I might be able to see you again a bit later,” Rod said. “But I’ve got a job to do. I don’t know how long it will take.”
Jasmine’s eyes widened with disbelief.
“A job - you?”
“Yeh, a proper job! Not the sort of job you get down at the Job Shop, either.”
“Going up in the world are we?”
“Could be … But I’ll tell you later - perhaps.”
Jasmine looped her arms around Rod’s waist and pulled him to her.
“You won’t forget your little Jasmine when you make it big, will you?”
Jasmine was large but not plump. She had a warm welcoming personality and a very well proportioned body
“Jasmine, when it gets big I’ll definitely think of you.” Rod rubbed himself against her meaningfully.
She gazed up at him.
“When it gets cold, I miss you and Beaver is very insistent,” she said, tentatively.
Rod glanced over her shoulder into the darkness. He could just see a youth with an imitation beaver skin hat. The youth was skinny and slightly build and a new to the squat. Rod contemplated asserting his proprietary rights with his fist. He knew he could easily take this Beaver boy out in 30 seconds flat.
“And he’s got some good gear too,” Jasmine crooned quietly into Rod’s ear as if she could read his mind.
Rod took another deep drag at the joint and decided there was no point in scaring away a source of the stuff. Especially when he had other matters to deal with.
“Just remember you’re mine,” he said, squeezing her roughly. “Maybe I could take you shopping, make you feel good, treat you nice. If I score big with this job, maybe we could get a flat.”
“Oooh, the thought of being looked after is so sexy,” Jasmine said, snuggling up.
Rod wrapped his arm around her waist and walked her over to Beaver, offering his hand to shake.
“A new addition to the fold,” Rod said.
“Just passing through, man.” Beaver took Rod’s hand and winced in pain as the grip tightened viciously.
“Got some gear I hear,” said Rod, finally releasing him.
“For my friends,” said Beaver, warming his bruised hand in the pocket of his faded jeans and trying to look unconcerned.
“I look after my friends,” said Rod. “But my enemies have to watch out.”
“One good turn deserves another,” said Beaver, looking steadily back at Rod.
“Indeed,” said Rod. “But I don’t like waiting my turn.”
“I’m sure we could work something out,” said Beaver.
Jasmine squeezed herself between them, feeling left out.
“Now come on boys, I’m still here. Who’s going to take a girl out for some fresh air.”
Rod turned to her and kissed her. Beaver wriggled uncomfortably at the proprietorial display.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
As Rod squeezed his large frame through the small hole in the wall he looked back to see Jasmine and Beaver still standing together. They looked as if they were just waiting for him to get out of sight before continuing unfinished business. He didn’t really care - she’d be there when he wanted her … or else.
His last port of call, before it got dark, was the target house. He needed to work out a strategy and an escape route. Set in a cul-de-sac, the house, as he expected, was large and detached with modest well-tended gardens to front and back. Although it was not yet dark, many rooms were already lit giving it a warm and friendly appearance. He’d been worried that the windows were double-glazed and more difficult to break but his spirits rose when he saw that they were ordinary glass. It was a cinch and as good as done already. Even more perfect, there was a small wood behind the house. It smelt of leaf mould and bark but the trees provided excellent cover while he searched for bricks or stones heavy enough to do the job. When he had got enough, he settled in the midst of a clump of rhododendrons waiting for darkness.
Intriguingly, he could now see the occupant of the house. She was a slight pretty woman with fluffy fair hair. At first she had appeared in a blue office suit but after disappearing for a few minutes, she reappeared wearing just a housecoat. From his vantage point in the bushes, Rod thought she looked vulnerable and attractive. There was no man in sight and as she busied herself around the house, Rod altered his plans. After all, he rationalised himself, it didn’t matter if the windows were broken inwards or outwards. He remembered the instructions were “no more and no less” but had spent a lifetime dismissing authority, especially when there was fun to be had.
Fencing that was just taller than Rod surrounded the back garden, but he found a gate and silently slipped through. The back door as he expected was not locked. He met her in the hall. She saw the black balaclava helmet that covered his face and then, just before she screamed, the long knife he held in his right hand. She didn’t scream because Rod had reached forward with his spare hand and grasped her around the throat.
“Keep quiet or you’ll be sorry,” Rod said, gruffly.
“What do you want,” she said, trying to shrink back against the wall.
“A bit of fun,” sneered Rod. His accent was now thick and Irish. She could hear the enjoyment of a bully in his voice.
Her voice was quiet and cultured. It came in short panic stricken gasps, then steadied and became stronger.
I … I’ll pay you not to rape me,” she said. “I will pay you what you want - just don’t rape me. ”
Rod smiled beneath the mask. Sometimes getting money was so easy. For many years, other children’s dinner money had provided a ready income. If he wanted something, he took it with the threat of violence.
“But how would you pay me,” he enquired, “by cheque? You must think I was born yesterday.” He pushed the knife closer to her throat. She shrank back, with a whimper.
“You can have my cash card. It will give you 300. You’ll be away, clear. Easy money. I will not even tell the police.”
Rod pretended to be considering her suggestion, keeping her on the hook and the watching her distress.
“Deal,” he said, casually, as if dispensing largesse. “Where’s the card?”
“In my handbag upstairs. I’ll get it for you.”
“No, we’ll get it for me,” said Rod, his thick Irish accent still going strong.
She led him up the stairs and then forward into the front bedroom. It was pretty, smelled of roses and had a built-in pine wardrobe. Underfoot there was a light pink carpet and the bedspread was colourful shades of pastel.
He stopped by the bed pretending that he’d change’d his mind and enjoying the fear on her face. Her breathing was laboured and she started trembling again. Smirking inside his mask, he pushed her over to her handbag that was on the window ledge. Shaking, she fumbled in her handbag until she found her cash card that she handed him. There was a pen on the table nearby and she used it to write a pin number on the back of an envelope.
“I said I wouldn’t rape you,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I want a show… so I’ve decided you’ll do a strip for me, give me something to remember.”
The sob that wrenched from her throat didn’t make Rod sorry for her. She had a big flash house, probably a big flash car and loads of money in the bank. She didn’t deserve pity and Rod wanted a bit of fun.
“If you do what I want, I said I won’t rape you … and I won’t,” he said, reassuringly. “Just imagine you’re on a beach - there’s hardly more to see.”
“Will you go then?” Her voice was barely audible. She clutched her housecoat around her.
Rod pulled the primrose coloured curtains closed with his left hand whilst still holding her tightly with his right.
She stared at him head tilted back, baby blue eyes staring wide, breathing heavily, knowing he had just made the bedroom more private.
“I suppose I will,” he said nonchalantly. “Yeh ok, within two minutes of your clothes coming off, I’ll be gone. Thats a promise!” Rod released her hand and rapidly moved himself between her and the door. “There you are. I can’t say better than that,” he said, pushing the bedroom door closed behind him and standing with his back to it.
She stood there trapped by the yellow curtains. Rod could see that she was looking for options but finding none. Her eyes studied his face, looking for a hint, a suggestion of his intentions, found none. She looked at the knife he held very steadily in his right hand. She let out her breath in an audible sigh. Rod could see she was reaching a decision and tensed, ready for action, in case she tried something. Then he smiled as silently she opened her housecoat and dropped it behind her.
“Nice,” said Rod, ogling the wispy purple and black lace that hardly covered anything. He scratched his head with his left hand. It was getting hot under the balaclava. He inclined his head towards her.
“And the rest?” His voice was mocking, disdainful.
She sobbed and dropped the items on the bed, standing there as proudly as she was able with her arms on her hips.
“Now, will you go! There was anger in her eyes.”
Rod held open the door to the walk in wardrobe. “In there,” he commanded.
She took it as her escape route and stepped in rapidly and shrank back between the clothes. Rod closed and secured the door.
“Your neighbours will be round shortly,” said Rod cheerfully through the door and started breaking her windows with a handy statuette he found on her dressing table. In the background he could hear the sound of her muffled screams. As the windows shattered outwards under his pounding blows, he smiled in the certain knowledge that every contour of her body was now etched in his mind and the pleasure of that moment would be with him forever. He also knew that the memory would remain with her too, which made it even better - “Rich bitch!”
What he didn’t know was that she would soon get her revenge.
Chapter 2 - Unwelcome Paradise free online novel / novella
Unwelcome Paradise is a free online novel / novella and is copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters in this free online novel / free online novella are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
