He’d watched her for three days. Waited for her at the tram stop.
Rode the same tram. Used the front door to alight, his peripheral vision
always on her every move. He watched the building she worked in. Saw her
take her breaks. Run her errands. He knew where she went on those errands.
For a while he toyed with doing it in the alley in broad daylight next
to the decaying rubbish filth and stench, but decided it would be too
quick. The idea of getting caught excited him and more than once he had
satisfied himself with this thought. Once he’d stood close to her
on a crowded tram and could smell her. Not sweet as she might have been
in the morning from powder and pamper, but sour from a days work. Sweat
droplets glistened on the dark stubble under her arm as she held onto
the tram handle dangling above her head. Her sleeveless shirt billowed
and he could see her breast spilling over the top of her bra.
He walked a distance behind her, same route every day from the bus to
her front door. She picked up the flower pot to get the key. Third pot
from the mat. He watched her put the key back under the pot, never looking
behind when she entered her house. He listened for her to turn the music
up loud. He looked up and down the street. Her husband, roommate or whoever
the bloke was that lived with her, didn’t arrive home for an hour.
He crossed the road, checking in his pocket for the weapon. Comforted
by the cool metal handle. Inside her garden he slipped off his shoes.
The cold, concrete path felt firm under his feet. The rough surface scratched
his soles. He lifted the pot plant and with his toe moved the key from
under it. Grime caught in the edge of his toenail so he used the key to
dislodge it. Flicking the grime from the key, he unlocked the door and
entered.
He could hear the shower running. She must be in the bathroom. Too perfect.
His heart raced. For weeks he’d waited and dreamed of this moment.
The thrill rushed through him and made him ready. He undid his zipper.
He hoped she’d struggle. He opened the bathroom door, screaming
abuse, calling her names she’d earned. He grabbed her around the
neck with one arm and twisted her breast with his hand. He listened to
her gasp and in the mirror saw the terror on her face. Her eyes black
hollow, like a rabbit in torch light, stupidly stares and waits for the
end. She struggled against him so he released her breast and put the gun
to her mouth. He pushed her over, arse up, wedged her head hard against
the bathroom rail, grabbed her hair to keep her still and rammed himself
into her. He listened to her scream and the pleasure was immeasurable.
He was done. Rage surged through him because she only gave him a moment’s
pleasure. Bitch, whore, trollop. He belted her with the gun once, twice
and in a frenzy of slaps he knocked her out. He looked at her crumpled
bloody form. Slut. He kicked her once more, did up his zip and washed
his hands. He smiled at the thought of the headlines as he stepped over
her hips and left the house. Key under the pot plant, shoes on, he escaped
over the neighbouring yard sure he was unnoticed. |
