Perfect Kill

‘You’ll get the same treatment if you don’t keep your nose out,’ Elenuta was told. The man shoved her away from Anika.

She watched as the needle pierced the girl’s skin, plunging its oblivion into her nervous system. Anika’s sobs turned into a groan, then a sigh. Silence.

‘Why?’ Elenuta asked the man, as he withdrew the needle and checked Anika’s pupils.

‘Finlay’s fed up with her crying. She won’t last. Too fragile for his liking. He’s decided to race her next month. Believe me, a little bit of smack’s not going to hurt her.’

Elenuta stared at him. Most of the guards refused to enter into conversations with the women. This one couldn’t seem to care less. She wondered if she was being set up for a punishment, then decided it didn’t matter anyway. Being scared of every consequence was exhausting.

‘What’s your name?’ Elenuta asked.

‘Digger,’ he said. ‘You should go and eat.’

The rest of the women had already filed out of the room into the small kitchen they were allowed to use, with supervision. There was one dull knife for them to cut up food, and it had to be handed straight back to whoever was in charge once it had been used.

‘Not hungry,’ Elenuta said. ‘What race?’

Digger looked over his shoulder and Elenuta knew he was checking to make sure Finlay hadn’t sneaked in. He had a habit of doing that, could be almost silent as he approached. Finlay enjoyed keeping everyone on their toes. Two or three times a day he appeared to check up on them, going from flat to flat, making sure the women were busy on their backs and that none of the men who worked for him were getting lazy or dipping into the takings. Elenuta checked the clock every time he turned up. There was no pattern to it, and that was how he liked it, she realised. She and Finlay had spent what he’d called some quality time together after her failed escape attempt. Her ribs wouldn’t heal properly for weeks. He’d spared her face as that was what made him money, but other aspects of his punishment had been sufficiently brutal that she’d simply curled up in a corner and not dared move or speak until he’d left the flat.

‘You’re better off never finding out,’ he replied as Anika began to tip over. Elenuta caught her, and Digger grabbed a cushion off the tatty sofa to slide under her head as she hit the floor.

‘Will Anika come back from race?’ Elenuta asked quietly.

Digger stood up.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘That’s enough questions. You’ll get me in a right load of shit.’

‘Will I have to race?’ Elenuta asked.

‘You won’t if you keep the clients happy and don’t pull any more stunts like running away. The polis have been all over Gene’s place since. Finlay’s pissed. You got off lightly but I wouldn’t push your luck.’

‘How many women in race?’ Elenuta continued. Digger wanted to talk, she could tell. He was one of the less brutal supervisors. She’d never seen him hit any of the women, or take advantage of the free sex that was on offer. Her assessment was that he liked a quiet life. Not so quiet that he wasn’t prepared to shoot heroin in the arm of anyone making a fuss, but that was what Finlay had ordered. If any of the women were trouble, it was procedure to shut them up and leave their warm body on a bed for whatever use could be made of them.

‘Four,’ Digger said quietly, checking his watch. ‘Help me get her back onto a bed. She’s not going to wake up any time soon and Finlay won’t like seeing her lying there when the clients come in to choose one of you.’

‘They race each other?’ she persisted, taking hold of Anika beneath the arms.

‘For fuck’s sake, would you quit it woman?’ He picked up Anika’s legs and began walking backwards into the narrow hallway, down which the bedrooms were situated.

An arm slithered around Elenuta’s waist, crushing the air from her, leaving her lurching forward, trying to hold onto Anika’s head before it smashed to the floor.

‘Do you really want to know?’ Finlay mock-whispered into her ear. She could feel the wetness of his lips against her.

‘I told her to quit it, boss,’ Digger said, looking miserable.

‘I heard you, mate. This one doesn’t learn, does she? How are those ribs? Still sore, I’m guessing?’ He slid his arm up from her waist to her ribcage, tightening his grip. Tears sprang to Elenuta’s eyes as she fought for breath. ‘But education’s a good thing. Maybe I should show you what the race is all about. It’s guaranteed to make you behave yourself. You can manage this other wee cunny on your own, can’t you Digger.’ It was a decision, not a question. ‘And you, you pretty bitch, can come with me. Digger, fetch my laptop from the kitchen before dealing with the whore.’

He took Elenuta by the hair, pulling her backwards up the corridor, feet tumbling over one another, hauling her suddenly sideways when they reached an unoccupied bedroom. Throwing her onto the bed, Finlay climbed on next to her, winding an arm beneath her neck to pull her in close. Digger delivered the laptop, and Finlay tapped a series of icons until a video came up, the first image frozen in place.

‘Watch this,’ Finlay grinned, holding Elenuta’s head in place with one hand, as he took a knife from his pocket and lay tossing it in the air and catching it.

Four girls came into view from a small doorway, each wearing ragged underwear, no shoes on their feet. They looked back as the door shut, grabbing each other’s hands, stepping forward inch by inch. Elenuta could hear them whispering in at least three different languages mixed with some broken English. It was clear they had no idea where they were or what to expect. Nothing good, though.

A light came on to one side and a bank of chairs could be seen on a large glass-partitioned balcony. One hundred men, if not more, were seated in rows and looking eagerly down at the women. They began banging on the chairs, the floor, whatever was at hand, slowly at first, the beat increasing steadily, a cacophony of masculinity.

Finally, a man stepped forward, looking smarter than usual. He’d made an effort, Elenuta realised. The thought chilled her. This was Finlay dressed to impress, enjoying a crowning moment. The four women stood, frozen, huddled together.

‘Good evening, you bunch of cocksuckers!’ Finlay shouted to a gleeful response from his audience. ‘Welcome to the third race. Most of you know what to expect by now, so I’ll keep this short and you lot keep your hands out of your pants while I’m talking!’ He pointed vaguely into the crowd but at no one in particular and Elenuta understood that he’d practised and polished this little speech, self-proclaimed king for a couple of hours.

‘Do you want to see your champions?’ There was a further hammering of approval, but apparently not quite loud enough for Finlay’s liking. ‘Well, do you, you bastards?’ A much louder roar that time. ‘All right then.’ He threw back his arms, a circus ringmaster drawing the audience in, revving them up.

Another door opened and three men walked out, each wearing only shorts and trainers. Elenuta’s first thought was how ridiculous they looked, like those fake wrestlers whose every blow and fall was carefully choreographed. One was covered in tattoos – literally covered – from ankle to neck.

‘No names here,’ Finlay said, with a nod of acknowledgement towards the camera. ‘But these gentlemen have paid a high price for this honour – higher than the rest of you wankers bid, anyway.’ (Another crowd belly-laugh for that.) ‘So give it up for them.’

Finlay walked forward, raising each man’s right arm one after the other, tattoo’s first, then a skinnier man with a scar down the length of his torso, and finally a shorter male with an enormous girth and loose flesh folds dripping from his upper body. The men accepted their applause with chest-beating, raised fists and celebratory middle fingers pointed in the direction of the admiring crowd.

‘Now to meet your skanks. Let’s hope for their sakes that they haven’t got too out of shape, spending all that time on their backs!’ Real-life Finlay lying on the bed gave a snort of laughter at his own comic genius for that one. ‘Bitch number one!’ He grabbed the nearest woman to him and pulled her closer to the audience. ‘Great titties or what? Bet you can’t wait to see those bouncing up and down when she runs.’ He thrust her towards the nearby wall. ‘Bitch number two!’ The crowd was lapping it up, their appreciation rising to fever pitch. ‘Best blow jobs for fifty miles. You’d best hope she’s a fast runner then!’

The woman he took by the arm gave him a look that could have burned green wood. Elenuta saw her own loathing reflected in her eyes, and knew she shouldn’t look at Finlay while she watched the remainder of the video. What he saw in them would get her killed in a heartbeat.

‘Bitch number three!’ This girl – definitely more girl than woman – he grabbed around the waist and lifted into the air. ‘Grown men have fainted at the tightness of her pussy – we bring you nothing but the best here!’ He dropped the girl, who sank to her knees on the floor, hair hanging limply over her face. ‘And last but by no means least, the winner from the last race, bitch number four. Can she repeat the brilliance of her last run or did she only have one victory in her?’ Finlay circled the last woman, who was looking twitchy, jerking her knees up one after the other, her eyes huge, haunted, like some terrified Olympian on speed.

‘Rules – like there fucking are any – the bitches get a sixty-second head start on the hunt. They can run, hide, fight, disable one another, team up, whatever they like. Champions – same applies to you – all you have to do is move like fuck.’

Elenuta felt vomit rising in her throat at the word hunt. The women were starting to edge away from Finlay, three of them together, the previous winner – as if that term could ever apply – keeping her distance from the group.

‘There are screens above your head that will capture any action you can’t see from where you’re sitting. Don’t worry, we won’t let you miss a thing.’

Elenuta couldn’t see the screens the audience had access to, but she didn’t need them. It was all here, ready for Finlay to gloat over. She wanted to refuse to watch, but even if Finlay would let her get away with that – and he wouldn’t – knowledge was a currency, and at the moment she was flat out broke. She needed to know what possible dangers lay ahead.

‘Turn up the lights!’ Finlay shouted and, like a Broadway show, the camera rose into the air – Elenuta assumed it was a drone – and lights flickered on in what was apparently a vast warehouse, fitted out with a maze of partitions. Here and there, metal staircases, more like ladders, rose above the temporary six-foot walls and facilitated access to a different part of the building, but using those ladders would make the women more visible. There were what appeared to be cupboards, large bins, piles of sheets, all providing the false promise of a place to hide. Elenuta estimated the warehouse interior was maybe twenty thousand square feet. It was hard to tell with the sketchy light and movement of the drone. It was vast, by any reckoning. The drone dipped closer to the floor and lengths of barbed wire came into focus, which would force the runners to either jump, dip below it or turn back. Dappled light on the ceiling caught her eye.

‘What’s this?’ she asked without thinking, giving Finlay a chance to enjoy her interest.

He pointed at the warehouse floor although there was nothing to see from the drone’s viewpoint.

‘Smashed glass. Five different patches of it. There have to be some handicaps, after all.’

‘But they have no shoes,’ Elenuta said. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Not fair? I paid good money for those whores. I need a return on that investment, and that means putting on a proper show. Do you have any idea how much it costs me to house and feed you lot?’

Elenuta stared at him, the space between her eyebrows a knot of wrinkles as she waited for him to laugh. He didn’t. He meant every word of it, the resentment at the bills incurred feeding them stale bread and out-of-date chicken nuggets. The heating was turned off overnight and only put back on during client hours so they didn’t get complaints. The sheets were the only items washed regularly. The women handwashed their personal items in the sink overnight. Elenuta wondered how far gone Finlay was if he had genuinely persuaded himself that he was somehow being taken advantage of by the women he held captive and sold every day.

‘Here we go,’ Finlay told Elenuta, his face alight with excitement. ‘Now don’t you fucking look away. I don’t want you missing any of the good bits!’

‘One final word of warning to you all,’ on-screen Finlay wagged his finger. ‘First man to lay hands on any woman gets her to himself. Once a man has her, no other man can touch her. Three men, four women. The last woman standing gets a good meal, a hot bath and a comfy bed with none of you cunts in it tonight. That’s it!’