Free Suzie and the Monsters by Francis Franklin Page A

boxer shorts and a white Ibiza T-shirt, and he looks terrified.
    The room is quite plain, just a leather chair, some bottled water, a desk with a telephone, and a Dodgeson computer display showing CCTV images and floor plans flashing red. There’s also a briefcase and a metal security box.
    ‘You’re not what I expected,’ he says.
    ‘I’m not what anyone expects,’ I reply. ‘Tell me, Alex, do you remember Jessie?’ He shakes his head, but he’s lying. ‘Oh, you must remember her. Tall, long blonde hair, pretty dress with large daisy print, tattoo of a butterfly on her left arm?’ He shakes his head again, and moves to put the chair between us. He keeps glancing at the display. ‘Don’t lie to me, Alex. Tell me about the night you raped her. Did you have fun? Did her screams excite you?’
    ‘It wasn’t me,’ he whispers.
    ‘Tell me where she is, Alex.’
    ‘It wasn’t me,’ he repeats.
    ‘Alex, Alex. You know, and I know, that a helicopter will be here in five minutes, maybe sooner, and I don’t plan on waiting around for it. Which gives you one minute exactly to tell me where she is.’
    Alex shoves the chair at me and makes a run for it. He thinks I’m only a girl. I jump over the flying chair and grab hold of him, and once again the taser comes in handy, although it’s less effective with this second use. He crumples to the floor, and I straddle him, pinning his wrists to the floor while I take my hunting knife from its ankle holster.
    ‘Goodbye, Alex,’ I say, and he screams briefly as I cut deep into his neck. Bright, beautiful arterial blood fountains into the room and Alex convulses furiously beneath me, but he is quickly unconscious. I dive down to drink the life-rich fluid, feeding for the first time in days, and this deep blood is the finest. I take a few mouthfuls, enough to satisfy, not enough to be missed by the people who will be examining him soon. My face and hair and clothing are streaked and stained. No doubt I look like a monster. I am a monster.
    I pick up the briefcase and security box. I have no idea what’s in them, but I’m certainly curious. Back in the bedroom I smash a window and throw my treasure onto the lawn below, before dropping down after them, and a few seconds later I’m throwing them over the wall and following. I can hear the distant chopping of the approaching helicopter, but there’s just enough time for me to reach the Mini, strip out of my gloves, shoes and running suit, and bundle everything into plastic bin bags in the boot. I drive off, dressed in my grey Nike tracksuit and an old pair of trainers, and head away from the city, following the river upstream, lights dark, until I’m far enough away that I’m sure the helicopter won’t spot me. It’s as good a place as any to stop for a few minutes and clean the blood from my face and hair in the river.
    *
    After a long, cleansing shower at home, I head out again, dressed in jeans and a hilarious Bloodsucking Girl tank top, and still in my old trainers, taking my blood-stained clothing to the household waste centre, where I make sure it gets compacted. Then I leave the box and briefcase with Alia, and head into town for my weekly waxing and pampering session, hair and nails, manicure, pedicure, at Francesca’s, stopping on the way to buy a new hunting knife and holster, having thrown out this morning’s murder weapon with the bloody clothes. I emerge from the salon at lunchtime looking not unlike Penelope Cruz. Francesca has a real talent for copying celebrity hairstyles.
    I’m not far from Covent Garden, so decide to visit Burberry’s, which is always a dangerous thing to do, and afterwards, fully and elegantly clothed in my new purchases, relax for an hour in Dalla Terra with a glass of the Sagrantino Di Montefalco.
    I remember to text Cleo. ‘Be outside at 6.30. Bring comfortable shoes.’
    Later, at home, I check the internet for news about this morning’s activities. There isn’t much.