Free Last Gasp by Robert F Barker Page A

here'.
    Disappointment crowded her features. 'You mean you’re
leaving me here? Alone? Again?'
    Her voice was a hurt whimper and he knew he had to be
careful. He didn’t have the time to deal with her if she went off, and he was
already late.
    'It’s only a small job. Just got the call this afternoon,'
he lied. 'Anyway, you’re out of it for the night. I told you to lay off that
stuff. You’re no good to me in that state.'
    The eruption was instantaneous. 'You BASTARD,' she screamed.
'You line me, then tell me I’m out of it? I’ll show you who’s FUCKING out of
it.' The manic eyes searched about her. A heavy glass ashtray rested on the
coffee table. But even as she bent for it he moved, fast. Grabbing a fistful of
hair, he pulled her head back. At the same time his other hand took her wrist
and twisted her arm up her back, forcing from her a scream of pain. He pulled
her round so her face was inches from his and when he spoke his voice was full
of menace.
    'Don’t start Petra. I’m not in the mood. I’m going out and
you’re stopping here. If you fuck me about, I swear, you’ll regret it.'
    But she was angry to. Despite the pain she was about to
start struggling when she saw his eyes. The drug hadn’t fully dulled her senses
yet. There was something in them she’d seen more and more recently during their
fights and spats. A chill ran through her, and the fear she’d felt coming on
the past weeks – and which she kept telling herself was groundless – surfaced
again. She stopped struggling and waited, bearing the pain rather than risk
angering him more. He looked deep into her eyes, then pressed his mouth to
hers, kissing her, hard and rough so her bottom lip caught against her teeth,
before pulling away, sneering.
    'That’s better. Now you just wait, nice and quiet, and I’ll
be back later. If you’ve been good, I might just have something for you.'
    He pushed her down onto the couch were she lay, nursing the
pain out of her arm, running her tongue over her bloody lip. Picking up the
bag, he threw her one last look of disdain, then left the apartment, slamming
the door behind him. As he headed down the corridor, a muffled sob echoed
behind.
    Ignoring the lift, he took the stairs, using the exercise to
dissipate his anger. He’d laid it on a bit – so she’d get the message – but was
surprised how close he’d come. As he reached the ground floor and headed for
the lobby, he allowed himself a final, 'Fucking bitch,' then shook his head,
purging himself of her.
    By the time the tall man in the long, grey coat turned to
see who was approaching from behind, William Cosworth, Fashion Photographer,
was back in character; his normal, charming self.
    '’Evening, Wilson,' he said.
    With a deferential nod, the old concierge pressed the button
that released the door lock and stepped forward to pull it open. As he did so,
a gust of damp wind stirred the bottom of his greatcoat.
    'And good evening to you, Mr Cosworth-Sir. Have a pleasant
evening.'
    'Oh I will, Wilson,' he said, merrily, as he stepped out. 'I
will. Goodnight.'
    'And goodnight to you to, Sir.'
    As he reached the pavement,
Cosworth paused and pressed the button on his key ring. Thirty yards away, the
lights of the black Porsche flashed brightly and a loud double clunk echoed
across the car park. He glanced back up at the lobby, checking to make sure
that Wilson, boring, fuddy-duddy Wilson, was watching. Sure enough, he was
staring through the glass, shaking his head in admiration. Satisfied, Cosworth
turned and walked, briskly, towards the car, already looking forward to the
pleasures the evening would bring.
    Up in the lobby Wilson raised his
bright eyes to the ceiling and shook his wise old head.
    'What a pillock.'

Chapter 12
    As Jess watched her three friends
falling about laughing over the latest, awful pun on the subject they’d been
doing to death the last ten minutes, she wished she had never mentioned the
word, ‘dominatrix.’ Earlier,