Free Fear of the Fathers by Dominic C. James

very much.”
    â€œWell, if you need anything else, just ring,” she said flirtatiously.
    â€œI will…hold on a second,” he said, and turned to get his wallet from the bedside cabinet. As a rule he would tip five pounds at the most, but this girl had enthralled him. He drew out a twenty pound note. Behind him the girl was quiet. Too quiet. He looked up just in time to see her shadow silently edging towards him.
    He span round in a defensive stance, his arms forming a blockade. The girl’s right arm was raised to strike. On her fingertip was a small, pinkish, rubber patch. With ophidian speed Singh grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm. She yelped as she fell to her knees. Then, with expert precision, he squeezed the pressure point to the side of her neck, and the girl slumped to the floor like a dying swan.
    He picked up her flimsy form and laid her face down on the bed. After ripping a couple of strips from the bed sheets he tied her hands and legs. A sock and another strip formed an effective makeshift gag.
    Satisfied that she was no longer a danger he sat down to eat his food. He was paying good money for his dinner, and he wasn’t going to allow anything to spoil it. He poured himself a glass of Krug and set about the large buttered lobster on his plate.
    In the background he heard muffled moaning. He turned to see the girl struggling on the bed. Raising a finger to his lips he shook his head and gave her a cold stare. She got the message and immediately lay still. He continued to attack the lobster, wondering who she was and who had sent her.
    After finishing his lobster and a quite delightful crème brûlée he turned his attention back to his hostage. She was staring aimlessly at the ceiling. He brought his chair to the end of the bed and played thoughtfully with the small patch that she’d clumsily attempted to place on his neck. He’d seen one before. One side was smooth, the other covered with tiny spikes designed to break the skin. The inside would be filled with poison.
    â€œDeath by cyanide,” he said casually. “Not very original, but efficacious nevertheless. Was this your idea? Or was it someone else’s?”
    The girl raised her head. Her eyes welled with tears.
    Singh cocked his head. “Ahh, bless you,” he mocked. “Waterworks – the last refuge of the vanquished woman. You did not seem that tearful when you were about to stick this on me.” He waved the patch at her.
    The girl continued to cry. Singh continued to stare impassively. The sheer awkwardness of her attack led him to believe that she was no professional, yet he couldn’t be sure. She had certainly been professional enough to put him off guard.
    â€œSave your tears, they will not work on me my dear. Whoever you are, you have bitten off much more than you can chew, as they say.” He got out of his chair and approached her. “Now, I am going to untie the gag. If you scream I shall stick this patch on you. And, seeing as you were going to do the same to me, I assume you realize that it will be fatal?”
    The girl looked puzzled.
    Singh untied the strip of material and removed the sock from her mouth. She started to hyperventilate. He squeezed her arm softly. “Now, my dear. There’s no need to get in a state. Just try and slow your breathing down.”
    Still sobbing, she attempted to comply.
    â€œThat’s it,” he said gently. “Nice and slow. Panicking never helps. If you are edgy, then I am edgy…” He paused. “…And that would be dangerous,” he added icily for effect.
    The girl registered the message and calmed down almost immediately.
    â€œGood,” said Kamal. “Very good. Now we are getting somewhere. There is no point trying to appeal to my better nature – I do not have one. It is better that you are honest with me. Give me the truth and I might just let you live…Now, tell me, who are you