She tripped over the wide stone step and once again they hauled her to her feet, this time roughly. I moved in closer, knowing what was going to happen, wanting to help the woman—her, not Moker, the man inside her; he knew what he wanted—desperately thinking of what I might do. If I’d been flesh and blood I’d have waded right in, three of them or not. But I was just… nothing! I couldn’t scream at them, I couldn’t touch them. Dear God, I couldn’t even frighten them.
The leader of the pack wasted no time. His hand went straight up the woman’s tight skirt, the triangular split at the side helping his wrist hitch up the material. I was used to the bad light by now—either my eyes had grown accustomed to it, or in my out-of-body state I could see more clearly than before—and I saw the other two men— the other two animals—pulling at her jacket. One paused for a moment to unzip his flies and release his aroused penis, a squat fat thing that should have been an embarrassment, and then Leather Jacket followed suit, the fingers of his right hand still busy beneath the skirt. The woman was laughing, an eerie hollow sound in the darkness, her head back against the metal door behind her. She twisted her face from side to side, her eyes half-closed, pupils hidden by the drooping upper lids.
Leather Jacket, his member standing proud from his trousers, yanked at her panties and tights, and they came down to her knees. His right hand disappeared again and her upper body fell forward, then shot back against the door, the back of her skull smacking against the metal. Still she laughed, an insane roar that seemed hardly human, and the two other men ripped open her jacket to crush her breasts under feverish hands.
By now their leader had hitched up the skirt to her waist and was attempting to thrust himself inside her, his knees bent, one hand on her hip, the other guiding his swollen penis. His two companions were becoming frantic, pulling at her blouse to expose her breasts. The bloody wad of material that had helped stem the flow of blood from her dead heart fell to the ground.
I heard Leather Jacket, who had found his way into her, exclaim something in Arabic, probably a curse, as he wondered why he was suddenly becoming wet. He pulled away from her without withdrawing completely and touched the dark running stain that was soiling his white shirt. I’m not sure if he could see the blood in the poor light, or if he smelt it, but he seemed to know immediately what it was. The blood had not yet had time to cool or begin to congeal in her veins and now it flowed copiously, overwhelming the needle’s round blunted end, running down her front, between her spread legs, soaking her panties and torn tights, spattering onto the stone step beneath her.
Leather Jacket pulled away completely, his penis catching the blood flow. He made a sharp disgusted sound and instantly struck out, slapping the woman’s face hard. A moaning kind of laugh came from her and the two Arabs on either side quit their rough, fumbling fondling and stared at her. Then they looked towards their leader and angry words were exchanged between them all.
I could just make out their expressions in the darkness and they were ugly, maybe as ugly as their souls. One studied his hands and saw that they were darkly stained with what could only be blood. He struck out at her, and now his bloodied fist was clenched, the blow a hard punch. She tottered against the Arab on the other side and he angrily pushed her away, back into his companion, who punched her again, catching her upper arm. Whether she —Moker—felt any pain, I’ve no idea, but her low laughter became sharper, which seemed to annoy the Arabs even more. They started to flail her body with their fists, the leader, his penis still in evidence and still hard, stepping back to kick her. The first kick hit her knee, which buckled, the other two assailants whacking her as she went down. When they discovered that their nice light summer suits had become bloodied, they really lost it. They began pounding her, kicking her as she sank into a corner of the recess.
I tried to intervene, tried to grab the leader, whose vicious kicks were aimed at her head and shoulders, but my efforts were in vain—as I knew they would be. I won’t tell you the names I called them but they were very politically incorrect. I think I was more disgusted with them than they were with this gibbering bleeding woman. Okay, I knew the woman was dead and that it was the deviant Moker who was taking the hammering (did he feel any pain? Not by the sound of her sniggering and delighted shrieks) but somehow respect for the woman before she’d become this thing remained with me. If only she would stop taunting them their violence might stop. Unfortunately, inside her Moker was enjoying himself too much.
She cowered on the doorstep, but only under the pressure of their attack, not because she was afraid. The deranged sniggering that came from her revealed that.
Finally, she was flat out on the concrete, lying half on her side, knees held together by the bunched panties and hose, but ankles and feet spread wide. Her skirt had dropped enough to cover her pubic hair; blood continued to dribble but not pump from her wound. The three men kept kicking her prone body.
They stopped only, it seemed, when they had exhausted themselves. They muttered to one another as they stared down at the woman, who was still moving and still mocking them, although her sniggers had become quieter and punctuated by short silences.
Leather Jacket barked at the other two and, after looking at him in surprise, they grinned. The leader and one of his companions were already exposed and it seemed that their violence had strengthened their erections even more. The third paunchy man unzipped himself and the other two laughed and pointed when they saw that he was flaccid. He grumbled something, I don’t know what, and prodded the woman sharply with the toe of his shoe. The only reaction he got was another snigger.
I already felt sickened by their treatment of the woman—they must have assumed she was either drunk, drugged or a nutter; she certainly didn’t look like a hooker—but what happened next forced me to reel away in utter disgust.
Standing over the fallen woman, Leather Jacket began to pleasure himself using his hand. The other two moved in closer and followed suit.
I went to the other side of the narrow cul-de-sac, shaking my head and cursing these men for their vileness, refusing to watch, but reluctant to leave the woman. But even when I didn’t look I could hear the grunts and moans of the Arabs as they masturbated over her.
Their noises quickly reached a crescendo as first one, then another, reached climax. They didn’t even bother to curb their cries. I tried not to listen to their sighs and their mutterings in Arabic, only turning back when they started laughing again. They were gesticulating at the third man’s limp organ as he frantically worked at it. He swore at the other two—at least, it sounded like a curse—and they laughed all the more. The flustered Arab gave up and took his hand away, leaving his flabby penis dangling.
He appeared to have a bright idea, for he suddenly chuckled. Saying something to his companions, he took hold of his penis again, this time in both hands, and made straining noises. The other two urged him on enthusiastically. It took him less than a minute to start urinating and he aimed the stream directly at the woman on the step, drenching her exposed thighs, her jacket, her face and hair.
I was shocked by the degradation, the sordidness, and I backed further into the shadows, filled with rage and despair.
I wanted to kill.
31
Her three abusers had gone, but I lingered. Soul-destroying though the whole squalid business was, I remained curious. And angry. What was Moker’s intention now that the once presentable woman—she’d been an executive type, I thought—lay defiled and bedraggled in a pool of piss inside the recessed doorway? He had humiliated her, brought this presumably respectable woman down to gutter level, and it occurred to me that this was part of his purpose, to possess his victims (there was no doubt in my mind that he had put his previous victims through similar humiliation), degrade them, and make them carry out acts they would never have considered in their normal lives. I guessed it was all part of his revenge on society, a society that probably had always turned away from him. I had no idea of his background or history, but I was willing to bet his early life had been in various institutions, perhaps even in hospitals where they had tried to fix his face (if its present condition was after surgery, what must it have been like before?). His childhood must have been torment, his young adulthood torture. Had he always been a loner, or was it only when he became a man that he was an outcast? Did he have a family and had he been rejected by them? I knew so little about Moker.
But don’t imagine I was beginning to feel sorry for the guy; I couldn’t, not with that pathetic bundle lying in the doorway opposite. Moker was evil. His very presence somehow exuded malevolence and I had felt that from the first moment I’d discovered him. Hell, even his aura was nasty. He was evil and he had to be stopped. No matter that he was grotesquely deformed, either from birth, or through some horrendous and freakish accident: he was a
