Pushing hard on the tool, he wriggled the blade until it finally burst through Bullock’s flesh, dark red blood flowing from the wound as Roger carefully pushed deeper.
Bullock let out an agonised howl as he made a futile attempt to edge his torso back against the brickwork behind him and slide his body away from the crowbar.
Roger paused. He was unsure how far he could go without piercing a lung and already he could feel a soft resistance against the tip of the crowbar. He tried to think back to his biology lessons at school, but, like most of the kids in his class, the only lessons he paid any real attention to were the ones about sexual reproduction – his fourteen year old self sitting uncomfortably, with a half a hard-on, as he stared at artist’s renderings of spread-wide female genitalia.
Wasn’t there a layer of muscle between the ribs?
He was sure there was – inter…something muscle…
That was what the tool-tip was currently pressing against, he was certain, which meant he could thrust a little deeper and hook the end of the crowbar under the flat rib bone.
Slowly pressing harder, he felt the muscle give and he angled the tool upwards, the end of the crowbar grinding against the underside of Bullock’s rib. Roger pushed down slowly on his end of the bar, forcing the business end to drive the rib forward. He felt the bone give a little, the cartilage that connected it to the sternum allowing some degree of movement, and, as he pushed a little harder he could see the rib itself, moving under Bullock’s skin, pressing outward like some alien parasite that was ready to hatch.
Bullock’s head was tipped back, eyes rolled up to the whites. His breath hissed with short, stifled gasps as he tried to withstand the pain, unable to scream or breath deeply, any inflation of his lungs just amplifying the agony.
Roger continued pumping at the crowbar until he heard a muffled crack, a splinter of bone suddenly bursting through the property developer’s chest wall, spongy red marrow clearly visible at the rib’s shattered end.
Bullock’s face blanched at the sight of the white bone sticking out of his chest, his stomach instantly convulsing under a wave of nausea. Vomit spilled from his mouth, the smell of good whisky and bile filling the air, the contractions of his gut pushing his shattered bone even further out from his chest wall.
Giving his victim no time to recover, Roger repeated the exercise on two more ribs, Bullock’s torso saturated with glistening red as his pounding heart forced hot blood from his gaping wounds, the developer finally slipping into the merciful embrace of unconciousness. Roger gazed down at the slumped form: Bullock’s dead- weight pulling on the nails through his palms, stretching out the bleeding puncture wounds like stigmata; the three ribs bursting through the builder’s chest, blood and marrow dripping from their shattered ends.
Those were your ripped up floorboards – now for your smashed out bricks…
Roger retrieved the claw-hammer he had utilised earlier and swung it towards the unconsious developer’s jaw.
He stopped, a fraction short of impact…
The bastard was out of it.
Chillingworth House never got the luxury of sleep. Chillingworth House was wide awake, fully alert throughout every atrocity wreaked upon it.
Roger pulled down his jogging pants and fumbled his penis from his underwear, emptying his beer filled bladder over the property developer’s face and chest, bringing his spluttering victim back to the land of the living.
Bullock gagged and choked, blinking hard against the acidic liquid that stung his eyes, his vision regaining a degree of focus just in time to register the hammer arcing towards his face.
The first blow shattered his front teeth, several thousand pounds worth of dental work instantly reduced to pulped stumps. As Bullock spat splintered enamel and blood into his lap, Roger forced the claw end of the hammer into his shattered mouth, hooking the claws into the gums of his lower jaw. He yanked hard, ripping teeth from their sockets and gums from the bone. Dark blood poured from Bullock’s lips, dribbing onto his soaked chest - his will to live, along with his sanity, slowly slipping away.
Roger had plans to tear the property developer’s bowels from his belly, to pull his plumbing from his flesh, but he could see that his victim was way too far gone to appreciate the irony. Gripping the hammer tight he smashed it into the top of Bullock’s skull, hitting him over and over until bone gave way to brain and brain gave way to mush.
27
Along with the pounding in his skull, Steve’s lower back throbbed painfully, his lumbar region sore and stiff as he swung his legs to the floor. The new sofa they had chosen for their living room, while quite possibly being - as the brochure pronounced - the epitome of stylish, contemporary living, was as uncomfortable as fuck to sleep on. As he sat and rubbed his temples, memories of the previous evening suddenly came flooding back…
The cracks in the wall.
The discarded toolbox.
His wife fucking the handyman…
Anger quickly rose within him and he stormed into the bedroom, eager for round two.
The bed was unmade, Sam nowhere to be seen. Steve headed for the kitchen - finding it devoid of life. A bowl of half-eaten cereal sat in the sink and he assumed Sam had left for work already, obviously keen to be out of the door before he woke up. His teeth ground together as he realised the row he had geared
