“That’s a pity, he said, trying to conceal his disappointment. “It would have been nice.”
“It still might be,” she said, grinning provocatively. “Keep me company while I jog, and perhaps we can have that drink afterwards.”
Dillon puffed out his chest. “I just might do that,” he said, treating her to his most debonair smile.
“Just to warn you, though, I’m with my friend, over there.” She nodded towards a row of cross-trainers, where another girl, equally pretty, stood watching them. “I hope that doesn’t put you off.”
“Not at all,” Dillon said, scarcely able to believe his luck. He gave the other girl a little wave and was rewarded with a smile.
◆◆◆
The Disciple hated all women. The seed had been sown by an overbearing and controlling mother who had dominated and bullied him during his childhood years.
She had made his adolescence a living hell, never missing an opportunity to embarrass or demean him in front of others. He still flinched with shame when he recalled the day that she discovered a secret stash of porn magazines he’d kept under his bed. She had called him names like ‘unclean’ and ‘perverted’, as though sex was something sordid, and he was morally corrupt for wanting it. University had provided him with the perfect means to escape her clutches, and in all the years since he had graduated, he had never been back to visit the first woman that he had learned to hate.
He’d hated the boring string of girls he’d dated before getting married, and had relished finding different ways to make them feel as uncomfortable and miserable as his mother had made him over the years. He had quickly learned how to play cruel mind games; he would start off by being charismatic, charming and attentive, and then suddenly switch to being rude. Then he would turn on the charm again, just to confuse them. He would make promises and deliberately fail to keep them, and he would arrange to meet at really awkward times and then turn up very late and make them rush. During dates he would treat his companion in a way that made her uncomfortable; if she was the type of girl who was independent and liked to split the bill, he would make a point of choosing her food for her and paying for everything. If she was an old-fashioned girl, who wanted to be wined and dined like a princess, he would only order for him and he would find a way to make her pay for the entire meal. When it came to sex, he would insist on having it when she wasn’t in the mood – or, even better, when she was on her period, if he thought that would make her particularly uncomfortable – but when she was in the mood, he would withhold it.
He also hated the worthless whores who gave him sexual gratification without saddling him with emotional baggage. He didn’t have to make an effort to be nice to them; he didn’t have to look them in the eye and feign affection; he didn’t even have to waste his time with small talk or foreplay – it didn’t matter if they enjoyed the experience as long as he did. The downside to having paid sex was that it was purely a business transaction for the girls, and he didn’t have any of the emotional control over them that he had with his girlfriends.
When he was going through a particularly bad patch in his marriage, and the stress of this resulted in him struggling to get or maintain an erection, some of the girls started making adverse comments about his lack of size, or his inability to perform. This made him realise that his addiction to sex was allowing the whores – who, in his mind were the lowest of the low – to gain ascendancy over him, but for some inexplicable reason this only made him want them even more.
Yes, The Disciple hated all women, but there were three that he despised above all others: they were the Infector, the Blackmailer, and the Controller. These vile creatures, more than any other of their kind, had conspired to destroy his life – and they had very nearly succeeded.
Now it was his turn. What comes around goes around, as the saying went.
His first victim had, by necessity, been chosen at random; the next two, however, would be anything but. Their painful demise had been carefully planned, and he intended to enjoy every single delicious moment of it.
The Disciple had been on the streets for less than ten minutes when he spotted the Infector. The timing was so perfect that it had to be an omen. Leaning against a wall, he watched as she led a trick into a narrow cul-de-sac at the back of Brick Lane. It was a repulsive little place about twenty-five yards long by five yards wide, and it led to the rear of a large Indian restaurant. She had been using this spot for a few weeks now, and it was a definite come down from the underground car park where she had always taken him.
He hoped the hygiene levels inside the fancy fronted restaurant were better than those out back, where three huge bins overflowed with rotting food. The smell was putrid, even from a distance. Beneath the bins, rats fought amongst themselves for the most succulent morsels.
The Infector ignored the rodents as she walked past the bins and entered a tiny recess a few feet south of the kitchen. The Disciple watched in fascination as his intended victim, partially illuminated by light from the open kitchen door, bent forward, her legs crudely spread. The punter wriggled into position behind her and they began rocking backwards and forwards.
A few minutes later, they emerged from the alley and went their separate ways without as much as a goodbye. The Disciple waited until it was obvious that she was searching for new customers,
