Dead women have vendettas
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Copyright Ruby Allure
This book shall not be lent, resold or hired out by way of trade or otherwise without the author’s consent. All rights remain with the author: RUBY ALLURE
Domestic violence equals a quarter of all recorded violent crime in England and Wales.
One call per minute to the police is about domestic violence.
One in four women fall victim to domestic violence in their lifetime.
On average a woman is assaulted thirty five times before she calls the police.
Only thirty-five percent of violent incidents are reported.
Twenty-five percent of women experiencing domestic violence are assaulted for the first time during pregnancy.
On average two women per week are killed by a partner, or former partner.
Approximately three-quarters of a million women have been raped on at least one occasion since the age of sixteen.
One in twenty women in England and Wales has been a rape victim.
One hundred and sixty seven women are raped every day.
One in five rape attacks are reported to the police.
Eve stood in the shadows waiting. Silence. She refastened her kit bag and watched intently; all her hard work was about to come to fruition. Over the previous weeks she had visited the local bars to learn as much as she could about ‘him’. She knew his brand of cigarette, what, when and where he ate. She knew how and where he lived. She had studied the plans of his house (pulled from the developer’s website). She had accessed all his records. His prison report stated he had a thing for girls aged fifteen and under. He got up at ten and didn’t have a regular job; instead he peddled drugs to teenagers for them to sell to other children at school. That was his way in. He often wore a tracksuit top and combat trousers. No-one was close to him; no-one would miss him. He repulsed her!
Eve stood silently counting her breaths and his paces as he came into her range of vision. Every step he made forwards, she counted one digit back in groups of ten. Finally he came to his house and paused. He pressed the lit cigarette to his lips and fumbled for his keys.
Eve slowed her breath and silently tapped her index finger against her leg. She reversed silently further into the comfort of the shadow of a nearby tree, that tree stood on the edge of the estate close to the riverbank. Eve switched switched on her modified goggles to enhance the night image. He was now a luminous blue. She intended to witness every second of his strategic demise.
Still he fumbled for his keys.
‘Come on!’ she mouthed impatiently. Eve caught herself mumbling. What was he waiting for? Did he suspect what was about to happen? How could he? No! Eve glanced over her shoulder; the cold, dark river resembled black oil. She didn’t relish the thought of it.
‘Hurry up!’ she muttered under her breath. He was taking too long. Did he sense something? That same question – same answer – he couldn’t could he? Eve took another deep breath, she had to leave. She had already outstayed her welcome.
She slowly reversed around the horse chestnut, whose shadow had shielded her. She reached the riverbank and paused, looking again over her shoulder; her feet submersed in the dark murk. Eve chewed her lip. The cretin was finally but definitely going inside. She took one more breath and watched the man align his key with the door. He unsteadily inserted it and turned it in the lock. When the door opened he paused on the threshold – why didn’t he just go in like usual? Had he inhaled the pungent smell of gas?
Bang! The cigarette blasted backwards, engulfed within a scorching flame blast. The tongue of flame wrapped around him and he was gone. Eve blinked, she could feel the heat even from where she was standing some sixty metres away; a second later she slid into the cool river water, adjusted her breathing canister, a clever little pony bottle permitting fifteen minutes of underwater swimming.
She plunged deeper into the sluggishly moving river and swam gracefully away without a ripple. She had only about forty metres to get to the other bank and allowed herself to drift down beyond the bridge, well away from what would become a hotspot of activity after the demolition of the monster’s house. There was no trace, there couldn’t be! No witnesses, nothing, just an evil man who got what he deserved.
As Eve swam through the dark water, she decided to surface to get one last glimpse of her handy work. She turned onto her back and admired the colour of the orange flames erupting into the night. In the stark intensity of flame she could see curls of dense smoke caught on the breeze spiralling into the sky. The translucent watery division protected her while she observed the devastation, her devastation.
On the other side of the river Eve dragged herself darkly and silently up the bank and sat for a moment. The flames clawed the stars, she was mesmerised. That was her labour, her creation. Eve shifted to standing and made her way to her car. It was parked in a dark, solitary area under a lightening-split oak. She had taken care to select this parking spot to afford her the protection of the dark for her quick change routine. She removed the layer covering her wetsuit, then the wetsuit itself. She then placed the 9mm scuba suit in a sealed container full of fresh water. Hurriedly she threw on a large black jumper and dark tracksuit bottoms. Quickly she stowed the bags and containers quietly on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
Climbing in behind the wheel, clicking the buckle of her seat belt she turned the key, the hybrid engine purred, engaging drive she drove silently away. Minutes later, so far removed from the scene, she breathed normally and turned on her favourite post-destruction CD, Chopin’s Prelude. Humming to herself she set her course for home, the long way for her well-rehearsed exit.
Arriving home, Eve parked her car in her allocated garage and followed her system to perfection. Still adopting her stealth routine, gathering up her bits and pieces from the back of the car she slipped quietly through to the back of the garage where her washing machine and tumble dryer were located. Leaning against the wall, for what appeared to be a long time, but in reality a millisecond, she knew she was beyond detection. She was safe.
Without turning on the lights and using just the emergency security light fitted inside her private garage, Eve removed her now damp clothes in a business-like manner. She rinsed her wetsuit once more and hung it over a metal rack above the sink. Finally she shoved the dirty clothes in the washing machine. Before she left earlier that evening, she had loaded the soap and pre-set the settings so one button depressed and the gurgling of the water filled the machine.
After re-locking the door, Eve climbed the fire escape to her floor. It was at the back of the flats and snaked upward, right past her apartment. On the landing she silently opened her front door, again maintaining her discipline of no lights. She had always been careful and this was not the time to change her routine.
She closed the curtains and went to the bathroom where she switched on a small bike lamp, it only just illuminated the sink area. There she washed her hands and cleaned her teeth. Once she had cleaned her teeth she flossed, waited for the count of ten, returned to her hallway and switched on the main light. There she counted ten again before she returned to the bathroom. She stood before the mirror gazing into her expressionless eyes. They revealed nothing. Eve took a deep breath. She was all there, she had completed the routine, and she was completely safe.
Eve counted ten and rinsed her teeth with mouthwash again. She then counted one hundred. During that count she ran her bath. Her bath had exactly one level cap full of lavender aromatherapy oil. The bath reached a marker on the edge that was at the level of her neck when she lay down. She removed and folded her clothes precisely then climbed into the bath at an allocated point she had marked with a permanent marker pen. For a moment she counted her breaths. And then, as always, she caressed her scar: that scar was purple and traversed her sternum. That scar was her motivation; she had saved someone from enduring what she had endured, even if they didn’t know it. That nameless person was ignorantly unaware that another scum had been erased!
At ten o’clock Eve switched on the television expecting the inevitable news flash. Film crews were at the scene and bedraggled reporters spieled off their speculative theories. The inferno filled the screen.
‘The fire is said to be caused by a broken gas pipe. Unfortunately there was a casualty who still remains to be identified. The police don’t consider the incident suspicious because there have been previous reports of faulty pipes in the building,’ said a particularly austere looking female reporter, wearing a red coat.
Eve smirked to herself and shook her head. ‘Bloody idiots!’ She poured herself a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, spiked it with a shot of wheatgrass and absentmindedly scratched her face. She had to report to the base the following morning. Before she did that, she felt compelled to write. She’d had the urge for a while now. Maybe if she wrote she might understand. If she could purge what she’d done from her system straight away then maybe it would lessen her burden, maybe she wouldn’t ache. Eve took her silver fountain pen and writing pad to her dining table. She intended to take her time, to be clear, to search within. Automatically she wrote.
Dear friend I know you are there somewhere.
Let me give you an insight into what I have become. I am not gentle, nor am I kind. I may have once possessed these virtues, but now they are hidden away somewhere. The more I think about it, the more I realise I am nothing like how a woman ‘should be’. Instead I am more my own creature. I guess you would view me as a chameleon, constantly changing and blending with my surroundings. I do this to achieve my ultimate goal: to remove my target without leaving a trace.
I would guess some would view me as vulnerable, others would say I was a bitch. Many would assume I had led a tortured life, or maybe a dull one. It always makes me laugh how people inanely chatter, making assumptions in an attempt to sound better than the next person. How they desperately want to be heard, whereas I don’t make a sound. Funny really.
I listen to what they say, how they fill the air with useless unverified facts and flounce. Still I listen, noting where they go and what they do. Who knows maybe one day they will be my target. Of course they would never guess that, they are too self-absorbed to consider that a competent killer might actually be standing close.
I suppose many would ask me if I had issues with being ‘invisible’, someone no-one ever remembers, never having the same face for more than a few months. The simple truth is: people don’t notice me because I choose not to be noticed. I intend to blend in, that in itself is an art; an art I take great pride in. I will tell you more about that another time.
If I were you I would want to know what drives a woman to kill. Well I watch death tinker with twisted souls many days; it never gives me a great sense of satisfaction. What gratifies me is achieving the perfect outcome. For me perfection appears in authenticity... No-one would guess what I have done, or how I did it. Like magicians keeping their tricks to themselves. I suppose I am the ultimate illusionist. That is where the satisfaction lies. A smoker with a history of cracked gas pipes was simply asking for trouble. Especially when that smoker was accused of raping over thirty girls and one boy under the age of sixteen. He will not be doing that again – I made sure of that!
While I was waiting for him I considered my role. The ideal image painted by the movies would have me red lipped, wearing stockings whilst wielding a gun. How far from the truth could they be? Some days I wear a suit, other days I wear jeans, most days I wear black trousers. Each outfit specifically adapted for the character I adopt. As for the gun - the male phallus shooting and exploding. How crass. Yes I am trained to shoot, but once a bullet is found at the scene then that is it: death becomes a murder case and people are asked for witnesses. Awkward.
You may wonder why I reveal this now, is there some burden I wish to shed? Maybe there is, but dear friend my aim is to give you an insight into a life you will never lead. Where you choose safety and security. I choose strategy and the cause of death. Where you consider clothes to make you stand out; I choose clothes that enable me to blend in. Ultimately I am everything you are not, yet I work in this profession so the likes of you do not have to endure the horrific scenes I witness daily.
I work in this role so you may avoid becoming a victim. I write this so you know there is someone on your side, not seeking glory, but instead seeking to protect. My mission is simple: I target the killers, rapists, paedophiles and wife beaters. I am humanity’s detritus disposal contractor. That is how I live and who knows, I may just be standing next to you at this very moment.
Eve sighed, moistened her lips and gazed out of the window. Rain pounded the glass in the darkness; it was just another winter’s night. She folded the paper precisely and made her way over to a wooden box on her mantle-piece. On the lid was a pattern of two snakes entwined, the snakes of Caduceus. Eve smoothed her hand over the polished surface and sighed. It was the first of many disclosures she intended to write, of course there was schema in her musings.
When she opened the box, she lifted out the base and placed the folded paper in a hidden compartment. Nobody would look there. Nobody would know unless she wanted them to know, unless they were told, but then it would be too late – that was all part of the plan. Eve sighed and shook her hair loose from beneath the turbaned towel. She glanced at her reflection; she was pale, her hair standard and her grey eyes empty. Those eyes disclosed no warmth of life and nothing but a cold and emotionless void. She was distant. As she scratched her head, she watched rain drops cascade down the pane before her. The windowpane turned into a black mirror and from it a transient reflection gazed back at her. Her ghostlike reflection haunted her, never taking a form that she recognised, her high bone structure was just an artist’s palette from which she could create so many persona. With hair brush in hand, she vigorously brushed her hair – one hundred times was the prescribed regime before retiring. Smoothing her hair now, she dwelt fleetingly on her ‘to do’ list for tomorrow. She had to gather up her scuba suit from the laundry and put it away early before the other tenants were about. So an early rise, errands, and then to the ‘office’ to endure the standard debriefing from the CLAN. She only had one concern: would she be able to continue? If so, for how long?
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