Sweet Revenge thriller

Twenty Two

MY BOSS TEXTS ME. I have work tomorrow. The next few days are difficult. To the customers who come into the office where I'm working at Builder's Consortium—I smile and show them the array of building plans the company can offer. To them, I look cool calm and collected in my navy blue knee length suit and white blouse, however, I am anything but. 

Fiona is hard to get out of my head and she flits in and out at random. Also, on my way to work I am positive I saw the Black Sedan. Even though I'd completely discarded any thoughts of a stalker in a Black Sedan, some things are hard to eradicate completely and I take evasive action, like running a red light. I lose the Black Sedan and although I'm chanting to myself 'it's not a stalker, It's not a stalker,' my brain overrides my words that if it is the same car, he has found my new accommodation. Like, this is serious stuff! A prickly sensation ripples down my spine, maybe the goon in the Black Sedan is the same guy who thumped me outside Ryan's office? Godsdammed it—he could be anyone. And then Fiona forces her way into my head again. A young vibrant woman. Why would she do such a thing? What was the catalyst? Apart from me!

Again, I push Fiona back into my subconscious as I smile at the young lady in front of me who thinks she can get an extra bathroom added to the Glenvale house, without any extra cost. Nothing is free, lady.

When I unlock the door of Red's apartment, Floppy damn near knocks me to the ground with excitement and after I yell, 'Oi, settle down,' she yelps excitedly and prances around the dining room like a lunatic.

I am about to sort out something to eat when I notice the hairs down Floppy's spine is bristling and she pads cautiously to the entrance of my bedroom. 'What's up, you silly old pooch?' I say. Floppy glances toward me, then snaps her head back to the entrance to my bedroom and starts a most unusual low guttural growl. I am instantly nervous.

So, being the paranoid nutter I am, I decide someone is in my bedroom. I open the can of dog food, call Floppy and she forgets entirely what was upsetting her. Typical! But, I am going to enter my bedroom with a kitchen knife and the last thing I want to do is to trip over my mother's stupid bloody dog!

I don't know what I expect to find when I leap into my bedroom and growl, 'I'm armed, you mother-fucker, so come out with your hands up.' But no one is in my bedroom. Not in my closet or under my bed.

When I return to the dining room, Floppy has stopped eating her dinner and looks up at me with her big brown eyes, like she's questioning, 'what happened?' I laugh at her, mainly because I feel an idiot and I'm exhausted. I start off with a glass of wine from the bottle I'd opened the night before, turn telly on and in a daze I stare at the screen and half heartedly watch a murder mystery.

It is while I'm undressing and getting ready for bed when I identify a scent in my bedroom which isn't mine. I scan the room again and then I notice one of my empty suitcases sitting on the top of my closet has been moved. Someone has been in my apartment. In my bedroom.

I grab Floppy, put her lead on and literally tear out of my apartment, down the corridor, down the stair well and we are both in the front seat of my car within two minutes. I am shaking and Floppy is sitting up beside me, peering out of the front window expecting to go on a drive. But, we can't go anywhere because I'm in my pyjamas. Who can I call?

I ring Patrick. 'Are you sure someone's been in your apartment? You're not, you know...' and over the next few minutes he asks me questions and tells me he thinks I have become suggestive because a.) the murder mystery I was watching b.) because my meds won't work so good if I drink alcohol c.) I have an over-active mind which can easily manifest into paranoia, and d.)..' this is when I stopped listening and tell him, 'Hey, you're right. I'm feeling much better. That makes sense.'

And it does. Floppy and I get out of my car, walk back into my apartment block and climb the stairs. However, I can't control my fingers from shaking when I put my key into the lock. And I can't help but go right through my apartment and check every possible hiding place with Floppy on my heels. And then I creep carefully into my bedroom and look under my bed and in my closet. Now, the one thing I notice is there is no odd scent in my bedroom. And when I spy the suitcase on the top of my closet, I'm not sure that I placed it as neatly as I first thought.

In the end, sleep came fast.

* * *

I awake to Floppy licking my neck and I'm up in the shower within minutes wondering if my mother had to put up with such a slobbery wake up call. Or, is it new to Floppy? The lunatic events I allowed myself to get dragged into last night fight for centre of my thoughts and it takes quite a lot of determination to evict them.

Stay focused!

Stay focused!

* * *

My promise to the memory of Fiona is my priority and by 10 p.m. I am back jimmying the lock on my Psychiatrist office door. Where to start this time?

I feel a shiver of dread rattle down my spine. But I'd already violated my Psychiatrist's sacred oaths once anyway, so what did it matter that I was back doing it again? And if I found something that linked one of his clients to the death of Fiona, I had already worked out the gradients of punishment I was capable of unleashing on that client. Then images of Steve in the darkened alley-way springs to mind. I can't get it wrong again. So, I decide if I discover a crime that needs justice, this time, I will hand it over to the police. My conviction of how I am going to handle any future situations have me resolute for less than two minutes. Who am I kidding?

Who the fuck am I kidding?

I know me. Logic fair screams out the window when I'm faced with a 'situation!' But, I can try. I can try real hard!

I search the folders on Patrick's desk, then the contents of his drawers and flick through all of the folders on his shelf. I scan read more of his client folders, but there doesn't appear to be anything other than what one would think should be in their folders—lots of client worries and Patricks strategies to alleviate their fears. I have just decided that the whole thing is a waste of time and energy when my eyes flick to a very small cabinet barely noticeable because of the upholstered wooden chair in front of it. I stroll over, shift the chair and attempt to open the cabinet. It confuses me. The cabinet with his client files I had been rifling through filled with personal information, was unlocked. The cabinet I'm now hell bent on opening is locked and I cannot see how I can open it apart from jimmying the lock, which Patrick will discover when he comes to work tomorrow.

But what the hell!

I jimmy the cabinet open. A pile of CD's and videos. Fuck! I've wrecked his cabinet. All this mess for a Psychiatrist who thinks his music is more precious than his client's problems. I'm just about to slam the cabinet shut when the sticker on one of the videos takes my attention.

Fiona Fun.

I pick it up and search for a video player. I eventually find it in one of the drawers in Patricks desk. Out it comes. And when it's all plugged in I slide in the video.

I sit down at his desk, ready to be bored. But I'm not. The hairs on the back of my neck spring and my gut squirms into tight knots. The video has been taken in this very room. A man who is out of focus stands with his back to the camera and Fiona is a couple of feet in front of him, wearing only a bra and panties. She's crying. The man walks toward her. Fiona backs up against the wall.

'Come on Fee, be a good girl,' the man says. And abhorrence shakes every nerve in my body. I hadn't realised I was praying that the man wasn't Patrick. But it is!

* * *