The list Martin Kane A young woman devises her own sense of karma. --- Author's note: Anyone wishing to contact me may do so via the DtV messageboard for Readers & Writers. I invite anyone to send any comments, good or bad, should they wish to. I'm always interested in what others think of my little tales. Copyright is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale elsewhere, but please seek permission first. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the products of an overwrought imagination I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway. This story is dedicated to Estate Agents everywhere. --- "Goddamn it you stupid bitch, why aren’t you listening to me?" she screamed into the phone. "Well really, I don’t think there’s any call for abuse." Shawnee found that her voice had stuck in her throat, she didn’t know what to say or how to get through to someone so single-mindedly ignorant. The woman took advantage of the pause. "Well you’ve paid deposit now so you might as well live with it." Shawnee hung up the phone; it was the only thing she could think to do. Her supervisor, John, looked across the table at her. "Are you OK?" She leant her head back, digging her nails into her palms. I will not cry, she thought to herself determinedly, whatever else, I will not cry. "Just a problem with Estate Agents," she said. "Oh God," John said, "I know what that’s like. When we were buying our house we had a nightmare of a time with ours." Shawnee cringed at the idea. "If I have to go through all this shit just to rent a place, I’d hate to think what it’s like buying." John already knew she was planning to move, get out from her parents’ house and into her own little flat. In fact, he had filled out her work reference for her, just one of the many pieces of paperwork a department manager has to endure. "What’s the problem, anything I can do to help?" "They’re just throwing hidden costs at me, the telephone line isn’t fitted so they say it’s up to me to pay for it. BT say it’ll cost a hundred. Then there’s the washing machine. The landlord has agreed to pay for it but now they’re saying I have to pay to get it delivered and fitted." Saying it out loud it didn’t seem much; hardly an issue to get so worked up about. "I mean it’s all petty stuff really, it’s just that they’re not willing to listen to anything I say. There’s this bitch who manages the office and she won’t do a thing to help." "That’s who you were talking to?" "Yes. It’s a furnished flat, it comes with all the fixtures and fittings, including a phone. I mean, what’s the point of supplying a phone if there’s no line fitted?" "What did she say to that?" "She said if I didn’t want to pay BT I should get myself a mobile." John shook his head, wearied by such an attitude. "Maybe you should think about finding a different place." "That’s what I want to do but she says I’m not entitled to any of the deposit back. It’s a hundred and fifty, plus their fee, which is eighty. I just can’t afford to write off that much money." "There’s no one else you could speak to? A manager?" "She is the manager." "Do you have time to stop the cheque?" "They insisted on cleared funds." He sighed. In truth, he could see nothing she could do. And she knew it too. "I’m sorry, I wish I could help, I really do." He brushed a lock of blonde hair away from her soft face. There was nothing untoward about the gesture, it was simple tenderness and empathy. He genuinely cared about his staff, taking an almost parental interest in them. Shawnee nodded, understanding the situation she was in but not knowing what to do about it. She needed time, she needed to clear her head. Monotonous work and routine would probably help, and anyway, her break-time was up. "I better get back," she said. "Those shelves aren’t going to stock themselves." The next time she spoke to the Estate Agents she was quickly reduced to the same state. She was due to work the late shift at the supermarket, so had decided to try and settle the issue once and for all. She asked to speak to the manager, Val, and went through the normal rigmarole of hold, call back, wait, she’ll get back to you and general fobbing off that goes on in such offices. When she finally got to speak to the woman, it took less than a minute for her eyes to well with tears of fury and frustration. "I don’t know why you keep asking about this, I’ve explained the situation," Val said, her voice as sharp and condescending as ever. "If you don’t move in you’re not due any refund of the deposit." "But if I move in I can’t afford those other charges." "We’re not running a charity, dear," she remarked. "I don’t see why I should pay them when they’re for things that should be supplied with the flat." "The landlord isn’t responsible those costs, the tenant is." "So what am I supposed to do?" They went around and around until Shawnee gave up. What made it worse was the way the woman made her feel, like a helpless school-kid, powerless against some greater authority. It was just business to that old battleaxe and yet she seemed to take such pride in being as callous and unhelpful as possible, as though she got some pleasure in deliberately screwing over the customers. It made her want to go to the shop and commit precisely two hundred and thirty pounds worth of damage. No, not the shop, Val. She was the one who made it so personal, who took such pains to make her life hard. She was the one who should take responsibility for the act. Somewhere in the back of her head a decision was made, a switch was thrown, a question answered. From that point onwards Shawnee already felt a lot better about herself. She went out that same morning, purchased a small black notebook and on the first page she wrote ‘Val Creale, Estate Agent’. It was six months later that Shawnee had finally moved out of her parents’ house and found a flat. She moved in with a friend she’d met at the gym, a girl her own age who was also seeking independence. She had written off the money lost to the previous Estate Agents as a life lesson. It had hit her hard but in truth there was nothing she could do. She didn’t want to move into the flat when the letting agents would cause so many hassles every time something went wrong. She also didn’t want to feel that she had had no choice but to move in, blackmailed into it almost. So she had waved goodbye to the cash, a lot of money for one in her position, and reluctantly accepted it as done. She had tried contacting the Citizens Advice Bureau to see if there was any kind of Trading Standard department she could approach. However, it was all to no avail. But things were looking up. She had been made a supervisor at work. The money wasn’t that much more but every little helped, plus it gave her some small satisfaction that her work and effort had been recognised. It also meant no more shift work, which was beginning to mess up her body clock. Her social life had really begun to kick off more now that she had independence. Her flatmate had a large group of friends whom she went out clubbing with on a regular basis. Shawnee discovered the joy of dancing the night away to a pulsing bass that shook you to the core. Money was tight but she found a regular routine of spending only what was necessary. Her gym subscription was a set price monthly and her biggest extravagance. However, it wasn’t something she was about to give up on, weight training had been one of the few things that helped her relieve the pressures and stresses of life ever since she left school and she wasn’t about to give up her main solace. Besides, if she couldn’t go to the gym, there was no way she would be able to maintain her body. She also saved money by not drinking. Unlike most of her friends, she was completely teetotal, living on adrenaline highs and a health- fanatic lifestyle. But what helped her get through life, the one thing she attributed to her positive outlook and self-confidence, was her little black notebook. It had five names in it now. In fact, she had devised a complex system of scoring and criteria for each potential inclusion. Half of the book was full of notes and questions, keeping close track of her mental highs and lows. But the list, that front page with its simple collection of five names, that was the important thing. The fact that she’d done nothing yet regarding the list, other than adding to it, was not important. As far as she was concerned, once the name had been written, it could no more be removed than a bullet could be sucked back into a gun. As far as fate and consequences go, the deed was already committed. It was two months after she had moved into her new flat, settling in nicely, the list now having reached a total of six, that Shawnee decided it was time to begin. And so she did. She went straight up to the door and knocked. Val Creale answered. "Yes?" It was clear that she did not recognise the girl standing before her. "Hello, Miss Creale? I’m sorry to disturb you but it’s rather important that we speak." "Who are you?" she demanded, "what do you want?" "I used to know your brother. I was with him just before... well, you know." This was a lie, she said it only to get inside the house. It worked. "You better come in," Val said and stood aside. The house was a good deal more luxurious than Shawnee’s little flat, but then, that was only to be expected. It was lushly carpeted, professionally decorated, well fitted and equipped. It was the home of someone with a successful job and no children. Shawnee sat on the sofa and took off her coat, sliding the loose denim sleeves off of her body. She wore an old punk T-shirt beneath, one she wouldn’t miss. Val came and sat opposite. She didn’t appear to notice the unusually built physique of her visitor. "I don’t suppose you remember me," Shawnee began, "but we have actually met before. I came to rent a flat from you. I didn’t in the end but I saw a place and started all the paperwork." "Yes I do remember you," Val said. "I remember noticing your arms as you filled in the form, and wondering why such a sweet young girl would actually want to do something like that to herself?" Shawnee didn’t rise to this, keeping her emotions in check. She responded however; this was not a time to bite ones tongue, after all. "It’s something you don’t appreciate and don’t understand, therefore you consider it to be somehow wrong or objectionable." "What has this to do with my brother’s death?" "Nothing. I’m afraid I should confess, that was a little white lie just to get my foot through the door." "How did you know about my brother?" "A little research, local papers. The library has them dating back since before you were born, let alone me." "How dare you? What’s this about?" She was angry but she was also shaken. Shawnee took a degree of pleasure from this. It felt good to put her into such an uncomfortable position. "You’re hardly in a position to judge others regarding inappropriate behaviour," Shawnee told her, folding her arms sternly. She knew this would drive the sleeves up a little, make the biceps harden and stand out. "You are an Estate Agent after all. You make your money by screwing people over." Val stood. "OK, enough. Get out of my house." Her body language was pure rage but also betrayed something else - fear. Maybe she was picking up on the cool confidence Shawnee exuded. Maybe it was her obvious physical superiority that trigged the primal fear response. It was the physical card Shawnee played now, standing to match the older woman. She was a little shorter, but her shoulders were broader, her arms hugely bigger. Compared to this highly trained young woman, in her physical prime, Val looked like a frail old woman. "Leave now," Val insisted, her voice trembling a little. "Or I’ll call the police." Shawnee raised an eyebrow at this. "Really?" Then she moved, stepping to the sideboard before Val could react. She picked up the phone, the whole unit "What, with this?" She wrapped a fist around the wire and tugged it neatly out of the phone unit. Her eyes never left the woman’s as she did this, relishing the fear that she could see swelling beneath all that anger. Val visibly flinched as the wire came out. "Now look here," Val began, rambling absurdly. "Just who do you think you are? You can’t behave like this. If you don’t leave this house this very minute then you are going to be in some serious trouble." Shawnee was still holding the phone. She slammed it into the wall - hard. It shattered, plastic and fragments spilling to the floor. "Shut the fuck up." She did, shocked into silence. "Sit down." She did, placid and genuinely scared. "I’m not going to hurt you," she lied. "I just want you to listen to me, to understand. I want you to try and appreciate my point of view." Val nodded, trying to appease, trying to be calm. "I’ve been stewing on this for a long time," Shawnee admitted. "I mean, to you it’s probably just another business day, but to me it was a major trauma. You understand that? Do you appreciate, I mean, really appreciate what you’re doing?" "I’m sorry if I wasn’t able to..." "SHUT UP!" Val shut up. Shawnee’s voice dropped back to its quiet and reasonable tone, the anger immediately abated. "The only reason you even remember who I am is because my appearance is a little unusual. But can you remember the date?" Val stuttered, realising that she was supposed to answer this. "Er, March? April?" "Twenty-fifth February. You see, to you it was nothing. Just a part of the job, no more memorable than the last time the paper stocks were delivered. To me, it affected my entire life. That’s the problem with Estate Agents, you have no appreciation of what it is you’re doing, of the lives you’re disrupting. For the people who deal with you, this is an incredibly difficult and stressful procedure. Unless you can understand and empathise with people, you can’t offer them the necessary support." Val just sat, not knowing what to say or how to apologise in a way that would seem sincere. Shawnee however, had not finished. "But you? You’re even worse. It’s not just simple apathy for you. You actually seem to get some satisfaction from the power you wield. You see it as a constant battle you’re fighting with the clients, how to squeeze the most from them, how to make the most money while offering as little as possible. You’re screwing people over and you actually enjoy it." "That’s not true," Val insisted but the rage in Shawnee’s eyes shut her up again. "Is it the power? Your life is so small and insignificant that you can’t stand to see others making a go of their own lives? You’ve spent so long struggling to make money that you’ve neglected those around you, driven them all away? You live here in this huge and empty building, no one to love, no family to share it all with?" "You bitch," she hissed, fury overcoming her fear. "You know nothing about me. You have no right to judge me." "It’s personal now?" Shawnee asked. "Good. That’s real good. I want you to hate me. I want you pissed off. I want you to feel just one drop of what you do to other people." "You are one disturbed little child. I remember you. A shop-worker. Left school without any qualifications. This is all you are and all you’ll ever be. Christ, you don’t even know if you’re male or female." "You are so bitter," Shawnee remarked with a smile. Val’s barbs were of passion and anger, Shawnee kept her cool, kept her attacks sardonic. "Were I a better person I’d pity you. But I’m not. So I don’t." And, saying this, she pulled out the knife. It was a large, cruel looking weapon. A wide, flat blade, serrated along one side, smooth along the other. Its hilt was black rubber and ended with a flat bar to keep the grip separate and shielded. It wasn’t pretty or elaborate. It wasn’t fancy or aesthetic. Its value was in practical application, and in this function, it was clean and perfect. Val saw the knife and went pale. The stakes had just risen and she realised now, perhaps appreciating for the first time, that she truly was in danger here. "You wouldn’t dare!" Shawnee just smiled at her prey, an expression that assured the woman that she certainly would dare. She approached Val, steps slow and predatory. She held the knife down by her hip, like an animal claw, an extension of her hand. She rose the knife slowly, stroking Val’s petrified body with its flat length, so gently that it was barely discernible. Val couldn’t move; she was frozen to the spot in terror. "I know what you’re thinking," Shawnee told her in a soft, almost seductive voice. The knife began stroking back down her body, as gentle as a lover’s breath. "You’re thinking how cowardly and pathetic I must be to use a weapon against you. Well I wouldn’t want you to think that." To her amazement, Val felt her fingers being forced open and the rubber grip being forced into her grasp. Shawnee stepped back, creating a space between them. Val looked down at her hand in dizzy surprise, seeing the gleaming blade in her hand. "Now you’re the one who’s armed and I’m unarmed. Let’s see what you’ve got." She gestured to the shocked woman, an aggressive ‘come on’ with her fingers, her body crouching like a cat, muscles coiling and tensing. Val looked up at her, shock and fear still just as prevalent in her expression. "You dumb, useless bitch," Shawnee hissed. "Were you this dazed when you found your brother, his stomach full of barbiturates. Did you hesitate? Couldn’t you have checked on him sooner? Couldn’t you have saved him if you’d been just a little less wrapped up in yourself? You stupid, lazy, selfish..." That was it. Val screamed with fury and then leapt at the girl. But Shawnee was never in any danger. She caught the flailing woman about the wrist, holding her at bay with the ease of a mother subduing an unwieldy child. She squeezed, making Val’s hand open, the knife dropping. She caught it easily, then backhanded the woman, sending her reeling backwards. Val collapsed on the floor, weeping in horrified terror. "I’m going to kill you slowly," Shawnee told her, her voice betraying no emotion what so ever. The sound of the front door changed Val’s demeanour in an instant. She went from being the sobbing victim to the vicious avenger in the time it took her boyfriend to walk in on them. "Now we’ll see how tough you are," Val hissed. The man stepping into the fray and just stood there, staring in shock. He saw the blood and the tears; he saw the smashed phone; he saw the muscles and the knife. "What...?" was the only thing he could think of to say. "What the fuck?" "She’s insane," Val sobbed, her body shaking, "she’s trying to kill me." "Daddy joins the party," Shawnee cooed. She eyed the new threat carefully. He was a big man, probably about Val’s age but in far better shape for it. He was naturally big but clearly partook of regular exercise. But despite this, she was confident of her own strength. She knew she could handle herself. The man approached her slowly, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture, as one might a strange dog. "OK, it gonna be OK. Do you want to put the knife down?" "You wanna take it off me, Sport? Who the fuck are you." "Don’t," Val shrieked. "Be careful." "Be careful or don’t," Shawnee offered. "I’m going to kill you anyway." She threw out a biceps flex, her arm swelling into a massive mound of hard, round muscle. "See that? Know what that means? It means you’re fucked. I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to kill your girlfriend." There was a wooden coffee table to one side. Shawnee stabbed the knife into it, burying the blade to the hilt. "Come on," she said, turning back to the man. "Prove to me what a big, strong man you are. First dance is yours. Free sample." He punched her. His fist leapt out and smashed her cleanly and squarely in the face. She went back and her face exploded with blood. Her nose began to fountain. She staggered, trying to find her footing behind her and he stepped forward and slammed a second blow hard into her belly. She doubled over, winded and agonised. He stepped around her and wrapped his arms about her from behind, pinning her to his barrel chest, hugging hard around her ribcage, just below the swell of her breasts. Her arms were locked to her sides. He squeezed so tightly that her ribs were almost cracking. He was taller than she and easily levered her off of the ground, her legs kicking uselessly. "OK," he said, his voice deep and gruff. "Now calm the fuck down or I’m going to have to hurt you." "Hit her," screamed Val, sounding insane now. "Slap the bitch. Fucking kill her." "She’s just a child," he said, his voice just as conciliatory to Val as it was to Shawnee. "She’s obviously very disturbed. She needs help." "She doesn’t deserve shit. I want to see her suffer." Then the two women met eyes. Shawnee looked up from her trapped helplessness and matched the venom in Val’s hate filled eyes. First she flexed, swelling her mighty biceps beneath the man’s hold. She eased her arms apart a little, enough to give herself necessary movement to reach her hands up and grab his arms. Her fingers clawed into his elbows, then began to rip his hold open. He couldn’t fight her. Despite the benefit of his position and angle, she was still way too strong for him. He got the uneasy feeling that she could have done this anytime she chose. Shawnee wrenched apart his arms, her body dropping from his grasp, but she kept a hold of his elbows, pulling her own arms out to the sides. She stretched his arms out so hard he felt as though she would rip them right out at the shoulder. She certainly appeared strong enough to do so. The sight of her arms before him, bulging in massive splender like two huge grapefruit confirmed her physical power. Then she brought her arms forward, throwing her shoulders out and arching her back. She stretched his body out across her back, his chest drawn over that rippling mass of musculature. Then the pops began, a series of shuddering, crunching sounds that she felt reverberate through to her own chest. She stretched him out further, now hearing something inside of him rip. She didn’t stop flexing until his screams ceased. She released the two elbows, noting with satisfaction that they too had crumpled within her grip. He wasn’t dead however. Not yet. The ragged sound of his breathing suggested that that fact could potentially change at any moment. She cupped his head in her hands, stroking his face with amazing tenderness. Then she kissed him, lowering her face to his, covering his mouth with her own, smothering him with her lips. She kissed long and slow, taking a real and sincere pleasure from the act. Val, watching in a state of horrified shock, didn’t even realise the truth of this torture until Shawnee released him and drew her mouth away. The blood began to gush free. She spat the huge lump of meat aside, wiping her mouth clean. The man seemed unaware of what had been done to him, the blood filling his mouth and making him gag. Shawnee still sat, cradling his head in her lab. She tilted his head every now and again to empty out the blood so he didn’t choke of it. She looked at Val and the older woman nearly fainted in fright. "Hand me the knife," Shawnee ordered. Val just stared at her in blank shock. "The knife on the coffee table, give it to me." Still, Val didn’t move a muscle. "Hand me the knife now or I’ll use my bare hands instead. I’ll make it last ten times as long and I swear to God he’ll be conscious throughout." To demonstrate this threat she pressed her thumb against his temple. "I can do it," she promised. "I can jam my thumb right into his fucking skull." Slowly, Val capitulated, reaching for the knife and managing to tug it free of the coffee table. It took her some time, working the blade back and forth to loosen it within the wood. She handed it gently to Shawnee. Her eyes retained the dull glaze throughout. Shawnee thanked Val, then stabbed the man through the forehead. The blade jammed into his skull like it had into the table, buried to the hilt, the handle sticking out of his head at an odd angle. When she released him, he slumped down. Shawnee sighed and sat back, admiring her handiwork. "Can you believe that was the first time I’ve ever killed someone?" Val didn’t answer. The horror of her situation had driven her into a state of catalepsy-like shock. Her eyes were open but seemed to register nothing. It inspired no sympathy in her assailant however; Shawnee slammed a punch squarely into her face. A few resounding slaps finally got some reaction from her. The frightened eyes focussed and the whimpering sobs returned. She tried to back away, shuffle back along the ground, but Shawnee pressed her down with a hand on the shoulder, pinning her on the floor. "Please," Val snivelled, her whole body shuddering. Shawnee just smiled down at her victim, enjoying every moment. She turned Val over onto her stomach and then positioned herself on top of the prone woman, sitting astride her back with her thighs either side. She bent her body low to whisper an intimate promise. "I’m going to enjoy killing you," she said, then proceeded to do so. She turned Val’s head sideways, pressing one cheek against the heavy carpet. She placed her open hand over the other side of her face. Then she began to push. Val began to squirm immediately, but Shawnee’s superior strength kept her hopelessly trapped. She eased her power up slowly, taking care with the precision and deliberation of the act. The cheek-bone snapped first, then the jaw cracked. Shawnee turned up the heat, feeling the fragile skull in her grip. Val was screaming from the pit of her stomach, the sound of it coming out distorted from her misshapen mouth. Finally the head caved and Shawnee felt her own head burst with exhilaration as her hand plunged through a tangle of wet meat. She extricated her hand from the mess of greasy gore and pulp, wiping it reasonably clean on Val’s blouse. Then she stood and regarded the odd couple, her with a crushed head, him with a speared one. She retrieved her knife and began to remove the necessary forensic evidence from the scene. All that she was wearing would be destroyed so that was one less thing to worry about. Her head was still thumping, a deep hot throb that felt giddy and intense. The only thing she’d ever felt that was similar was the endorphin rush she got from training. But this felt so much better. She had been intending to have a quiet night at home tonight but now realised what she needed was a hard night on the town, followed by an exhausting sex session. That night she had learnt that fucking after committing murder was the most incredible sex she would ever have. Until next time. The guy she picked up that night had the most incredible night of his life too. Not only did he get picked up by a gorgeous female bodybuilder, his ultimate fantasy figure, but she then inflicted upon him the most undreamt of and unbelievable sex he would ever have in his entire life, despite attempting to recapture those heights sleeping with several other bodybuilders. Shawnee was alone in her new flat, the first time she’d had a place of her own, all to herself. She was as happy as she could ever remember being, not the least because the football was on. It was Cup Final, and Arsenal, the team she’d loyally supported since she first got into the game as a toddler, were one-nil up. When the doorbell went, she ignored it. Anyone with any sense knew better than to call for her during the game. Besides, most of the people she knew would be too busy watching it themselves. The bell rang a few more times before she reluctantly got up to answer it. Whoever was there was so persistent that it had to be a matter of life or death. The guy on her doorstep however, was a salesman, selling quality kitchen products as a discounted price. Shawnee managed not to hit him but didn’t restrain herself from telling him precisely where to stick his broom and how far. His mistake was not to leave then. If her language or facial expression hadn’t scared him off, the arms bulging out of her T-shirt certainly should have done. But he began insisting she guess how much a full set of kitchen knives in this handsome case, complete with auto-sharpener and lifetime quality guarantee would cost in the shops compared to the meagre twenty-four, ninety-five, plus I’ll throw in this set of tea-towels just for you. She told him she was busy and not interested and began to close the door on him. He got his foot in it and thrust a card at her, his personal number, with the promise that he could come and give her a demonstration of the full range of products whenever it was convenient for her because he didn’t want to be pushy and he understood what a busy and full life young women lead today. She only took the card to get rid of him. He didn’t put his foot in the door this time, which was a good thing because he’d probably have lost it the way she slammed the door. It would have ended there but for the fact that when she returned to her seat, she discovered she’d just missed the last goal. Shawnee didn’t get mad, she didn’t feel any heat or fury. With the gentle calm of one who is at peace, she took out a small black notebook. She took the businesscard and read it. Then she wrote the name Thomas Cowell in her book and placed the card inside. Feeling a whole lot better about herself she sat back in her lazy-girl armchair and watched the rest of the match in peace.