Page 35 of Follow Her Down
James
Shewantstotakehis cock first.
That thought hits me like a spark on old petrol.My Prayer, bare-legged and blood-smeared, stares down at Rick, and there’s nae fear in her, nae revulsion.Just cold calculation, like she’s pricing up a bit of meat at the butcher’s.
“He touched me with it,” she says, her voice flat as a dead road.“He doesn’t get to keep it.”
Aye.That’s my girl.My cock twitches, aching and half hard again, straining at my zip even after all that sex and blood and violence.Christ, she’s perfect.My heart thuds, fierce and proud.That’s worship, that.
“Tools are in my van,” I mutter, rough as sandpaper.“I’ll need the bone saw.”
“I’ll lock the front of the store, flip theClosedsign, and get the bleach from the cupboard.“ She nods, no fuss, already off to grab what she needs.
Cool as you like, like we’re just giving the place a deep clean, not about to carve up her shite boss.
She moves off, and I catch the sway of her hips, her sexy ass, her bonnie perfection.Then it’s just me and Rick’s corpse, the rage that burned white-hot in me cooling now, hardening into something colder, sharper.It’s called purpose.
This isn’t just getting rid of a body.This is a rite.A message.Our communion, aye.
When I step out into the cool night, the tang of blood still clinging to my nostrils, my van’s a shadow at the edge of the lot.I fling open the back, and my tools hang neat as you like between my computer monitors: wrenches, pry bars, socket sets.But under the false floor lies my special kit.Contractor bags, tarps, gloves, and the bone saw.
I lift it out—solid steel, blade sharp as a Glasgow smile.I run my thumb along the handle, feel the heft, the promise in it.Aye, this is a key for dark doors.Feels right, like a talisman.Me and this saw, we’ve made plenty of history together.
Back inside, Prayer locks up behind me and has already dragged out the bucket and bleach.That wee, sharp smile graces her lips—the kind that says she’s right at home in the mess.Makes my blood run hot, that smile.
“Right,” I say, my voice echoing off the bathroom tiles, “let’s chop him up and make the rest of him fit down that drain.”
We spread the tarp—crinkle, crinkle—then roll the body on it.Rick’s arms flop like a burst sausage, his face mashed flat, but Prayer doesn’t blink.Her eyes are fixed, intent.Aye, she’s been here before, in her mind if not her hands.
Gloves on, thick, black, up to the elbows.I toss a pair to her, and she slides them on, her fingers swallowed up.Something about those wee hands in murder gear gets me harder.My little butcher queen.
“Prayer,” I rumble, “ye sure ye want to see this bit?It’s…messy.I can do it myself if ye—“
“If you try to send me away,” she says, soft but dangerous, “I’ll take the saw myself and start withyou.”
I cannae help it—a laugh bursts out, low and rough.No threat.That’s a vow.My lass, my equal, soaked in blood and cheek.She’s a dark mirror reflecting every twisted impulse I possess.Christ, I’d marry her in this bog right now.
“Aye.Point taken.”
I kneel by Rick’s hips, Prayer opposite, her gloved hands ready.I pull back his jeans, and his cock flops out, pale and sorry, no power left in it.
“Clean cut,” I say.“Then the baws.Bag ’em separate, mind.”
She nods, no bother.Her breaths are quick, but her hands are steady as a surgeon’s.
I set the saw’s teeth at the root of his cock, cold steel on dead flesh, draw back, push forward.The sound’s obscene—wet, grating, skin against metal.Blood wells, thick and dark, pooling fast.The stink’s wild, like copper, sweat, and something sour under it.
Prayer doesn’t flinch.A wee spray of blood spatters her cheek, right under her eye.She just blinks, nothing more.
I work the saw, back and forth, the vibration shuddering up my arms.With a slight crunch and a jerk, his sorry cock comes free.I lift the bit—still warm, limp in my glove—and drop it in the bag Sera holds open.
“Baws next,” I grunt, setting the saw under his sac.
More crunch, more blood, more stink.The baws come out easy, like wee eggs.In the bag.Done.
I glance up.Sera’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide, pupils big as saucers.She’s buzzing, and aye, so am I with the high of control, the rush of cutting a threat to pieces, and seeing her beside me.
“Arms next,” I say, shifting position.
