Page 44 of Savage

I’m bored and restless, and the more I try and think about what went on in that warehouse, the more I try to remember about the Cop and the Priest, the less I remember. Under any other circumstances, I’d probably appreciate having my memories taken away, but when exacting your revenge is dependent upon those images, smells, sounds and details, it’s frustrating as all hell. One thing I haven’t forgotten is the way the Priest’s face looked as he hovered over me, while he beat and raped me. I see it every time I close my eyes. The Cop’s face is only ever a blur in my dreams. And though the Dentist took a handful of my teeth and played games dependent upon my fear of his drugs, for some reason he doesn’t make an appearance at all.

When I’m awake, I remember every detail of the Cop’s face, but that doesn’t mean I know where to find him. I’ve spent hours upon hours searching different divisions of the New South Wales Police Force and Googling churches and congregations online, but it’s like trying to pick the guy in the red and white shirt from aWhere’s Wally?book.

I shut the laptop and throw it down on the couch beside me with an audible groan.

Biker—Kick, though I still can’t get used to calling someone by a “doing” word—shifts the laptop to the table and sits down beside me. He hands me the beer he just opened, but I shake my head and wedge myself further into the corner of the lounge.

“What’s up, little spitfire?”

I glare at him. “You need to quit calling me that.”

“You need to work out some of this frustration.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. And while I’m running laps around the perimeter of the house that I’m not allowed to leave I’ll throw you a wink and a wave. I still don’t know why I’m not allowed to set foot out of this house, by the way. We’ve been here three days, and there hasn’t been so much as a freaking wallaby to breach the perimeter.”

“You don’t need to be on the property to be able to shoot someone. Surprisingly, bullets fly a really long way.”

So biker may be a complete arsehole, but I have to admit I’m kind of in love with his sarcastic side.

“Come on,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take. It’s not the first time he’s done this, and I don’t know why—it’s just a hand, after all—but every time he does it, it’s like he’s testing me. Testing my faith in him. Or maybe I just have cabin fever and am overanalysing everything.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ve been here, what? Three days?”

“Yeah?”

“And you never thought to look around?”

“It’s not my house.”

Biker shakes his head. He flexes his hand in an impatient gesture, and I take it. The smug grin he gives me pisses me off a little, but I let him lead me anyway—out of boredom, of course.

He guides me to a room at the end of the hall. I haven’t even been in this wing yet—the rooms Jett had given us were guest rooms, side by side, and upstairs in the east wing of the house. They overlooked the driveway and the unsealed road half a kilometre away. At night I like to watch that road, when I can’t sleep, or when biker has woken me with his thrashing in the next room. I don’t know who plagues his dreams, I don’t know why he screams and lashes out, but some nights I lie awake hoping to find out. Some nights I just lie awake to avoid my own nightmares. Some nights I creep out of bed and lay on the hardwood floors, then I press myself against the wall and finally drift off. Some nights I’d do anything to feel a connection with another human being that wasn’t born of violence, and other nights I’m so consumed with hurt, and anger and my unfulfilled need for revenge that I want to be the one doling out the pain.

Biker opens the door and tugs me inside. I didn’t know what to expect, but a fully equipped gym wasn’t it. I glance around the room. One wall is lined floor to ceiling with mirrors. A bank of treadmills, an elliptical machine, and different kinds of exercise bikes sit opposite. The wall on the left-hand side of the room is painted a hideous Pepto-Bismol colour, while the right-hand corner is blood red. The paint job isn’t finished. In fact, it looks as though someone lost their shit entirely and just pulled out a roller and a can of whatever paint they could find that didn’t make you begin exuding oestrogen from your pores and start popping daisies out of your vagina. This side of the room also houses a very worn-looking punching bag. I gravitate towards it.

Biker laughs. “So violent, little spitfire.”

I glare at him, and then back at the bag. Imagining his cocky face is plastered to it, I pull back my arm and let fly. It’s denser than I’d thought—or maybe I am—because the bag doesn’t give at all and pain slams into me and radiates all the way up my arm.

“Ow, fuck!” I yelp, shaking out the hurt.

“Jesus Christ,” biker says, and the next thing I know, he’s in front of me, all up in my face and taking my hand in his. “You can’t just go in all gung-ho. You’re gonna break your fuckin’ hand.”

He flattens my palm and pushes my fingers back, assessing the damage.

“Ow, that fucking hurts.”

“Come ’ere.” He pulls me over to the wall and takes a roll of white tape off the shelf. My reaction is swift and automatic. I’m transported back to the warehouse. To the Priest binding my hands and feet with duct tape, dragging me across the concrete floor until my flesh burned and wept blood. I step back and yank my hand from his grasp. I lower my gaze, but he takes my chin in his hands and forces me to look at him.

“You need to get this shit outta your system. We’re not leaving this room ’til you and I get straight. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it a thousand times already, in more ways than you can possibly count, and I wouldn’t have needed to bring you to a fancy fuckin’ mansion in the woods. So have a little fuckin’ faith in me, and give me your hand, little spitfire.”

I take a deep shuddering breath, close my eyes and stretch my hand towards him. His touch is gentle this time, far more gentle than I’d ever thought someone with so much uncontained violence to him could be.

“Spread your fingers,” he commands. I do, and he lifts the roll of tape, presses the edge to my skin and begins winding it over my knuckles. I close my eyes. The strident sound of it stretching out from the roll makes me want to flee. It makes me want to run as far from his touch—from any man’s touch—as I can possibly get.

The feel of the tape against my flesh, binding, holding, is so much worse. I tug on my hand, but he won’t let go. My heart rate skyrockets and sweat beads erupt over my brow and upper lip. I’m in that room again, struggling, screaming, trying to fight them off, and failing.

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