Stacy Faversham lay back in her bed, struggling to fall into a forgetful sleep. The hard, back-breaking, board for a mattress and Mad-axe Annie’s chainsaw snoring, in the bunk above, didn’t help to ease her mind. Stacy knew the lack of rest was more to do with the spirit crushing news the post-mortem and doctor’s report had delivered when presented in court four hours earlier. Oh, how the girls on block C laughed at her when she arrived back. Stacy couldn’t understand how they found out so fast. The prison prohibited telephones and news reports, yet word was out twenty minutes before she’d returned, overwhelmed and feeling foolish.
To stem the rising acid panic she allowed her thoughts to drift back a mere three months. It was a time that didn’t see her in grey polyester and cheap lingerie. Stacy wore Westwood, and her cherished, red-soled, Louboutins. She dined in restaurants such as The Fat Duck. As she was doing on the last day she was to spend with her ageing husband.
Stephen appeared almost jittery and hyper. His lopsided grin and incessant chatter seemed forced to Stacy.
His happiness bored the far younger woman beyond description, so didn’t bother asking him if he was okay.
She was only certain no eighty-three-year-old should be as full of vitality as he. Stacy, forty-five years his junior, viewed it as her future to make sure it would be the last night he smiled.
She’d planned for the assassins to be waiting by the front door as Stephen parked his prized possession.
Weapons weren’t necessary. During the first meeting in The Dog and Duck, Stacy banned guns outright. She knew accidents could happen. Her beloved father had suffered a fatal wound after a gunshot fired by one of his own men during a raid in Belfast. Many years of bitter pain passed before she realised the only way to take the tragedy was as a lesson to learn.
Stacy had told the leader, Billy, that Stephen would only require a slight shove, and he’d drop like a heavy curtain. Billy, not being too bright, frowned at the analogy, until she’d explained the meaning. He then roared like a drunken baboon.
They arrived back at the mock Tudor mansion at ten minutes to midnight. The gravel crunched under the thick tyres.
She thanked the autumn for the cloud covered sky. Stephen’s red E-Type Jaguar looked black as she climbed out. Stacy cast a beady eye around the garden although detected no sign of Billy’s group of three. Her stomach twisted as she questioned if they might have reneged on the deal.
Her doubts were soon proven as paranoia.
As Stephen jabbered about his luck in finding her, Stacy watched him approach the huge oak doors. Within moments he was on the floor groaning and moaning, surrounded by the balaclava clad shadows. Fear flooded from his wide eyes. She had never seen such fear. The power it gave her also leant her a level of stupidity she only ever saw in others.
‘You bore me, Stephen,’ Stacy hissed, before stamping on his skull with her needle-sharp heel.
It turned out to be her downfall when the forensics team came calling, but for that one moment it filled her with power. Her groin ached with it. Her nipples hardened as the heel entered his wrinkled temple. It was the sweetest orgasm the ancient tortoise could ever have given her.
She believed his wealth would be hers.
As Billy and his boys slapped her around the driveway and bound her to make it look like burglary, she thought only of the money and the thrill in her belly.
The only orgasm Stephen afforded her, however, was to be during Stacy’s final full day of freedom.
The rusty iron crown to sit on top of the whole stinking, stupid mass of shit was the hospital reports read out by the prosecutor. The smarmy bastard grinned for the briefest moment as he told the court that Stephen had less than a month to live. Unbeknown to Stacy, his doctor informed him the day he’d died.
If only the silly old bastard had opened his stupid mouth and told me, she thought, on the verge of tears.
Stacy felt a scream of frustration building in her throat. She clamped her hands to her mouth and banged her head against the paper-thin pillow.
She didn’t notice Annie’s snoring stop.
‘You carry on doing that, lady,’ Annie growled, without looking down at her. ‘And I will twist your head off myself. Do you hear?’
‘Mmmmm,’ Stacy replied through her fingers.
‘Good. Now go to fucking sleep! You’ve got twenty years of self-reflection. Pace yourself.’