memories came flooding into his mind – perhaps, after all, the taste of salty skin was his favourite.
There was no sign of life. All was quiet, except for the sound of the wind rushing down the Georgian street, rattling windowpanes, rustling through the bare trees that lined the Water of Leith and provided his cover.
Kailash’s girls opened the shutters – obviously the kitchen must have been too hot. In the darkness, the light from the basement of the casino reminded him of watching a drive-in movie. The girls had come to enjoy a coffee break – The Watcher could see them in their underwear. His hand went to his trousers as he felt himself stir to life. He unzipped his fly as the red silk gown fell off the girl he watched; he stroked himself and stared at her. Now he envisioned what it would be like if she wrapped those long bare legs around him. He stroked himself faster still. He grunted loudly in his head, but stopped himself just before he ejaculated: he who lives without discipline lives without honour .
He stood chewing his lips. It seemed like an hour, but in reality it was only a matter of minutes before the front door swung open and the girl kicked the old woman down the steps.
The Watcher heard every word.
‘ Vacu draculi! ’
The Watcher whispered it under his breath, interpreting Contessa’s words. He sniggered and repeated the words – ‘You are the devil’s cow!’ So, that’s the way it was. It was no surprise to him; there was no evil that his mind could not conceive of. He had little or no faith in his fellow man. The Watcher knew the score from these shouted words. He had heard the old babushka’s story increasingly often in recent years – a worthless daughter had suddenly become the family’s greatest asset for the price her body bought in Bucharest. The girl would be taken out of the country to work in a brothel. After she had paid off the initial money outlaid to her family, her new owners would take rent from her and send any remaining pennies home to the family. The babushka had travelled to Scotland to slap the wretched girl for withholding the money.
She picked herself up out of the gutter and brushed the snow from her coat. As she retied her headscarf, The Watcher noticed a ribbon of blood running down her face from a cut above her eye. Slowly, she lifted her hands and wiped it away. For a few long seconds, she stared at her bloody palms and fingers. A little surprised, The Watcher opened his eyes wider as he waited for her to seek absolution. Reaching into her deep pockets, she pulled out a string of rosary beads. Limping slowly along Danube Street, she passed close to The Watcher’s hiding place; he heard her prayers.
He guessed that she was praying for herself.
Chapter Twenty
Court Meeting, Lothian and St Clair W.S.
Monday 24 December, 7.30 a.m.
By virtue of rising at the crack of dawn, I’d finally made good my promise to check out the mysterious website Joe and Bancho had been discussing, and I had only one word to go on: ‘Hobbyist’.
I don’t know what I was expecting – disgruntled legal clients bad-mouthing myself and others of my illustrious profession perhaps?
It took a lot of Googling, but the only Hobbyist I could find appeared to be an American-based ‘adult’ site where men with bizarre and violent tendencies got their rocks off discussing the adventures they’d enjoyed with prostitutes – sometimes very young and not always willing prostitutes. I comforted myself that, as usual when men discuss their fetishes, at least 50 per cent of it could probably be dismissed as fantasy and wishful thinking.
It certainly wasn’t my reading of choice, and I was about to give up and log off when I caught sight of my name. One of the dirty old fuckers had been trying to get in touch with a ‘Brodie McLennan’. Okay, it’s not a common name, but I reasoned there must be at least a few Brodie McLennans in the States or on the worldwide web. I checked
There was no sign of life. All was quiet, except for the sound of the wind rushing down the Georgian street, rattling windowpanes, rustling through the bare trees that lined the Water of Leith and provided his cover.
Kailash’s girls opened the shutters – obviously the kitchen must have been too hot. In the darkness, the light from the basement of the casino reminded him of watching a drive-in movie. The girls had come to enjoy a coffee break – The Watcher could see them in their underwear. His hand went to his trousers as he felt himself stir to life. He unzipped his fly as the red silk gown fell off the girl he watched; he stroked himself and stared at her. Now he envisioned what it would be like if she wrapped those long bare legs around him. He stroked himself faster still. He grunted loudly in his head, but stopped himself just before he ejaculated: he who lives without discipline lives without honour .
He stood chewing his lips. It seemed like an hour, but in reality it was only a matter of minutes before the front door swung open and the girl kicked the old woman down the steps.
The Watcher heard every word.
‘ Vacu draculi! ’
The Watcher whispered it under his breath, interpreting Contessa’s words. He sniggered and repeated the words – ‘You are the devil’s cow!’ So, that’s the way it was. It was no surprise to him; there was no evil that his mind could not conceive of. He had little or no faith in his fellow man. The Watcher knew the score from these shouted words. He had heard the old babushka’s story increasingly often in recent years – a worthless daughter had suddenly become the family’s greatest asset for the price her body bought in Bucharest. The girl would be taken out of the country to work in a brothel. After she had paid off the initial money outlaid to her family, her new owners would take rent from her and send any remaining pennies home to the family. The babushka had travelled to Scotland to slap the wretched girl for withholding the money.
She picked herself up out of the gutter and brushed the snow from her coat. As she retied her headscarf, The Watcher noticed a ribbon of blood running down her face from a cut above her eye. Slowly, she lifted her hands and wiped it away. For a few long seconds, she stared at her bloody palms and fingers. A little surprised, The Watcher opened his eyes wider as he waited for her to seek absolution. Reaching into her deep pockets, she pulled out a string of rosary beads. Limping slowly along Danube Street, she passed close to The Watcher’s hiding place; he heard her prayers.
He guessed that she was praying for herself.
Chapter Twenty
Court Meeting, Lothian and St Clair W.S.
Monday 24 December, 7.30 a.m.
By virtue of rising at the crack of dawn, I’d finally made good my promise to check out the mysterious website Joe and Bancho had been discussing, and I had only one word to go on: ‘Hobbyist’.
I don’t know what I was expecting – disgruntled legal clients bad-mouthing myself and others of my illustrious profession perhaps?
It took a lot of Googling, but the only Hobbyist I could find appeared to be an American-based ‘adult’ site where men with bizarre and violent tendencies got their rocks off discussing the adventures they’d enjoyed with prostitutes – sometimes very young and not always willing prostitutes. I comforted myself that, as usual when men discuss their fetishes, at least 50 per cent of it could probably be dismissed as fantasy and wishful thinking.
It certainly wasn’t my reading of choice, and I was about to give up and log off when I caught sight of my name. One of the dirty old fuckers had been trying to get in touch with a ‘Brodie McLennan’. Okay, it’s not a common name, but I reasoned there must be at least a few Brodie McLennans in the States or on the worldwide web. I checked
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