Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4), Matthew Hattersley [best book club books for discussion .TXT] 📗

side, then the other, letting her lank hair fall across her face. With her head lowered, she unbuttoned the linen shirt she was wearing, peeling it from her sinewy frame where it was stuck with sweat from her earlier effort. The bra went next, that evil contraption of cloth and wire that she despised wearing even after all these years. She unhooked the clasps and let it fall to the floor, the cool air in the room biting at her nipples as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was hard, her eyes free from emotion as they drifted down to take in her breasts. They were modest in size and unremarkable in many ways, yet had been nothing but a burden from the moment they’d arrived – along with the tufts of hair and widening of her hips – when she was just twelve years old. A young girl, a child, yet without her agreement she suddenly had these symbols of adult depravity bursting out from her body.

Drifting lower her eyes settled on the crisscross of scars on her ribs and stomach. Some of them angry, purple stripes, others almost not there, like invisible ghosts of transgressions past. She turned around, peering over her shoulder to view her naked back where longer scars were visible, the shadows cast by the dim bulb above highlighting the raised welts and ragged hollows.

Reaching across the bed, with its threadbare blanket and anaemic single mattress, she hooked a long string of rosary beads from off the headboard and held them in both hands, moving the cold marble beads between her fingers, feeling the energy of their shared history. What redemption these beads had provided over the years. Hundreds of Hail Marys whispered into the darkness in an attempt to ease her suffering and assuage her shame.

But not today.

Not anymore.

Because prayer only got a person so far. And guilt was reserved for those with a soul. Turning back to the mirror she gripped the beads in her fist, making sure the heavy marble crucifix was hanging down in front. Then, with her jaw tight and her eyes blazing defiance into their own reflection, she began to whip the rosary beads violently over her shoulders and around her flank. Grimacing through the pain, defying herself to cry out, she kept going, each strike harder than the last and the edge of the crucifix tearing at her naked flesh.

Now at last she felt something.

And this was needed. Required of her.

“Pecador repugnante,” she snarled at the woman in the mirror. “Disgusting, sinful creature. You deserve nothing. No mereces nada.”

Except she deserved this pain all right. She’d earned it. Like always. She’d let herself down.

It would not happen again.

Twenty-Three

A thousand chattering bats plagued Acid’s thoughts as she leaned against the raw brick of the wall, keeping one eye on the door while waiting for Danny to return with the drinks. The bar was tiny, with a small counter at one end of the windowless room and only three tables in the place. It was certainly dark. Seedy too. Danny hadn’t been lying about that. But it was the rest of his story she had issues with. Why not simply sell the egg he did have and disappear? By the sound of it, that alone would bring him more money than he’d ever need. He could be in Antigua by next weekend, safely away from the Luis Delgados and Petre Kaminskis of the world. Why risk everything for the second egg?

“Ah, bollocks.”

She looked at her hands, realising she’d been picking at the skin around her thumbnail. It was bleeding. She shoved it in her mouth, the sour taste of iron unpleasant on her tongue. There was something Danny wasn’t telling her, but if she was honest with herself, her desire to find out what was only a smokescreen. The real question was why did she feel so crappy all of a sudden? Ever since she’d arrived in Spain (ever since she’d sobered up, if she was sticking with honesty) she’d been aware of a niggling presence on the cusp of her awareness. The bats had arrived in force, but that aspect of her mania she could handle, having long ago learned to hone the intense nervous energy into something powerful. The inspiration to try things others would never attempt, or to think fast, need little sleep – these were valuable attributes for the types of situation in which she often found herself. But this new presence was different. Darker. More sinister.

“Here we are, get that down ya.”

The chirpy Irishman’s booming voice cut into her train of thought. She sat upright as a bottle of beer appeared on the table in front of her.

“San Miguel? Seriously? I can get this in Dagenham.”

Danny shrugged, already chugging back a mouthful of his own beer. “It’s what he gave me.”

“I thought you said this place wasn’t for tourists.”

He placed his bottle down and leered across the table. “It’s not. So maybe the old St Michael is good Spanish lager after all.”

“Maybe.”

He grinned, baring his pearly whites. “Come on now. We just escaped certain death. You saved my life. You were awesome.”

She picked up the beer and took a swig. Not as chilled as she’d have liked. “She’s still out there, Danny. Still alive. That’s no cause for celebration.” She shifted on the hard stool to put herself on an angle away from that stupid look on his face, somewhere between lust and reverence.

“So it is true. Ya used to be… You were…”

This again.

She chewed on her bottom lip. Didn’t look at him. “I was what?”

“Ya know. Same as the mad nun, same as my uncle.”

“Oh, I thought he was always just Uncle Jimmy to you?”

“Yeah, but I heard the rumours. We all did. So it is true. Geez. I never kissed a hit woman before.”

She turned to face him. “And you haven’t now.”

“But before… in your room. Sorry, but I’m taking that.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. Nothing happened.” She swigged back a