Date Rape
by Bill Kirton
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: None.
Description: An online date doesn't go as planned.
____________________________________________________________________
My fault. Well, it nearly always is. I’d agreed to meet her at her place. Several miles outside of town, halfway up the glen. Too grand to be called a croft but not really qualifying as a house either. Set back in a birch copse. No mains electricity, water from a pump. Well, you get the picture.
She’d been upfront about it on her profile, warned that it was isolated, said if men were looking for pubs, clubs, that sort of action, they’d be disappointed. When she said she was just looking for friendship and ‘perhaps, in time’ more intimacy, I thought it was pretty clear that the whole thing would be a slow burn and short on any genuine action. That suited me fine. I’ve been using online dating sites for a while. I like them. They give you time to chat before you meet, time to get a feel of the person at the other end. I mean, it’s obvious that the profiles paint the best possible picture. No one’s going to fess up about their nasty habits, personal hygiene, quirky preferences. Of course not. They’re all identikit men and women, they all have a good sense of humour, they’re all caring, interested in others. In fact, these places give you the impression the world’s full of beautiful therapists, who like art galleries, classical music, long country walks and glasses of Merlot in front of a roaring log fire. Most of the men try to hide the fact that what they’re really after is sex and, in my experience, if a woman is too upfront about her own appetites, the queue to date her will stretch round the e-block – or whatever the appropriate term is.
But once you’ve made contact, it’s amazing how people begin to open up, tell you things about themselves they’d never be able to say face to face. Somehow, the anonymity of sitting at home at a keyboard sets them free. It never occurs to them how vulnerable they’re making themselves. That was certainly the case with Jenny. She’s not the one with the house up the glen, she’s the previous one, from last spring.
She lived in Edinburgh, a two hour drive from me. She was careful at first, asked lots of questions. I’m used to that and my answers are always ready. Yes, I have a job. In engineering design. I make plugs for oil and gas pipelines, so I could go on and on about hydraulic pressures, composite ring seals, and all that stuff. But of course, I don’t, not even when they pretend to be interested. No, I’m not married. Never have been. No fiancées or girl friends, no family. OK, that bit’s a lie. I have a brother, Jack, but he lives in New Zealand. We had a big falling out a few years back after his wife’s accident and we haven’t stayed in touch, so why complicate things? I know the accident was my fault, but still… makes for even more complications, doesn’t it? Better to be free. No ties.
Jenny listened to it all and, when she felt she knew me well enough, she started opening up about her own family, the things her uncle did to her from the time she was five years old. The way when, aged 15, she’d eventually told her father about it, and how her father had confronted his brother with the story and the brother had broken down, apologised tearfully and said it had only happened once, and that was just after the time he’d lost his job, and he’d got drunk and, well, he was so, so sorry and knew it was an unforgivable thing to do.
And her father had forgiven him.
I’ve heard so many stories like that, and once someone’s unloaded secrets like that on you, it’s natural for them to see you as a friend, a sympathetic listener, someone they’d like to spend time with. And that’s what happened with Jenny. She was still careful, though. When we eventually met, it was in a bar near Charlotte Square, a crowded, noisy place. I suppose we must have met four, maybe five times there. But I knew from the way she’d been before that she’d soon want somewhere quieter. She was a talker, not a doer. And before long, we’d meet in the bar but then drive to the Botanic Gardens and just stroll about there.
I don’t know why I’m telling you about her really. Just as an example, I suppose. To show how all the early chat makes you vulnerable, sets you up. When we at last got to the business end of things, it was quick, messy, not really very satisfactory. And I stopped driving down there.
Then came Natalie, the one I’m talking about now. What a contrast. She let me give out the usual information about myself but she … well, she just stayed mysterious. Wouldn’t tell me her real name, said everything in her profile was true but that I wouldn’t find out much more about her. She was quick, funny, sexy and knew exactly what to say – and what to leave out – to keep me, well, not just interested, but greedy to see her. The slow burn I’d anticipated began to generate heat more quickly than I’d expected and, once we’d seen each other on our webcams, she gave me directions to the place up the glen and invited me along.
It took me the best part of an hour to find it but when I arrived and she opened the door to me, I felt as if I was walking into the cliché that all those beautiful, caring, online, therapist date-seekers craved. We shook hands and kissed cheeks and she waved me in. The air in the living room was sweet and warm. In front of the logs blazing in the hearth sat a white chaise longue with green scatter cushions. On a small glass-topped table beside it were two glasses and a bottle of St Emilion, already opened. Natalie crossed to it, lifted the bottle and looked a question at me.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘St Emilion. My favourite.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘How?’ I said, ‘I don’t think it’s in my profile.’
‘It’s not.’
She smiled, poured, and we sat together on the chaise longue. She looked at her watch.
‘Bang on time. Typical engineer,’ she said.
I smiled back at her but said nothing. To be honest, talking was very far from my mind. I’d seen her photos, of course, and I’d seen her on her webcam, but none of that did her justice. She was beautiful, but with an energy and a presence that no cameras could capture. Her movements were slow, her eyes hypnotic, her lips so bloody luscious. And she knew very well the effect she was having. She kept her voice low, soft as she teased me, telling me we wouldn’t be disturbed. No one knew I was there. Even her contacts with me had been made on a computer in town, not her own. And she talked about things we’d said to one another online, telling me which bits she’d believed and which she knew were inventions. It was a performance, and it was captivating.
Which was exactly what she’d planned, of course. Because after maybe 15 minutes I knew something was wrong. My eyelids were drooping and my head felt heavy. I should have guessed something from the way she’d kept looking at her watch.
‘Feeling OK?’ she asked, the smile on her gorgeous lips showing that she didn’t care one way or the other.
She reached over and took the half empty glass from my hand.
‘I don’t want you spilling that on the fabric,’ she said.
I wanted to take the glass back but I felt tired, weak.
‘By the way,’ she said, putting the glass back on the table, ‘Jack told me to say Hi’.
I just looked at her.
‘You know? Jack? In Auckland? I knew Sally, his wife, before they met. She still hasn’t recovered, you know. Never will now.’
I knew I was in deep trouble. The evening I’d planned, the things I was going to do with her, to her – a sham.
‘The wine?’ I said.
Her smile was dazzling.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Rohypnol. But this is no date rape. I’ve got other things in mind.’
I didn’t want to hear her plans but soon I’d have no choice. And she’d be able to do what she liked with me. In no time at all, the evening had morphed from an anticipation of self-indulgent pleasures to a dread of dangers I couldn’t begin to imagine. It had all happened so quickly. I had no time to think, only react, and soon the drug would stop me doing even that. Slowly, ponderously, as she smiled, watched and waited, I slipped my hand into the pocket of my jacket. She shook her head and said ‘No, I don’t think so’. She leaned across to reach for my hand and bring it out again. I took a deep breath, forced the remains of my strength into my arm and brought it up against her, driving it hard into a spot below her breasts. And I passed out.
When I woke up, the fire had died and dawn was beginning to show in the sky. I drifted back and forth, in and out of consciousness until I was able to start focusing on where I was. Natalie’s body was heavy on me and I was covered in the blood that had poured from her. Stupid bloody woman. What a waste. I’d had much more subtle plans for the scalpel. It wasn’t like some street kid’s clumsy stabber. It was delicate, you could do tiny, graceful things with it, the sort of things I did to Jenny. People didn’t understand.
When I felt strong enough, I heaved Natalie off me and left her on the chaise longue. It was ruined, of course. They’d never get those stains out. I went to the car, fetched the holdall with my jogging gear in it, showered and changed. I drove back to town by the northern route. The CCTV cameras would see me coming in that way, not the way I’d gone the previous evening.
When I got home I was still angry, frustrated, dissatisfied. The feeling stayed with me all day and I could barely wait for the evening to arrive. It was earlier than usual when I logged on.
Swearwords: None.
Description: An online date doesn't go as planned.
____________________________________________________________________
My fault. Well, it nearly always is. I’d agreed to meet her at her place. Several miles outside of town, halfway up the glen. Too grand to be called a croft but not really qualifying as a house either. Set back in a birch copse. No mains electricity, water from a pump. Well, you get the picture.
She’d been upfront about it on her profile, warned that it was isolated, said if men were looking for pubs, clubs, that sort of action, they’d be disappointed. When she said she was just looking for friendship and ‘perhaps, in time’ more intimacy, I thought it was pretty clear that the whole thing would be a slow burn and short on any genuine action. That suited me fine. I’ve been using online dating sites for a while. I like them. They give you time to chat before you meet, time to get a feel of the person at the other end. I mean, it’s obvious that the profiles paint the best possible picture. No one’s going to fess up about their nasty habits, personal hygiene, quirky preferences. Of course not. They’re all identikit men and women, they all have a good sense of humour, they’re all caring, interested in others. In fact, these places give you the impression the world’s full of beautiful therapists, who like art galleries, classical music, long country walks and glasses of Merlot in front of a roaring log fire. Most of the men try to hide the fact that what they’re really after is sex and, in my experience, if a woman is too upfront about her own appetites, the queue to date her will stretch round the e-block – or whatever the appropriate term is.
But once you’ve made contact, it’s amazing how people begin to open up, tell you things about themselves they’d never be able to say face to face. Somehow, the anonymity of sitting at home at a keyboard sets them free. It never occurs to them how vulnerable they’re making themselves. That was certainly the case with Jenny. She’s not the one with the house up the glen, she’s the previous one, from last spring.
She lived in Edinburgh, a two hour drive from me. She was careful at first, asked lots of questions. I’m used to that and my answers are always ready. Yes, I have a job. In engineering design. I make plugs for oil and gas pipelines, so I could go on and on about hydraulic pressures, composite ring seals, and all that stuff. But of course, I don’t, not even when they pretend to be interested. No, I’m not married. Never have been. No fiancées or girl friends, no family. OK, that bit’s a lie. I have a brother, Jack, but he lives in New Zealand. We had a big falling out a few years back after his wife’s accident and we haven’t stayed in touch, so why complicate things? I know the accident was my fault, but still… makes for even more complications, doesn’t it? Better to be free. No ties.
Jenny listened to it all and, when she felt she knew me well enough, she started opening up about her own family, the things her uncle did to her from the time she was five years old. The way when, aged 15, she’d eventually told her father about it, and how her father had confronted his brother with the story and the brother had broken down, apologised tearfully and said it had only happened once, and that was just after the time he’d lost his job, and he’d got drunk and, well, he was so, so sorry and knew it was an unforgivable thing to do.
And her father had forgiven him.
I’ve heard so many stories like that, and once someone’s unloaded secrets like that on you, it’s natural for them to see you as a friend, a sympathetic listener, someone they’d like to spend time with. And that’s what happened with Jenny. She was still careful, though. When we eventually met, it was in a bar near Charlotte Square, a crowded, noisy place. I suppose we must have met four, maybe five times there. But I knew from the way she’d been before that she’d soon want somewhere quieter. She was a talker, not a doer. And before long, we’d meet in the bar but then drive to the Botanic Gardens and just stroll about there.
I don’t know why I’m telling you about her really. Just as an example, I suppose. To show how all the early chat makes you vulnerable, sets you up. When we at last got to the business end of things, it was quick, messy, not really very satisfactory. And I stopped driving down there.
Then came Natalie, the one I’m talking about now. What a contrast. She let me give out the usual information about myself but she … well, she just stayed mysterious. Wouldn’t tell me her real name, said everything in her profile was true but that I wouldn’t find out much more about her. She was quick, funny, sexy and knew exactly what to say – and what to leave out – to keep me, well, not just interested, but greedy to see her. The slow burn I’d anticipated began to generate heat more quickly than I’d expected and, once we’d seen each other on our webcams, she gave me directions to the place up the glen and invited me along.
It took me the best part of an hour to find it but when I arrived and she opened the door to me, I felt as if I was walking into the cliché that all those beautiful, caring, online, therapist date-seekers craved. We shook hands and kissed cheeks and she waved me in. The air in the living room was sweet and warm. In front of the logs blazing in the hearth sat a white chaise longue with green scatter cushions. On a small glass-topped table beside it were two glasses and a bottle of St Emilion, already opened. Natalie crossed to it, lifted the bottle and looked a question at me.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘St Emilion. My favourite.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘How?’ I said, ‘I don’t think it’s in my profile.’
‘It’s not.’
She smiled, poured, and we sat together on the chaise longue. She looked at her watch.
‘Bang on time. Typical engineer,’ she said.
I smiled back at her but said nothing. To be honest, talking was very far from my mind. I’d seen her photos, of course, and I’d seen her on her webcam, but none of that did her justice. She was beautiful, but with an energy and a presence that no cameras could capture. Her movements were slow, her eyes hypnotic, her lips so bloody luscious. And she knew very well the effect she was having. She kept her voice low, soft as she teased me, telling me we wouldn’t be disturbed. No one knew I was there. Even her contacts with me had been made on a computer in town, not her own. And she talked about things we’d said to one another online, telling me which bits she’d believed and which she knew were inventions. It was a performance, and it was captivating.
Which was exactly what she’d planned, of course. Because after maybe 15 minutes I knew something was wrong. My eyelids were drooping and my head felt heavy. I should have guessed something from the way she’d kept looking at her watch.
‘Feeling OK?’ she asked, the smile on her gorgeous lips showing that she didn’t care one way or the other.
She reached over and took the half empty glass from my hand.
‘I don’t want you spilling that on the fabric,’ she said.
I wanted to take the glass back but I felt tired, weak.
‘By the way,’ she said, putting the glass back on the table, ‘Jack told me to say Hi’.
I just looked at her.
‘You know? Jack? In Auckland? I knew Sally, his wife, before they met. She still hasn’t recovered, you know. Never will now.’
I knew I was in deep trouble. The evening I’d planned, the things I was going to do with her, to her – a sham.
‘The wine?’ I said.
Her smile was dazzling.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Rohypnol. But this is no date rape. I’ve got other things in mind.’
I didn’t want to hear her plans but soon I’d have no choice. And she’d be able to do what she liked with me. In no time at all, the evening had morphed from an anticipation of self-indulgent pleasures to a dread of dangers I couldn’t begin to imagine. It had all happened so quickly. I had no time to think, only react, and soon the drug would stop me doing even that. Slowly, ponderously, as she smiled, watched and waited, I slipped my hand into the pocket of my jacket. She shook her head and said ‘No, I don’t think so’. She leaned across to reach for my hand and bring it out again. I took a deep breath, forced the remains of my strength into my arm and brought it up against her, driving it hard into a spot below her breasts. And I passed out.
When I woke up, the fire had died and dawn was beginning to show in the sky. I drifted back and forth, in and out of consciousness until I was able to start focusing on where I was. Natalie’s body was heavy on me and I was covered in the blood that had poured from her. Stupid bloody woman. What a waste. I’d had much more subtle plans for the scalpel. It wasn’t like some street kid’s clumsy stabber. It was delicate, you could do tiny, graceful things with it, the sort of things I did to Jenny. People didn’t understand.
When I felt strong enough, I heaved Natalie off me and left her on the chaise longue. It was ruined, of course. They’d never get those stains out. I went to the car, fetched the holdall with my jogging gear in it, showered and changed. I drove back to town by the northern route. The CCTV cameras would see me coming in that way, not the way I’d gone the previous evening.
When I got home I was still angry, frustrated, dissatisfied. The feeling stayed with me all day and I could barely wait for the evening to arrive. It was earlier than usual when I logged on.
About the Author
Bill Kirton was born in Plymouth, but has lived in Aberdeen for most of his life. He’s been a university lecturer, presented TV programmes, written and performed songs and sketches at the Edinburgh Festival, and had radio plays broadcast by the BBC. He’s written four books in Pearson’s ‘Brilliant’ series and his crime novels, Material Evidence, Rough Justice, The Darkness, Shadow Selves and the historical novel The Figurehead, set in Aberdeen in 1840, have been published in the UK and USA. His other novel, The Sparrow Conundrum, is a crime spoof set in Aberdeen and Inverness. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies and Love Hurts was chosen for the Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 2010.
His website and blog can be found at http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk.
His website and blog can be found at http://www.bill-kirton.co.uk.