Check out the early reviews on REVENGE:
Four Stars
Fast-Paced Thriller March 2, 2012
From SeaWitch:
Revenge is a short thriller by Kim and Kevin Tomsett. The book centers around a man named Daniel - who seems like a pretty decent guy. He and his wife have recently gone through a nasty divorce and she has taken everything from him, including the house and his children.
He is broke and living in a run-down flat with only a neurotic cat to keep him company...until he wins the lottery. Suddenly, he has the money to live comfortably and buy whatever he wishes...but all he wants is revenge.
I enjoyed this book. The characters were well-written and the story was complete and didn't leave me hanging when it ended. I believe if more of the wife's bad behavior had been revealed, the ending would have seemed more justified, but all in all- it was a good read.
I can easily see this short book being turned into a full-length novel. It was fast-paced and I finished it in one day. I am sure this book will gain popularity and I can't wait to read more from these two talented authors!
Five Stars
Revenge is best served Italian Style – like this one! March 10, 2012
Elaine Raco Chase:
This story would have made a delicious episode of the Twilight Zone series!
The Tomsett writing team has indeed crafted a delicious dish - with Daniel as the artful cook. The reader easily becomes Daniel, walks in his shoes as he calculates and deliberately exacts his revenge. The best way as the Italians say: comes with planning and Daniel does it so well or does he?
It's a short story, so I don't want to give anything away - except - damn! I wish it was longer!
Can't wait for another well-crafted tale from Kevin and Kim.
REVENGE
Smashwords Edition
Published by Kevin Tomsett at Smashwords
Copyright © 2012 by Kevin Tomsett
Smashwords Ebook License Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated. Re-selling this eBook without permission is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Revenge
Sunday
Morning intruded gently – a small puppy of light and sound worrying and gently shaking him awake. Daniel snorted, sneezed and rolled over into the beams of sunlight filtering into the room – dazed and slightly dazzled by the golden puddle on his pillow, the warmth tickling him awake. He lay for a second, and then scrabbled for his bedside table, splashing water all over the cat, half-asleep on the pile of clothes by the bed.
It howled indignantly and shot out the door, bouncing off a wall in a trajectory that carried it past the washing pile, and knocking over the dammed houseplant, again. The tiny flat was already crowded enough, and when he’d taken the place, she’d sent their cat with him. She hated the poor girl, calling it ‘flea bitten’ and screaming whenever its box needed cleaned.
The cat hadn’t responded well to the move, but soon settled when she realised that the source of her misery wasn’t coming too – and stopped peeing everywhere soon after. But there was that definite reek that appeared in her wake whenever she’d been startled.
He continued to scrabble, raking through the pile of papers at his bed, dislodging notices and bills that lay discarded on his bedside table, until his hand closed on his lottery ticket. The rumpled, wrinkled paper was moved reverentially to the bed, onto the cheap blanket cover he’d bought from a local thrift store. The blanket inside was good quality – this winter had meant he couldn’t do anything else. If the choice was heating or blanket, he’d go for the blanket every time.
He didn’t dare hope, but maybe…just maybe. He looked down at the ticket, hands shaking as he opened up his phone and checked the text he had on his phone.
Then he checked the internet – cursing his laptop’s load speed. It crashed twice, the old thing struggling to get anywhere with flash. Finally, he found a site that would load, and he checked, again.
Six numbers.
His breath released in a whoosh that left him light headed and he thought, for a minute he might have to dash to the toilet. And then he did, his stomach unknotting and everything rushing out of him in relief.
He was a millionaire and the first thing he did after confirming it? Puked.
He’d suspected the night before – though, he was sure he’d misheard. Then, after rushing to the toilet and throwing up, he was sure that he was wrong about his numbers.
He couldn’t concentrate on pool and kept potting the cue ball, the others ricocheting off into the ether – he kept thinking that a burglar had broken in and scooped everything up, including the rollover ticket. And that’s when he glanced down at the rumpled ticket in his hand. He grabbed his phone. Checked the numbers one last time on internet that barely moved faster than driving to London and stopping in at the headquarters themselves.
Six.
Yesterday, on a whim, coming out of the snow because he’d been caught short on the trip home with no umbrella, he grabbed a lottery ticket, along with a bar of chocolate and scratch card. He really wasn’t sure which was worse, the “scratchy”, or the chocolate. He’d itched it off on the way home, like rubbing a dry spot on his arm. His relief had turned to disappointment when he uncovered a dud, and he’d wolfed down the chocolate, before throwing himself morosely in the shower. Once again, as was his ritual after each one, he promised himself never again.
“It’s a waste of money,” he told himself sternly, cleaning off the mirror. More sternly, he said it again, adding, “You could use it for something else.”
Yes. Something else. After maintenance, and the bill for his house, and the debts that his wife left him with, his something else was precious little. A night out once a month, a lottery ticket once in a while. Some chocolate – his one vice, scratch cards. That was it. And that… that was going to change.
He was immune to the idea. As if it was knocking on the windows and doors, shouting to be let in, and he was ignoring it. It was a tide, and it would carry him away, as soon as he tried to walk into the swells. For now, all he wanted was a cup of tea.
And that was his freedom. He could go and grab that cup of tea. Work today, could wait. He called in sick. Work could wait forever, though, right now, he didn’t want to take that choice.
Choices. Suddenly, he had so many of them. They spun around him, taunting, teasing, and narrating their ends to him. And his first choice was tea. He shook himself slightly, breaking the stare at his ticket – tracking the precious lines of print with a smile that slowly moved through him. Tea first. Then he’d work out his next steps. Nothing permanent. Not until he had all of the facts.
He shuffled out of bed, shivering slightly at the chill in the air – then looked over at his threadbare robe, snatching it off the hook by his door. His ticket and phone were reverentially tucked into the pockets before he scuffed his feet along the carpet, trying to heat up the soles of his feet, before finding his slippers. His mind was already making lists of all of the things he could buy. All of the things he could afford now – all the things he could suddenly access.
And that he could get revenge.
Six months ago, his world had been flipped. His wife had walked out, taking his children, his car, and the house. She walked back in to get the matrimonial home of course, but the ceremonial walking out was all he could remember. Watching her stalk down the path and get in the car. Coming back later and taking the keys, and the children. The stern police officer’s presence in her eyes – daring him to hit her so she could cry domestic abuse. And she tried that too – teasing and testing the edges of his patience. Shoving malice in his face as he packed – she taunted him under her breath. Eventually, he convinced her that he needed one last day. And in that last day, he packed everything precious. Sneaking out what he could – what she hadn’t paid attention to while attacking him with scorn.
Three months ago, sitting in this same one-room flat, looking over at the kitchen from his bed, wishing things were different, his gaze sweeping over everything he now owned. Over the last painting that his son, Morgan had sent home with him. Looking back now, he knew that was the last time he would see his son. That SHE, the hated harpy, would stop him from seeing the kids. But at the time, he’d been more interested in trying to convince his now ex-wife to reconsider. Looking back, he knew she was dating someone else, but at the time, he thought – genuinely thought – that there was a chance. Any chance. She wasn’t openly scornful anymore and had instead returned to her frosty ambivalence that had signaled the beginning of the end of them.
Now. Now all he wanted was revenge. She had everything of his. Except, of course, this.
His hand slipped back into his pocket. The ticket nestled there in the threadbare robe, partially tucked into a hole and he grinned to himself.
It took most of the morning to pull his plan together. Tomorrow, he’d go in and talk to his boss. She’d been pushing him to use his leave days, but since he’d left, he never saw his kids, so, he didn’t see the point of actually taking them. Now though, he had something else to arrange.
First, he’d claim it. That was an adventure in itself. The call was long, dizzying, but he emphasized that he wanted to keep his privacy – for now. Later, once he’d sorted everything out that might change, but now – right now – he had a family to put back together and the intense pressure just wouldn’t help. He threw in a few lines about how he and his new partner were dealing with his crazy ex-wife, and how this would really help, but he had to get legal advice first.
And that he was newly divorced and he wanted to make sure his children were well taken care of. They’d accepted it – especially after he pointed out that he knew about the press commission guidelines. He confirmed that he had no reason other than protecting his young children and horrible breakup to hide from sharing the information, and agreed to all of their other terms.
The arrangements were made – he understood what he was doing with them, but it all passed so fast that looking back it almost felt like he’d been shoved into one end of a processor, and fired out the other end – wrapped, processed and somehow less. Even though he now had more.
His next call was slightly more difficult. Monica’s number came up on the screen and he put his phone down twice – shaking. Though he knew he had the money – or at least, had been told – he still felt odd spending any of it on anything. He expected that it would be with him 'soon,' so he dipped into his meager savings with a shaking hand.
His dialup was so slow that it timed out twice. Eventually he transferred money into his savings. He was nervous the whole way down the stairs, his skin tingling up his legs – a nervous response he’d retained since he was a kid, and something he hadn’t felt since his wife had had him in court. The errant schoolboy feeling had been replaced gradually by a slow angry burn. And in the slow hours of the morning, he began to fantasize, never expecting that he’d get the chance to put everything in motion.
A slug of whiskey steadied his hand. A meal for two was ready. All he needed to do was call Monica.
***
Monica answered the phone on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Daniel said.
“Oh hello.” It was a purr now. Daniel’s toes curled when she purred. It was even better when she did it in bed – then it wasn’t his toes that curled. She did things to him – and, kept an eye on his kids for him. Monica was Laura’s babysitter – best friend, confidante and now…well, that depended on whether she’d get in on the plan.
“Hi Monica. I’d love to have you over…” He added quickly, over her “oh, “if it’s not any trouble and interrupting your plans.”
Monica sighed, “sure, I guess.”
“I’ve got a surprise,” he added. He looked over at the notes on his pad of paper – and remembered how his heart pounded so loud that he’d had to ask the woman on the other end of the phone to repeat herself twice. Three times.
“Oh?”
He swallowed, “I won the lottery,” he said quietly.
“Oh, £10?” Monica laughed. “Big spender, are we in or out for tea then?”
“A bit more than that. But in. We’ve got a lot to talk about and even more to plan.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll feed you and explain everything,” he said. Grinning, he hung up.
The flat was easy to tidy. All he had to do was fold up his bed, and sweep - the threadbare floor was stained and cracked. Cat pee had stained under her box, but he was sure it was only temporary now. Depression was slowly being replaced with something else. The slow, angry burn in his head becoming cooler. Coalescing into a plan.
As he folded away the hated bed, and tucked the blanket carelessly down the back of the couch, straightening up the room one last time before Monica arrived, pulling the bottle of wine in from the frigid ledge outside his window, he started really considering something.
He took out a pad of paper and began to sketch – there were several things he needed to do. One of which, he’d definitely need Monica for. This meant it all hinged on what she said and did tonight.
Monday to Thursday
Monday morning was grey and overcast. He got up at seven am, had a cold shower (one of the first things he decided was that the house would have a shower, a bath – a Jacuzzi bath – the best of everything), dressed and headed straight out to work.
The car wouldn’t start. He didn’t care. He waited, with a smile, patiently trying to get his car to start. Eventually, one of his neighbours joined him outside and helped him jumpstart the car. Bemused, he looked at Daniel’s grin, but didn’t say anything.
Daniel smiled and made a mental note to leave him a nice present. Reward those that had been kind.
Surprisingly though, his mind wasn’t racing too much – in fact, it was pretty much calm and in control – there was this thing – this minor inconvenience to deal with, and then he was free. He knew it, deep down that as soon as he took care of this last problem – once he’d rectified the balance, that he would feel so much better.
He arrived ten minutes before his shift – the factory floor whispering to life like a machine being coaxed out of hibernation. He traipsed up the steps beside the main floor – the rickety staircase growling and cheering him on. It was an odd sound. One step warning, the other, higher pitched, encouragement.
A few glanced at him curiously, but most were setting up their workstations, and supporting one another in Monday morning doldrums. He could see it in the way they walked and had to reign in his own instinct to skip, and smile and cheer. The money wasn’t in his bank – he’d checked that at least, but he expected as much.
But it was his. He’d confirmed that. Twice.
There were a few steps he needed to take next – the easiest being his boss.
“Ah Daniel, what’s shaking?” She put her papers down.
Daniel smiled. “Can I take some time off please?” He said without preamble.
She blinked, and then reached over onto her desk into her planner. “Ah,” she flicked through her book. “Ah, yes, I see you’ve collected quite a bit of time.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything else. For a second they both silently regarded one another, and then he smiled even wider. “I’m fine – I know I was off yesterday, it’s just…I’ve discovered something.”
She looked at him, cocking her head like a curious spaniel. There was a spark in her eyes – as if she’d expected this for a while. It was the sort of look most people wore when talking about people, past tense, to the press after they were discovered to be burying bodies under the floorboards, or eating their neighbours for tea.
“I’ve…well, I’ll be honest with you,” Daniel said with a wry smile, “I’ve come into a little money, and like you’ve seen, I haven’t had a holiday. Not since…” he paused. Monica had discussed this with him – the idea that he had to look sincere, yet hesitant.
She nodded sympathetically. “Yes,” she paused, “no I understand,” she continued with a tight smile. “I’d have preferred more warning, but I suppose, given your,” she considered the words, “acceptable service.” She paused again, mulling over the next words, “I suppose that I can spare you,” she finished.
He smiled sweetly, and inclined his head, “I’ll be back in touch once I’ve had a bit of…you know,” he waved vaguely.
She nodded. “Two weeks should be enough?”
He shuffled slightly, tilting his head left and right, his mouth scrunched slightly, as if considering. He shrugged after a pause. Inside his heart was pounding, but he did his best to be casual. “Yes, I think so, though, if you need me back next week…”
She waved a dismissive hand at him, looking at the schedules with a frown before plucking a pen from her holder with distasteful sadness, and scribbling all over the pristine time plan she had in front of her.
He waited another second and said, “Two weeks would be ideal, thank you. I really appreciate it,”
She nodded with a sigh. “Send us a postcard?”
***
The next thing he needed to do was wait. But he didn’t need to wait idly – he had to take care of a couple of important elements, in part protection, in part…well, in part insurance in some ways. Monica was going to help him, so she needed to be fully protected – and she needed to be entirely in the clear before anything happened. The first step was a lawyer.
“Mr. Huston,” the lawyer had opened with, after he’d outlined everything he needed to organise, “you could just wait a few more days…”
“No, my friend has offered to take my children on holiday, and then once I’ve settled everything here, I’ll join them. I’m going to offer the ex-wife something to let us,” he smiled at his child-minder gently. Monica blushed, almost on cue, “and I need a document to sign to give her that.”
“I’m sorry Miss...”
“Parker” she replied.
He made a note. “Miss Parker, why would she agree to this?”
“I’m her child-minder,” she replied. “She’s always asking me to keep them at the weekends or overnight. I’m sure, for the right offer, she’ll agree,” she added.
The lawyer shrugged. “Ok.”
“I’ll need to draw up an agreement to ensure that Monica is repaid as she is covering this holiday – at considerable expense,” Daniel added.
Monica smiled.
The lawyer smiled.
“I’ll also need you to provide a letter saying that she can act on my behalf while abroad,” he continued. The lawyer didn’t blink. “And can you draw up documents for a trust fund for the children?”
That took another day and a half.
A fake ‘win’ for Monica, with tickets for the children, to Euro Disney was next. Monica didn’t have children of her own, and Laura was always complaining that she didn’t have time for her ‘dirty weekend’ with the latest beau.
Monica wasn’t sure whether she’d agree, but she suspected that she would. To really sell it, they’d found a site giving away a holiday and mocked up the information from the website, as if Monica won.
All he had to do was wait for Monica's call.
“She bought it”
Monica had taken out a loan to cover the holiday to Euro Disney, and everything else he needed. He spent the night looking into the last minute details of what he’d do once this was all over.
Monica called from the airport. She and the children – both squealing excitedly – were getting ready to go. And that was his cue.
Saturday
He gave them another day – so that the children would be out of the country and well and truly on holiday. So that Monica couldn’t get the blame.
He used her key to get into the house – his house really.
New key.
New locks.
New man in the bed.
Gloves first – leather ones, then…a shower cap, a balaclava on top. He could hear them both playing around upstairs. Her silvery laughter and his deeper bark.
Clothes and petals lay discarded in a disgorged path from the door to the top of the stairs. He looked at the lacy, scant things lying between the living room door and the bottom step – at the patch of drying.
Something on the third step, marring the wood in a round, odd patch that was almost like a print. Beside it, his daughter’s discarded doll seemed to be missing a leg, as if it had been kicked and bounced down in the heat of passion.
He switched off the main box for the internet and phone service, ensuring that it was off by calling the phone, then dropped a 3g blocker, to ensure no one could use their mobile phones either.
Blackout achieved, he looked around.
Nothing had changed. The house that he’d lovingly restored and cared for – the surfaces dusty and almost wantonly abandoned. He reached the doll, replaced the leg. Loathing and anger bubbled in him. He moved off, up the stairs, leaving the tools he needed in various locations.
He was going to have fun with this.
“Oh Laura!” he shouted. “Laura my sweet! I’m home!” There was a loud thump, and scrabbling from the room. “Where are you my darling – I have the most wonderful news!” He paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for the door to be flung wide.
He wasn’t disappointed.
Her man - the last time he’d seen him sitting smugly on the other side of the conference room as he’d signed everything away ‘for the good of the kids’- charged out of the room, in boxer shorts. Clearly, he had his dignity.
Daniel was waiting - he swung low with a baseball bat. There was a sickening crunch and the plaster in the wall next to the bedroom door slowed the trajectory of his knee.
The bastard lawyer screamed, and collapsed to the floor – Daniel swiftly brought the bat down on the back of his shoulders. Another crunch, a whimper, a sliding –wet noise.
Silence.
Daniel was a writer. He had an excuse for everything he looked up – in theory. But he knew his internet history was going to be a problem. So, yesterday, he’d bought a general dongle – he’d gone into a coffee shop. Years ago, when he was still with Laura – he’d written a story much like this. Man belted across the neck with a pipe. Man falls unconscious.
“You deserved it,” he spat, lowering the bat to prod him. The figure prone at his feet was still – a muddy gurgle issued from the pile beside the plaster wall, the fleshy tones paling like sun-bleached wood by his feet. He twitched a couple of times, and then was still.
Daniel poked him with the baseball bat – waiting to see if he moved. Nothing. Carefully, he wrapped the baseball bat in a plastic bag – the black bag gloving it so it could be leaned indolently against him. If he moved, it would fall over.
He looked at the door the prone form charged out of – music was flowing in a low hum, while someone rummaged and cried.
“Rick?” a female voice eventually called, cracking with fear. “Rick, did you get him?”
“Richard can’t answer you right now sweetie,” Daniel responded. “He’s going to be a bit tied up.” Daniel slipped some ties out of his pocket, put the prone body into the recovery position. He tied off his feet, then tied one hand to the banister at the top of the stairs with cable ties.
Laura’s manicured hand slid around the door. Opened with trepidation, catching on the carpets – each jerk leading to a whimper. Daniel waited until she’d come around the corner and pounced, tasering her. Then as quickly as he could, he injected her with a fast acting sleeping medication. He already had a ‘kit’ to hide in the room.
It took several minutes for the medication to take effect. Looking around, he went into the kitchen and set up the wine glasses that he’d found discarded in the bedroom. He tipped one over, deliberately smashing it so it looked like there had been a fight. Then he did the same to a kitchen stool, before returning to the bedroom to find the few items he needed to make it look like a quarrel in the kitchen. It would look more like a lover’s tiff this way though.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he murmured, pulling the list out his pocket. First, the stereo and TV, loud enough to cover any noises. The detached bungalow had some advantages, but just to be safe, he wanted to ensure that he covered every potential problem.
Before the ‘main event’ there were a few other things he needed to do. Gathering everything together, he quickly worked his way through them with a grimly methodical smile.
First, he dragged her still unconscious lover down stairs – carefully ensuring that he didn’t bang his head. The wound on the side of his head was a worry, but one step at a time.
Once he’d dragged him downstairs, he dragged her downstairs, revulsion creeping over his skin in chilly little waves as he realised she’d had implants. They’d always fought over that – the idea that she wanted something that he wouldn’t give her galled her and she dogged him for it. Every anniversary, that’s what she asked for.
He got to the kitchen, then, carefully, pulled a gun out of his pocket and placed it in her hand – pulling the trigger for her after aiming it into a corner, as if she were shooting at someone on the other side of their breakfast bar. She moaned and whimpered, but didn’t come around – the dosage carefully tailored to ensure she would remain out for long enough to get most of the things done.
Next, he stood her lover up, dropping him forward onto the edge of the counter. There was a horrible sound like something overripe popping and a squelch as the body slid onto the ground, rolling onto his side. One eye peered up at him balefully – the other had some shards of glass sticking out of it.
He was almost certainly dead now, but, just in case, Daniel leaned down to take his pulse. Nothing. He took a photo. Looking at his watch, he estimated he had about another 20 minutes before she started to come around.
Carefully, dragging her out to the car in the connected garage, he stopped and thought for a minute. Then, he hauled her lover through the kitchen, face down, letting blood and slivers of glass fall off, as if the man had ran through the house.
He let him ‘stagger’ once or twice, taking great pleasure in bouncing his face off one of the steps on the way up, before dumping him back to slide down the wall once again. He gathered up the taser, and put it in his pocket. He also gathered up the cable ties that he’d used, and the syringe (which he carefully capped before putting it back in his pocket) then took a quick look around.
He shot another few photos, and finished gathering everything up. Then, so as not to disturb the blood trail he’d left, he carefully picked his way back down the stairs – dropping everything by the door, and tucking everything into the bag, efficiently amused.
He checked his list carefully, before briefly ducking into the lounge to retrieve some photos. He stowed them in the bag too. He decided just to dump her kit with all of the needles on the kitchen table, at the other end
He shot the roof of the car, in the same way as the kitchen, her hand reflexively caressing the gun – with one empty slot between the rest of the bullets. He left it in her lap. Once he’d set everything up, he waited. She soon started coming around, groaning and crying.
“Hello, Laura,” he said, softly. He was standing outside of her side of the driver’s side door.
“Bastard,” she slurred the word groggily, the edge dissolving into a wail as he showed her the bullet hole in the roof of the car by tilting her head.
“Oh, I hoped you’d feel differently,” he began, pulling the lottery ticket out of his pocket. “I had sent Monica abroad and was going to come to you to suggest…reconciliation,” he said. “You see, I won the lottery. Six numbers,” he added.
Her eyes widened and she licked her lips. “Oh…darling,” she cooed, nervously darting her eyes back and forward. “Oh, I’m glad to have you back. We can…” she paused and blinked, fresh tears at the corners of her eyes.
“Say it was an accident? That you both fought in the kitchen?” He finished for her.
She nodded slowly, still slightly stoned from the injection. “Yes. I’m sure you could find a lawyer to defend me. I’ll say…I can say Rick hit me,” she scrabbled, words slurred.
Daniel appeared to think for a second. “And if I say no? I’ve got a better idea after all.” She blinked blearily, eyes rolling. “I just thought that you might want to see a few things before I leave you again”
He showed her a photograph - her lover face-down on the kitchen floor, a pool of blood slowly bubbling along the narrow confines of the tile’s grout. Another photo of him in a heap at the top of the stairs. “I do hope you get the picture,” he said softly.
“You fucking monster,” she said, “you won’t get away…”
“What makes you think I haven’t?” He asked with a bitter smile. “I hope you’ll think about that while you deal with what’s going to happen next,” he added.
She struggled and he dumped the rest of the diazepam into her arm, watching her eyes roll back in her head as she slid back into unconsciousness. He started the car, closed the driver’s side door and slid around the back of the car, checking the hosepipe. He’d ran her fingers over it already, ensuring that she had prints on it.
“Revenge is a bitch sweetie,” he said, before wiping the memory card, putting the camera back into his pocket and heading out of the garage door.