Anger and torment were etched on his features. He continued to pace back and forth with the controlled rage and patience of a dangerous silver tiger.
If it hadn't merely been a costume, complete with tied-on tail and painted stripes, any observers would have sworn his fur was bristling and his hackles were raised.
He had been stalking the waiting rooms since the ambulance had arrived to bring his injured sister-in-law to the city hospital, barely half an hour earlier, leaving his car abandoned by the roadside.
"Mr Strep?" A nurse nervously approached the unnerving silver tiger.
Nodding, he stared down at her anxiously, the neat lines of his grey and black make-up smudged around his eyes, the piercing green iris' burning intensely. "What's going on? Is she going to be all right?"
"Would you like to go somewhere private?" She laid a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.
"Is she going to be all right?" He repeated stubbornly, his expression hard.
Taking his arm, she forcibly lead him to a quieter part of the waiting rooms, opening the door of a smaller room and – pushing him in gently – gestured for him to sit. "This isn't about your sister-in-law, Mr Strep...the police say they want to talk to you..."
"But Rina..." He was on his feet and about to push passed her, when she touched his hand gently.
"I'll tell you straight away if anything happens." She promised, gazing earnestly up at him. "Just wait in there...I'll get you something to drink...then the police will come along, okay?"
Reluctantly nodding, he returned to the seat, smiling weakly as the nurse returned and placed a cup of steaming, sour-smelling coffee in his nerveless hand.
Shutting the door behind her, Menke stared at the light flickering in through the window, his hand clenching into a tight fist as tears ran down his cheeks silently, the burning of the boiling liquid on his hands unnoticed as he crumpled the paper cup.
"I'll find you, Demi...I'll find you...I swear..."
*
Wave after wave of fury assaulted her senses, tears of burning rage tearing down her face, her white-knuckled hands twisting into her unbound hair. Twisting. Twisting.
The silence deafened her, forcing her into a corner, pushing her until she was as small as she could be, the pain of knowing what lay in store cutting to her core like the cruellest of blades.
A single bulb illuminated the stone room, the raw beams penetrating every shadow, leaving no part untouched, the light defiling everything in its path, unstoppable.
Gouts of dark, crimson blood stained her nails and fingertips, oozing from the half-moon-shaped cuts forming – unseen – beneath the sheltering veil of her heavy, tangled mass of hair. The dark mass being the only thing that shielded her from complete humiliation.
He was playing with her. Testing her. Mentally psyching her.
Her fear was more than apparent, the nervous, angst-ridden persona she had been prey to as a feline returning tenfold as all her barriers maintaining her sanity crumbled, leaving only the raw terror.
Balanced on her toes, her body coiled tensely, she stared apprehensively as the massive door opened, the familiar silhouette standing there, the harsh light caressing his sharp features, casting malevolent shadows across his face.
"Demi," He took a step into the room. "You don't need to be afraid of me, luv."
Rocking back and forth on her heels frantically, she shook her head, inhaling a sharp breath and releasing a high-pitched wail of despair, her golden eyes wide, pupils dilated in terror.
Slamming the door behind him, he strode savagely across the room, grasping her painfully by the tender flesh of her upper-arm, viciously swinging his other hand in a reverse blow, leaving her uneasily balancing on her knees, one hand pressed to her swelling cheek.
"That was stupid." He growled, tightening his grip on her arm, his other hand twisting her face up to face him until he could see the hatred that gleamed, as cold as ice, in her tear-streaked eyes.
The flare of her nostrils should have warned him that she was about to do something, but he caught it too late as she lunged forward, smashing her forehead against his nose, a gush of crimson streaming down his face, his grip loosening momentarily.
As he fell back, she scrambled to her feet, racing for the door, her fear speeding her onwards.
But not fast enough.
His blood marred her smooth, bare, white skin as his hands grabbed her, throwing her to the cold, stone floor, his knee pressing agonisingly against her taut spine.
"What did you think you were doing?" He murmured, drawing her hair back from her tear-soaked cheeks, his blood dripping down onto the skin and mingling with the silent flow of tears.
Looking away from him, she stifled a whimper of pain as his teeth sank into her earlobe, a stinging stream of red puddling on the floor.
"Well?" he pushed his knee harder against her back until she cried out. "What did you think you were doing?"
"Menke will find me." She whispered, ignoring him as best she could, gritting her teeth against the pain. An inch further and she knew he could snap her spine. "He'll beat you again...he will..."
McCafferty chuckled. "Sorry, pet." He growled in her ear. "As of..." He glanced at his watch, " Ten minutes ago, your precious husband is nothing more than a bloody smear in a wrecked car."
Stiffening, Demi twisted her head round to stare at him, the smug expression on his facing saying more than she needed to know. "Y...you're lying!" She whispered, trying to ignore the cruel smile on his face.
"Why would I waste time with lies when the truth is so much fun?" He murmured silkily, sliding one intrusive hand between her thighs. "You're a widow now, Demi...and you're mine..."
"And you wonder why I ran!" Trying to pull away from his hand, from him, she gave a scream as he jammed his knee down harder on her back, the pain bursting through her like electricity. "Ronan...please..."
"I'm not Ronan!" McCafferty twisted his fist into her long hair until tears came, a sharp tearing from her scalp echoed by a whimper of agony.
Inhaling a shaking breath, Demi forced herself to nod. "You are..." She whispered, her voice so low he had to strain to hear. "Under all of it...all the bad...you're still Ronan... you just have to fight...please..."
Cursing savagely, he rose, pulling her to her feet by her hair, a black bruise blossoming on her back.
"You don't know what you're talking about, bitch." Throwing her away from him, the sickening thump as she hit the stone wall made him smile. The smile widened as she slumped to the floor, blood pooling darkly around her.
A hunger rose in him, her bloody, naked body demanding his attention. Happy to oblige the tightening in his crotch, he ripped off his shirt, loosening his belt as he advanced towards her, smiling with sadistic anticipation as she sobbed, trying to back away.
But there was nowhere for her to run. Nowhere to hide. No one to save her.
No one.
*
Raising his face as the door opened, casting a beam of light in his eyes, he hastily smeared his make-up and tears into a striped mess with his black warmer, staring intensely up at the two policemen.
"Mr Strep..." The Senior Officer sat down, started speaking straight away. "The car you left at the roadside – registration number 'CAT5 0UT' – it was yours, was it not?"
"What do you mean 'was it'?" He demanded suspiciously. "As far as I know it still 'is' my car."
The Senior policeman leaned forward – the way they did when they brought bad news in the movies and on TV Menke noticed detachedly, uncertain if he could take any more on this already-crap day – and seriously said. "You're car seems to have had some faulty wiring. We're still investiga..."
"What are you saying?" Cutting in, he crossed his black- and silver-striped arms over his chest with a grave expression.
"Your car exploded five minutes ago, sir." The younger officer put in helpfully.
Swearing under his breath, Menke rose and moved to the window, staring out dully, as he fought to hold his fury at bay, trying to contain the tremor he knew would be in his voice. "What time is it?" He asked hoarsely over his shoulder.
"Er...just after eleven, sir."
Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, Menke gave a harsh little laugh. "I think you screwed up, Mac, dear." He murmured dangerously. "Timing is everything, don't you know."
"You know who did this, sir?"
Turning his head, he glanced at the policemen briefly. His palm pressed to the cool glass, he turned back to the window, staring down into the deserted street, his long hair hanging down over his face.
The image of the little Munkustrap doll rose in his mind, the watch strapped onto it clearer than he remembered. The reason he'd fled the show. The reason he knew what the hell was going on.
"I have a vague suspicion." He replied in a hushed voice, lowering his hand and gazing ponderously at the misty imprint on the glass. "A vague suspicion."
*
Pacing fitfully across the room, he laid his forehead against the chilly window with a low groan, his body refusing to sleep.
Pouring himself another whisky from the bottle that sat, half-empty, on the desk, he downed it quickly, the liquid burning in his throat reassuringly as he slammed the glass down on the oak.
The image of her curled – sobbing hysterically – on the stone floor rose in front of his eyes once again, despite his best efforts to force it away. The terror in her eyes tore into him in a way no physical pain would.
Turning, he sank down on the window-ledge, his green eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the image, but only succeeding in forcing guilty tears down his taut face.
With a bellow of rage, he swept the surface of the desk clear, sinking to his knees amid the mess, his hands pressed to his temples as if he was trying to force his fingertips through his skull, to tear the memories out of his mind.
"Sir?" Phipps peered around the doorframe cautiously.
"What is it?" McCafferty growled, raising dangerous eyes. Phipps shook his head, his mouth dry, unable to think of anything to say. "Is Demeter still unconscious?" He abruptly demanded.
"Y...yes, sir." Nodding shakily, Phipps stared at McCafferty in confusion. Something seemed wrong about the way he was acting – Erratic. Unusual. Sniffing the air, he sighed. Drunk.
Stumbling to his feet, panting, his face red, McCafferty wagged a finger at Phipps, his words slurred. "Get her brought here...I want a nice clean bird in my bed...bring her and water..."
Backing out of the room, Phipps closed the door just as McCafferty collapsed to the floor with his hands against his temples, a low groan on pain bursting from his lips.
*
I'll kill him. I'm going to tear his heart out of his body and show him how black it is. I can outlast this. I'm tough. I'm strong. I'm...
God...what am I?
A whore? A filthy, sex-crazed slut? That's what he said. He said I was a slut. He said I enjoyed it. He said I liked the pain. I can't. I can't like it. I can't enjoy him. He killed my husband. He killed Menke.
Menke.
All I can see are his eyes. He's so upset with me. He knows I've had sex with Macavity again. He knows I enjoyed it. But I didn't want to. I was thinking about him. I couldn't help it. I tried not to like it. I tried.
He's right.
I'm a whore.
An ugly bitch who likes being raped. Who likes a real man to take control. Who likes having the living crap battered out of her after finding out her husband has been murdered by the man doing the crap-battering.
NO! It's wrong! I love Menke. I love Menke! I hate Macavity! I'm not a whore! I'm not. He's making me believe his lies. He's making me believe him. He wants me to believe him and all his lies. I won't!
He knows how to touch to make me want him, but I don't want him. I don't want him near me. All I want is him to be dead. Dead for what he did to us. For what he did to Rina. For what he did to poor Ronan.
I'll kill him myself.
I'll show him how much I hate him. How wrong he is. He can call me all the names he like, but that doesn't stop me from being who I am.
I am Demi Strep, wife of Menke Strep, reincarnation of Demeter. I am no whore. No sex-crazed slut. And when I get enough strength back to move this pathetic of body of mine, that bastard is going to be sorry he ever heard the name of Demi Strep.
*
Glancing down at the pale, battered female in his bed, McCafferty gave a low sigh of disgust, massaging his temples with his fingertips, trying to still the pulsing throb that refused to be silenced.
Drink had brought out his weakness. His guard had fallen and Ronan had been able to peek through, having the whore brought up and her wounds cleaned.
She wasn't going to be going anywhere any time soon. As long as she was here, he planned to make use of her, grateful that he had barely damaged her skin, despite all the injuries he knew he had done her.
A master of torture, he was, and he was proud of that ability.
But he had to make certain that his plans went on as he had meant them too. No more drinking, or leaving his body open to weaknesses like Ronan. And definitely no more chances were to be taken.
Picking up the phone, he swiftly dialled out. "Missy, hello darlin'." He smiled, giving her the new orders and hanging up.
Nothing left to chance now.
*
"What the hell do you mean 'He's clean?' " Whirling around, Menke stared at the police officers again, feeling Philip's reassuring hand squeezing his shoulder. "The guy has had it in for me for years and now and when he does something, you can't catch him?"
"Mr Strep." The officer from C.I.D. sighed slowly, lowering her cup to the table. "We can't find any evidence. It's as simple as that. We're doing all we can to find your wife and all we ask is that you remain with friends and try not to overreact."
"Overreact?"
Philip grabbed Menke's shoulders firmly, holding him back. "Easy, mate. It won't help to get angry."
Glaring at the blonde policewoman, Menke growled. "You're telling me not to get angry...my wife is missing, my sister-in-law is in a coma, my house is in ruins, my car has been destroyed, the police can't find anything to convict the guy who did it and I'm expected to be all sunshine and light?"
"Things like this take time, Mr Strep." The woman insisted, looking as if she'd never even stepped outside an office, her suit impeccable as she stood up. "I'm sure we'll catch whoever did this as long as you don't try and take matters into your own hands. We're working around the clock."
Looking away, the tall actor prowled away, across the room, his hands folded behind his back as he gazed out of the window.
"If you need anything," Speaking to both Philip and Menke, she smiled and handed Philip her card. "Call me, any time – ask for Mel Issy, if you call the office."
Ignoring her, Menke rubbed the back of his neck, a slow frown crossing his face as he thought over what had been leading up to events of the three days before. Rina was still comatose in the hospital with low survival chances and there had been no sign of Demi returning.
"Here, mate." Pushing the card into Menke's stiff hand, Philip went to see Chief Inspector M. Issy to the door, leaving Menke staring dully down at the piece of card in his hand, frowning as he stared at the name again.
"I don't believe it." He whispered, narrowing his eyes slowly.
On autopilot, he made his way through to the guestroom and picked up his trainers, pulling them on, running his fingers through his tangled, unbrushed mane, picking up his bomber jacket as he headed towards the door.
"Where are you off to, mate?" Philip called.
Pausing at the door, Menke gave him a weak smile, lifting the spare key off the rack that hung on the wall. "I think I'll go and visit Rina, Phil. See how she's doing...enjoy your date with Annie."
"It's not a date!" Philip yelled as Menke shut the door behind himself and ran lightly down the stairs from the flat.
*
Storming furiously passed the gabbling receptionist, he threw the doors open, the massive brass handles smashing against the walls with a crash, plaster splintering onto the immaculate carpet.
"Mr Strep." Rising from his position at the end of the long table, McCafferty gave a friendly smile. "How can I help you?"
Growling deep in his throat, the feline instincts aroused, Menke stalked up the room, ignoring the baffled stares from the committee members seated around the table.
"Don't play games with me, Macavity." He snarled, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. "I know you...I know what you've done..."
"And I know you too." Smiling disarmingly, the copper-haired businessman spread his hands with a shrug. "But who is this 'Macavity'? Is there anything I can actually help you with at all?"
His voice surprisingly calm, Menke returned the smile chillingly. "Yes," He murmured slowly. "There is something you can help me with."
McCafferty's tone was condescending as he enquired – in a voice dripping with politeness – "And what would that be?"
Lunging forward, Menke grabbed McCafferty's lapel, pulling his face close, his grass-green eyes intense. "You can tell me," His voice was incredibly low, controlled and dangerous. "What the hell you've done with my wife, you bastard."
Forcing his rage down, McCafferty gave an amicable laugh. "Your wife?" He repeated with a smile. "What would I do with your wife?"
Staring at his suave, copper-haired rival, Menke felt something snap at that mocking, condescending smile.
His fist exploded, smashing against McCafferty's nose with a reassuringly sickening crunch of bone, sending the businessman pinwheeling backwards, slamming into the wall behind him.
Several committee members rose to charge at the tall attacker who – with his unkempt black hair, wild eyes and rumpled clothing – looked passed caring about anything. The muscles that rippled beneath his tight jeans and shirt, however, dissuaded them somewhat.
"You know what I want, Macavity." Menke spoke softly to the man who half-sat at his feet, blood streaming down his face. Fierce green eyes gleamed dangerously behind a curtain of black and silver hair. "Give me my wife."
Slowly standing, McCafferty was the image of glacial calm, his smile humorous, but his eyes were deadly. "That was stupid." He remarked casually, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief.
Shrugging, Menke balled his fists on his hips. Maybe it was." He replied softly, "but it sure as hell made me feel better."
"You know the police already visited me." McCafferty's voice was silky smooth. "I have an alibi."
"And one or two to spare." Menke snapped. Stepping closer, he stared fiercely into McCafferty's deep eyes. "I know what you've done." He murmured. "And I'll prove it too." He patted the copper-haired villain's cheek. "Darlin'."
Pivoting on heel, he stalked out of the meeting chamber, leaving the group of committee members staring at one another, dumbfounded.
Unnoticed, McCafferty nodded to Andy Hendrix and Tony Steward, who both slipped – unseen – out of the door, in the same direction as the furious silver-tabby-come-human had gone.
*
Still can't see anything. My eyes are covered with a blindfold. He laughs and says I'm weak. Says I'll be allowed to see when I behave.
I'm so scared. I just want to be back with Menke. I didn't want any of this.
I don't want to believe Menke is dead. I don't want him to be another body. I don't want to be alone. I want some hope to cling to. Something that will let me be reassured.
But it's never going to happen.
Not as long as Macavity exists.
*
The stone of the floor was cold against his skin, the warmth of the blood the only thing that changed that.
Doubled over in pain, his hands protectively shielded his groin from any further damage as McCafferty lazily rolled him over with his foot, gazing down in amusement at his contorted face.
"I have to say." He remarked pleasantly, "Running out in the middle of the show was a nice effect." He stepped back to avoid the spreading puddle of blood, as Menke's arms were bound together, the narrow but strong wire slicing into the skin of his bare wrists. "It was very...noble. Stupid, but noble."
"You really need to get a hobby." Pulled up to his knees, Menke's face was streaked with crimson, a trickle of dark blood running from one nostril and the corners of his mouth and swollen eyes, dripping onto his now-bare chest.
"But I have one." McCafferty laughed chillingly. "Tormenting you and your lovely wife." Slamming his fist into Menke's stomach, he smirked. "Its fun!"
Menke shook his head slowly. "You screwed up this time." He mumbled. "My friend...the police...they'll be looking for me..." A second punch doubled him over, but he continued, his voice hoarse. "You messed up."
"I don't think so." McCafferty chuckled dangerously. "Not when you're accused of the murder of your adulterous wife, Demi Strep."
To Menke, it felt as if something cold and slimy had twisted in his stomach. "What do you mean?" He asked falteringly, fear surging through him. "How the hell do you expect to prove it?"
"Let me elaborate..." McCafferty paced calmly back and forth waving his hands in mild gestures. "Menke Strep, dancer and actor, found out his wife was having an affair and ordered a hitman to kill her during one of his performances so he had an alibi...but, here's the fun part, the wrong sister got in the way..."
"You bastard!" Menke stared up at him, disgusted. "You sick, twisted bastard!"
Smiling politely, McCafferty spread his hands in a shrug. "We haven't even reached the best part yet," He continued pleasantly. "On discovering your wife's whereabouts – in McCafferty's country residence – you went there and raped her repeatedly before murdering her."
"You'll never..."
"Get away with it?" The copper-haired Irishman softly chuckled. "My darlin' fella, I already have. Your suicide will conclude a disgustin' and messy case."
"How'd'you expect people to believe that Demi was cheating on me?" Menke snarled savagely, his eyes blazing. "She has something called taste..."
Smiling his chilling smile, McCafferty softly asked. "Is that so?"
Pulling out a remote control from his pocket, he pointed it at a panel on the bare walls. The panel slid aside, revealing a television monitor to Menke, upon which a tape of the monster and his precious Demi played.
Her sobs echoed around the room, reverberating off the walls. Her wild cries of pleasure. Her apparent enjoyment of his touch.
McCafferty hid a chilling smile. Demi had given up fighting by the time these tapes had been made and she couldn't help but be pleasured by his skilled body. No one could... male or female.
"I see what you mean darlin'." Bending, he jerked Menke's face close to his and smiled icily. "She does have that little thing...taste..." Pausing, he stared into the sickened eyes of his victim, before savagely kissing the horrified actor. "And so do I." He added with a hungry growl, thrusting his hand between Menke's thighs. "Wanna play?" He smirked.
Gagging, a burst of vomit erupted from Menke's lips as he cringed away in disgusted fear – the same kind of fear McCafferty had seen in Demi's eyes. And God, what a turn on that was!
McCafferty rose with a cool smile. "I'll come an' play later, darlin'." He purred, running a hand over Menke's head.
Turning his rival's mind to quivering mush was so much fun, he mused, as he stepped towards the door.
Pausing, he glanced at Menke and he could see the sick horror in his enemy's face as the beautiful white-skinned woman screamed and sobbed for him. For McCafferty. Not for Menke. Not for Munkustrap. Just for him.
Macavity.
Ah. Revenge was sweet.