A Fitting Revenge

  What others are saying about A Fitting Revenge

  The story was quite different to anything I have read before and I found it complex, gripping and extremely entertaining. Right from the beginning I was thrown into a plot that was both intriguing and a little worrying. – Amazon Customer

  Suspenseful, gripping, intriguing - all the components you need for a good read in this genre. I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Well written, so reads easily. – Amazon Customer

  I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and struggled to put it down. Lots of suspense which keeps you on the edge of your seat and twists and turns. – Kindle Reader

  I read this fantastic book in one sitting. The descriptions of the settings were excellent. The characters were finely molded and developed and the plot pushed the narrative along. – Kindle Reader

  A Fitting Revenge

  By CA Sole

  Published by CA Sole

  Copyright © 2016 CA Sole

  CA Sole has asserted his right under the United Kingdom Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9954809-2-6

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am indebted to my wife who added her valued suggestions early on in the project and supported me throughout.

  My sincere thanks go to my editors, Susan Harrison and Cressida Downing, who gave me invaluable guidance on improving the story and correcting my grammar. Thanks too, to Ana from Books-Design who created the cover.

  A life, a love and a fortune hang in the balance. A misandrist immersed in greed, she’ll stop at nothing to bring him down. The damage she’s wreaked must be avenged.

  Alastair is helping his close friend, Giles, to avoid a punishing divorce from Sandra. As they fight to hold the initiative in this battle, Alastair puts a foot wrong, and his relationship with Juliet is ripped apart. For Giles’ sake they try to work together, but in spite of Alastair’s remorse and attempts to repair the damage, the tension between them widens the rift as they face a number of horrendous attacks. Alastair is determined to exact revenge, but is his method too extreme, did he know what he was capable of when pushed to his limits? And will he ever regain Juliet’s trust?

  A Fitting Revenge is a fast, event-packed thriller in which CA Sole engrosses you in an horrific yet credible scenario that could affect any one of us.

  Do we really know what we’re capable of when pushed to our limits?

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I saw that painting placed in such a prominent position, I should have suspected something was wrong, I should have been alert to the danger in that liaison. The work evokes so much emotion through its blood red sky and that tortured soul crying open mouthed at, at what? The future, the present or the past? To display it on a wall in a public room would invite study and admiration, but to hang it where peace and rest should prevail surely indicated a troubled mind.

  She caught my attention, and she certainly caught the attention of the pavement diners, a good number of whom were turned in her direction. She had positioned herself well back from the end of a short queue for the bus. There was something commanding about her; perhaps an arrogance that set her on a higher plane than those who used public transport. In front of her were an elderly lady leaning on her stick, a teenage couple in identical T-shirts restraining an excited terrier, a thickset man in a leather jacket and a brown beanie, and a Rastafarian who was jigging about to whatever was coming out of his headphones. The queue was shaded from the heat by overhanging chestnut trees whose lower branches waved and parted to let the bus in. My view had been stolen, so I turned my attention back to my immediate surroundings.

  Antonio ran a pretty decent restaurant he called The Mandolino. He served good, simple Italian food, good coffee and kept his wine prices low. The concept was obviously successful as it was often difficult to get a table. Those on the pavement were all occupied late on that warm August evening, but I had found one inside by the window where no one was behind me and there was an unrestricted view of the entrance, the street and most of the clientele.

  A crooning Dean Martin in the background was almost drowned out by the buzz of conversation and raucous laughter from one particular table out of my sight. Even when Pavarotti took over he could barely be heard. Huge mirrors on the opposing walls provided additional vantage points for me to indulge in a favourite pastime - people watching.

  Glancing out of the window, I saw the bus had departed and taken the queue away. For a short while the woman remained, though. Then, aloof from the attention, she began to cross the road towards the restaurant. Her long dark hair swished from side to side as she gave a quick glance left and right. She was tall and her strides were long, her walk determined.

  She passed out of view again, and I ordered a Peroni while considering what to eat. Appetising smells of garlic and pizza and oregano hung in the air, and a comfortable anticipatory feeling settled over me. Antonio kept his choice of items small with a new menu every Monday, preferring quality rather than a large and mediocre selection. The pizza options did not change though, and I was considering which one to pick when the Italian waiter brought my beer and stood back expectantly.

  ‘I’ll finish this first thanks,’ I said. He raised a single black eyebrow, spun on his heel and moved away to another table. There was always a rush at that time in the evening, but I was in no hurry. Looking in the mirror next to me I could see my reflection in the opposing mirror, and then smaller, another behind it, and another smaller still behind that, on and on, smaller and smaller until my shrinking head vanished into infinity. Could one ever count such reflections? Did these diminishing images symbolise personal decline or reduced returns as life marched on? Perhaps they signified multiple personalities, some of which I was yet to discover? What would number three there do in a critical situation, would he be any different to the others? I raised a hand to them and they all respo
nded in kind, so probably not. All that was too philosophical for my mood. Instead I indulged in a little speculative vanity, trying to take an objective view of myself in the mirror. Average sort of height at five foot ten, average sort of face, tending to square rather than round or sharp; not bad looking, but certainly not film-star handsome. A good head of medium-brown hair with a tendency to ginger under certain lighting. Age? I knew I was thirty six, of course, but how old would others think I was? I kept fit, didn’t carry any excess weight which, looking around the restaurant, could not be said for a fair number of men younger than me.

  The woman came into the restaurant. The task of choosing a pizza was suspended. I lowered the menu and watched her over the rim of my glass before putting it down.

  The waiter was at the next table attending to a middle-aged couple. His mouth had dropped open in an expression of gormless amazement. The wife, who was facing the outside and had no idea what was going on, had to give her order twice before he snapped out of his trance, ‘Mi dispiace, Senora, repeat please.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said her greying husband, grinning at him man to man, ‘quite understandable.’

  ‘Magnifico!’ he breathed and flashed a false smile at the wife.

  The woman scanned the room looking for a table, or perhaps the person she was meeting. Her gaze eventually settled on me tucked into my corner. She eyed me for a second or two without a change in expression, then the click of her heels on the terracotta tiles came closer. My heart started to pound; there wasn’t another spare seat in my corner of the room. I’m not a nervous person generally, but I’m not comfortable with people until I know them, and I especially lack confidence with attractive women.

  ‘Alastair, Alastair Forbes?’ She stood over me, her voice husky and soft. I was conscious that the room was turned in our direction, which only added to my discomfort.

  That startled me. Who was this? She simply oozed appeal, and she knew who I was! I rose awkwardly to my feet and felt envious male eyes on me.

  She smiled at my expression. Her slightly raised cheekbones were balanced by full lips, but it was her eyes that were her most captivating feature. With her dark hair, they should have been black or brown, but instead they were such a deep Mediterranean blue that they forced a man to drown in them. An even row of teeth were spoilt by a slight gap between the top front pair, but it was a solitary imperfection which only added to her appeal. ‘I recognised you from a photograph.’ A sudden flash of doubt crossed her features as I must have still looked dumbfounded, ‘You are Alastair Forbes, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘but, er... what photo, where?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she held out her hand and gripped mine firmly, ‘I’m Angela Parsons and I know you’re a friend of a friend from the photo. This place is crowded, may I share your table? I sort of part know you, don’t I?’ She smiled coquettishly. Then timidly, because I hadn’t reacted, ‘Of course, you’re expecting someone else? I’m so sorry, I’m intruding.’ She turned to go.

  Her attempt at departure restored my confidence. ‘No, no one’s coming. You’re welcome. Sorry, you took me by surprise. It’s not every day that strange women join me. Please sit down. What photo? Where did you see it? I’m intrigued.’

  She ignored my questions and continued as if she hadn’t heard, ‘What are you having?’

  ‘I hadn’t decided, may I buy you a drink first?’

  I selected a bottle of Pinot Grigio for us to share, and watched, amused, as the waiter struggled to write down our order while trying to get a better view down Angela’s cleavage.

  She started a completely different conversation when I pressed her once more about the photo and skilfully diverted my probing questions about who she was and what mutual friends we had. Eventually I asked her again, insisting on an answer.

  Angela looked me straight in the eye and smiled gently, brushing her hair away from her right eye, pushing it back behind her ear in the familiar manner women use; always futile because it falls back again. ‘That must remain a secret for now. Trust me.’

  While she was talking, I was trying to assess her. She wasn’t as young as I first thought: somewhere just in her thirties, thirty-two probably; there were tiny little crow’s feet fanning from her eyes. Her trim body was dressed to emphasise gentle curves in tight navy pants, which were topped by a matching short jacket over a white, low cut shirt. Her hands were bare of jewellery.

  Like so many of us, I have a tendency to initially regard attractive people with undeserved favour - how can someone so gorgeous be corrupt/untrustworthy/dishonest? It’s akin to celebrity worship, even if it’s undeserved. With this woman, I was trying to conquer the tendency because something was not quite right. She was teasing me, of course, but I felt there was another side to her, calculating maybe. There was no doubt that she was self assured and had the sort of confidence that is a consequence of sexuality and good looks, but she also had an air of command about her. She might ask what I wanted but, whatever I said, it was going to be her choice in the end. Did I need to trust her? I decided to make the best of the situation; it had been a while.

  ‘This is excellent food,’ she commented at one point, then wrinkled her nose, ‘but I’m not one for the pseudo-Italian effect in here.’

  I followed her eyes around the room as they took in the decoration of dried red chillies hanging from the ceiling in our corner and the long string of garlic by the window. She did not spend time on the old pictures of Tuscany dotted around the walls, nor the photo of the ruins of Monte Cassino, but she did dwell on the mandolin itself which hung above the door. Sadly, its gloss finish had long since faded and it was in a sorry state with two of its strings broken and twisted back over the headstock.

  ‘Well,’ I countered when she turned back to me, ‘it’s not so pseudo. The owner is Italian, the waiters are mostly Italian, as is the chef, and the food certainly is. I find it most reminiscent of Italy.’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s just that the place has too traditional a look to it. I can’t cling to the past, it’s history, gone. We need to get rid of the old and the useless, we need to move on and look to the future. Contemporary is the closest we can get to the future, unless we make it ourselves of course, so we have to change our choices as society moves forward.’

  This was not a view I could entirely support, but to avoid disagreement spoiling the evening I changed the subject and asked about her background. She had a younger brother, she said and had had a happy childhood. Her eyes, however, lacked any of the sparkle or softness that such emotions would normally produce. Either her story was not true, or she had shut out that part of her life and would not discuss it further for some reason.

  We switched to easier and more entertaining subjects as the second bottle of wine was consumed. All the while her glances became more and more suggestive. I was toying with the stem of my glass when she made some point and stretched her long fingers to rest on my hand. In my experience, a first date might do that but would remove them soon afterwards; an initial exploratory touch. Angela kept them there, and it was certain then where this was going to end.

  Her flat was on the second floor of a block that wasn’t far away. I said I wanted to climb the stairs, she said she normally would but not tonight, she was “too pissed”. We had the lift to ourselves. She was hungry and attacked me as soon as the doors closed. She had my shirt buttons undone and my belt released before we reached her floor. She ran from the lift across the landing to her door and giggled while she fumbled with the key. Inside, we stood partly undressed and breathing deeply, staring at each other in the lounge. She waved a hand at the drinks cabinet, defusing the moment, and I poured us both a malt, which she downed in one go and held out her glass for another. The look on her face was pure hunger, and it wasn’t for the whisky. She was using it as a prop. She had now drunk a considerable amount which only seemed to amplify her desire. It was time to act, before the whisky had the opposite effect. We rushed into her ro
om where we fell onto the bed. The details don’t matter, but it was the wildest sex I’d ever had. Her enthusiasm and athleticism more than matched my pent up levels of testosterone.

  After the bout, sweating and panting, we lay back on the pillows. ‘Now I feel like getting high,’ she murmured.

  I said nothing, sensing quicksand ahead.

  ‘Be a sweetie, there’s a bag behind the sofa, bring it here will you.’

  She brought out what I later learned was a kit for hippie crack or nitrous. I was a stranger to drugs - still am. If others want to wreck their lives, that’s their business, but the main reason I don’t do drugs is because I want to be in control of myself, not under the influence of some foreign substance. The whole thought scares me, so when she tried to persuade me to join her on her trip, I turned her down, softly at first then more emphatically as she kept nagging me, until eventually I snapped, ‘No, Angela. You go ahead if you like, but I won’t.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she replied tartly, surprisingly annoyed by my refusal. All the time we were arguing she had been preparing her kit which involved using a ‘cracker’ into which she put the little nitrous oxide canister, the same type that cooks use to produce whipped cream. She screwed the cracker down onto the cylinder to pierce the seal, ready to dispense the gas under control into a balloon. That done and holding the balloon closed, she lay back on the pillows, put the neck to her mouth and breathed in the gas, alternating one breath from the balloon and one from the air. Nitrous oxide is the gas that dentists sometimes use as an anaesthetic; laughing gas. They administer it as fifty percent with pure oxygen so that it’s only mild, safe and short lived. Angela was breathing the gas at a ratio of fifty percent with air from the room. Her oxygen intake was much reduced, and if she had kept it up for a long time she would have ended up with hypoxia.

  After a few deep breaths, she sighed happily, ‘Oooh, I feel good.’ She giggled and her voice rose in pitch, ‘God, I love this feeling,’ and laughed hysterically for a few seconds. Almost visibly her body seemed to relax. She took another breath, then one of air, then another of the gas. ‘Al, do me again,’ she ordered, ‘Slowly this time.’