Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

he sidestepped into the jungle a few steps, which was sufficient to hide. He stood behind a large, green banana tree, which had flowered with a deep, large red flower head and tiny bananas beside it. The brilliance of the colours was somewhat diminished by the smell of rotting foliage, and the sewage seeping through the green surroundings.

A young, athletic, and lithe-looking villager wearing a blue and red sarong passed along the track, unaware that only feet away hid the man who was planning his attack.

Sebastian emerged and closed in on the kampong. From observation on the perimeter of the kampong, and hidden in the dense green, he had sight of the only building not made of wood and corrugated metal sheets; it was the small, white Catholic church in the centre of the kampong. It was a remnant of another century, when missionaries had spread the wrath of God should the villagers not visit the church each Sunday, and each church occupied the primary position in the village.

As quietly as possible, Sebastian circumnavigated the kampong, looking for all possible escape routes and hidden snags such as drains or ruts in the mud. Monsoon season was still a month or so away, so the ground was hard and compacted away from the access routes, thus leaving access and egress routes that would leave no boot tracks, which was just how Sebastian had planned it.

Monkeys squawked, birds sang, dogs barked, and the noise of the multitude of crickets created a backdrop of routine, everyday sounds, that would not attract attention.

Sebastian settled down and hid under the leaf of a large, indigenous plant. Its foliage was as broad as Sebastian’s ship cabin. He kept a careful lookout for snakes and the numerous large poisonous spiders that inhabited the island. He was angry with himself that he had not considered this when putting his plan together. The last thing he needed was a bite from one of these reptiles or arachnids to destroy his day and possibly expose him.

With the light increasing, Sebastian decided to make a move a few minutes past 6 am. He used his binoculars to watch the kampong stir into life. He was somewhat surprised as spotlessly clean children in neat and ironed school uniforms emerged from the ramshackle huts and went off through the tracks to catch their early morning school bus.

The men emerged from their shelters and went off to the fields and factories in nearby towns. By 7 am, the kampong appeared mostly deserted, apart from a young teenager who chatted quietly with an older-looking lady, possibly her mother. The older woman was slim, with her own teeth, and skin a little leathery from the effects of the sun. He surmised the woman was in her middle forties. They sat around a small, square wooden table that looked older than the woman, the varnish and wood stain a distant memory. It was not more than thirty minutes before the teenager left to go about her business.

He dismissed the idea of killing the mother when a younger girl, no more than twenty-two, emerged from the hut next to the one he had been observing. She was about five feet tall, with a beautiful, childlike, rounded face, and jet-black hair tied back with a rainbow-coloured ribbon. Sebastian knew it had to be her.

The old woman chatted with the young Malay woman for several minutes, while clearing the leftover rice and stinky fruit from that morning’s breakfast.

After a further twenty minutes, the old lady emerged from her hut with reed shopping bags, and disappeared between the other shelters, obviously going out for the dinner she would serve up that evening.

Sebastian edged closer and closer, with only the movement of the leaves in his wake, and the noise drowned out by the chorus of the jungle. He stopped beside a bamboo wall that acted as a fence to one of the huts, out of sight and waited another ten minutes to ensure that no one else was around.

His condition was far from ideal, soaking wet with sweat from the high humidity, and sure he must be leaving DNA traces along the route.

Sebastian amended his plans to minimize any risk of being seen, or worse, caught in the act. There were several areas of chance and uncertainty. He could not be sure that there was no one else in any of the other huts so it would have to be silent, and death rendered almost immediately. While he would have preferred to have some foreplay, this was a risk too far today, so his torture fantasies were put away for another time—and they were many.

He had considered burning the hut on completion of his task but thought that would bring attention to bear too quickly. He was satisfied; his precautions were sufficient for the task at hand.

Today would have to be perfect. It was not some simple rite of passage. Not a quick, fumbled, devastating exchange like Geraldine. Here and now was the real deal; this was more like the fantasy he had had ever since he had killed for the first time as a child.

There was not, nor had there ever been, a message from God telling him to kill. There were no conflicting voices in his head. No purely sexual motive for what he was about to do. It was about who he was and what he wanted to do. The planning and the act were what made life bearable and exciting. It was simple: he needed hair, and he enjoyed the pain.

After stowing his rucksack under some bushes, he stealthily crept forward, until he reached the only entrance in and out of the hut. He gently knocked on the door, and the young, pregnant woman answered immediately. There were no eyeholes in the door to see who was there, no chain lock, for this was a simple hut in a Malaysian