Broken Skin

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Up ahead the woman stops. She stands on one leg under the streetlight, rubbing her ankle, as if she’s not used to wearing high heels. Number seven: a wee Torry quine on her way home after a night out on the pish, staggering along in her fuck-me heels and miniskirt, even though it’s February in Aberdeen and freezing cold. She’s a looker. Curly brown hair. Upturned little nose. Nice legs, long and sexy. The kind he likes to feel struggling beneath him as he makes the bitch take it. Shows her who’s boss.

She straightens up and teeters off again, mumbling away to herself in a little alcoholic haze. He likes them drunk: not so drunk they don’t know what’s happening, but drunk enough that they can’t do anything about it. Can’t get a good look at him.

Dirty bitches.

She lurches past the NorFish building — spotlit for a moment in the sweeping headlights of an articulated lorry — across the roundabout and onto the cobbles of Victoria Bridge, crossing the dark, silent River Dee into Torry. He hangs back a bit, pretending to tie his shoelace until she’s nearly all the way over. This part of town isn’t his usual hunting ground, so he has to play it carefully. Make sure no one’s watching. He smiles: the dark, grey street is deserted — just him and lucky Number Seven.

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