Matt Hilton: Cut and run

His first waking thought was that his sins had caught up with him.

It was a moment of epiphany he'd never have come to without this shocking wake-up call.

Linden Case had always denied that there was anything wrong in the way he treated the whores. He paid them well, even gave them a bonus if they fully pleased him. By the nature of their trade they invited him to do to them whatever he desired. But he fully grasped his reason for being here in this basement of a building in a less than salubrious district of Tampa, Florida.

Earlier he'd been driving his Mercedes along 7th Avenue in the historic Ybor district. Although the area was famous as a tourist destination where people came to photograph the colourful buildings, it also had a darker underbelly that appealed to him. Street girls often hung out there, waiting for men like Case to offer them a ride. He was stopped by a red light – ironically under the circumstances – and checked out a woman standing on the sidewalk while waiting for the light to go green. She was Seminole: dusky-skinned with jet-black hair. On green, he decided he'd carry on. He was only interested in blondes. As he'd waited for a stocky woman to clear the crossing, his passenger door opened and a man slipped in beside him. Case was used to women being as bold, but never men.

'Hey, buddy, I'm not your type, OK?'

'You're exactly my type, Case.'

'I don't know you. How do you know my name?'

The man shoved a handgun into Case's ribs.

'Shut your mouth and drive.'

Case wasn't familiar with handguns. This one was big and black, and it was enough to know that it would kill him. He drove.

The man refused to answer Case's questions. He spoke only to direct him. They left the Ybor district, heading south over Causeway Boulevard. Case noticed a huge depot with trains parked on sidings, but he was unfamiliar with this area of the city; then the man directed him off the highway into a run-down area that was made up of derelict buildings. At a warehouse made from preformed concrete sheets, the man made Case get out the Mercedes. Case had again tried to get the man to answer his questions, but all that earned him was a smack round the head with the butt of the gun.

When Case came round he was inside the derelict warehouse. His hands and feet had been strapped to a chair using electricians' tape. Case strained against his bindings but he wasn't strong enough to break them.

'You're wasting your time.'

Case sat rigid in his chair. The voice had come from in front of him but he couldn't see the man who'd spoken. It was too dark for that.

'Who are you?'

'The name's Joe Hunter.'

'You're a cop?'

'No. I'm a concerned member of the public.'

'Why are you doing this to me?'

'You're a bad man. I'm here to punish you.'

The only light was a faint strip beneath a door at the far end of the room. Against the light Case saw movement as a figure moved through it.

'What do you mean? I'm not a bad man!'

'I've been watching you, Case. I've followed you. I know what you did to the women.'

'I paid them,' Case shouted. 'They knew what I wanted from them.'

'You hurt them.' The man's voice had dropped an octave, but the menace in his words had grown exponentially. 'Do you think cash was fair exchange for what you did to them?'

'Yes. I offered money and they agreed. Every time: it was a done deal!' Case strained at his bindings. It was pointless. The tape stretched, biting into his flesh. He heard footsteps as the man moved towards him. Case readied himself for a blow, but it didn't come. The man walked behind the chair and laid his hands on Case's shoulders.

'I want you to look at something.'

Before Case could reply, the man dragged him and the chair round so he was facing in the opposite direction. Case could see nothing but blackness.

The man moved away, and there was a click as he threw a switch.

A single bulb had been covered with a strip of muslin. The cloth obscured most of the light, but enough remained to see what was directly below it.

The woman strapped to the chair was barely out of her teens. She was just the kind of woman that Case usually preferred. She had blond hair and was slim. She used to be pretty. Now her eyes were swollen shut, bruises growing on both her cheeks. Her nose had been broken, split across the bridge and leaking blood. Her lips were mashed and blood-flecked drool hung in a string from her chin.

'Is this a done deal, Case?'

Case shuddered at the impotence of his situation.

The man stood alongside the woman. She moaned, but didn't have the strength to move. All she managed was a glance up at Case that spoke of shame. The look condemned Case more than the man's actions ever could.

The man balled his fist. 'Is it right that a man beats a woman?'

'Leave her alone.'

The man turned and faced Case.

'So it's OK for you to hurt them, but not for anyone else? Is that what you're saying, Case?' The man took out a fifty-dollar bill and laid it on the woman's thighs. Then he backhanded her across her face. Not hard, but enough so that her head was rocked on her shoulders. 'Does paying her make things right?'

'Goddamnit!' Case again fought against his bindings. He was shuddering so hard he was almost vibrating. 'Leave her alone, you bastard.'

The man took a knife from his belt. In the subdued light from the muslin-wrapped bulb, the blade looked tarnished. 'You have used your hands on women before, Case. Have you ever used one of these?'

'Nooooo…'

The man placed the blade against the woman's throat.

'Please,' Case cried. 'Not her. Please don't hurt my daughter.'

The man snorted. 'You didn't stop to think about the women you hurt. Why should I care?'

Then he slashed the blade across the woman's throat. Even in the dimness of the basement, Case saw the gout of blood pour down her chest. He screamed.

'The women that you hurt were other men's daughters,' the man said. 'An eye for an eye, Case.'

Case had stopped screaming now. Through his tears he watched the final seconds of his daughter's life ebb away.

The man moved towards him.

'Does what I did to your darling Jessica make me a bad man?'

'You bastard. You sick murderous bastard.'

'Yes. That answers the question.' The man lifted the blade. 'But it damns you as well, Case.'

Don't look back or you might find the devil hot on your heels.

It's an idea I like to subscribe to. An analogy fit for one with a past full of terrible events.

The problem is, by being optimistic and only looking ahead, it can mean that you miss the devil gaining ground. Before you know it, he's right there and has rammed his toasting fork straight through your spine and is dangling you over the flames of hell.

I've made too many enemies not to cast the occasional glance over my shoulder. The practice has served me well and to date has kept me alive.

I parked my Audi A6 at an entrance to the grounds of Tampa University and got out the car while I opened up my phone and went through the motions of taking a call. Looking north-west, Kennedy Boulevard spanned the river and beside it on the eastern shore stood the cylindrical Rivergate Tower that's affectionately known to locals as the beer can. It reminded me of the leaning tower of Pisa, after Superman's evil alter ego pushed it back in line in that cheesy movie. My eyes merely skimmed over the tower – it was a familiar sight to me – and I watched the traffic approaching over the river bridge.