Gin with a Twist

By Brian Robinson.

I could see the pain etched into her face, the sadness, the sense of betrayal. She had begged me to leave this alone. It’s too dangerous she’d said, but I wasn’t going to be told. Anita was my best friend. And I was determined to set things straight.

I could understand why she hadn’t gone to the police; why she felt justice was bound to elude her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t the balls: it’s because she knew how the system works.

    My idea of justice doesn’t involve a room full of puffed-up wigged men pontificating amongst themselves. I had something more imaginative in mind.

    I had been watching him for three solid weeks. I knew exactly where to find him, what bars, what hangouts. And I was the one who going to chose the time and place.

Bingo! There he was, sitting alone at the bar.

I’d never had a problem attracting men; I knew the look that draws them in; I knew what buttons to press. That was the least of my worries. But would he be in the mood for sex? That was the question.

    “Gin with a twist please.” I couldn’t help but notice the barman’s partially dropped jaw as he delivered my drink. I was well used to having that effect on men.

    I wondered what his opening line would be? Would he hit on me straight away? He smiled acknowledging my presence. He was playing it cool. After about twenty minutes he said, “You can’t be waiting for someone. He would have turned up by now. You’re far too beautiful.”

    This was a compliment with a purpose. Once he knew I wasn’t waiting for someone, the charm began to ooze and the gins began to flow. I could see how Anita had been sucked in; drugged in.

    I excused myself and went to the bathroom leaving my gin invitingly on the bar. I smiled as I took the antidote to Rohypnol in the toilet, knowing at the same time he was adding the sedative to my drink.

    Getting drunk is not what I do. It’s not ladylike. But in this instance I was happy to pretend. Fifteen minutes after finishing my fourth gin we were both staggering arm-in-arm to his car. Now came the tricky bit. Once in his apartment I had to find the opportunity to return the Rohypnol treatment.

    I came back to life just enough to demand more drink, and then, when the opportunity came, I snatched it. Within ten minutes he was double-dosed dead to the world. That’s when the real work got started.

    You can’t just plug a flash-drive into someone’s laptop, load on pictures of child porn, and expect that to be regarded as evidence. You have to do it in a way that is accompanied by a viewing history. I know about that stuff. That’s my job. That’s what I do.

    After two solid hours of work I was satisfied. No one would be able to unpick the history of him looking at the most horrific child porn. I tipped the rest of his drink down the sink and replaced it with a fresh one. I removed all my fingerprints and called the police. People who watch that sort of disgusting shit should be locked up for life I told them.

    It felt good as I left the building. I looked back and smiled. A thought had just entered my head. If he had got into my knickers he would have got the shock of a lifetime! You could say I did him a favour.