Roger Tyland was a mean and vicious man who was feared throughout London. His specialty was breaking in Sloane Rangers. That is, until he picked on the wrong one. And Greta paid him a visit.
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Angry wives club - The disease of vengeance Anyone who was anyone in London knew that Roger Tyland was one of the meanest and most vicious men around. An East End kid, he'd fought his way up through the gangs of the seventies and eighties, using the maxim 'survival of the most ruthless'. Then in the nineties he'd redefined his clandestine operation, sidelining extortion, protection and prostitution in favour of more lucrative and profitable activities - mainly drugs but also a few legitimate businesses. Yet despite his perceived elevation in the criminal fraternity, he'd retained all the baser characteristics that had got him to that point. He was the sort of man the Krays would have called sir. Against him, Robert Maxwell would have appeared a philanthropist. He was not a tall man, but built like the proverbial brick shit-house. Small black buttons for eyes, a fuzz of brown hair upon a head sitting on a bull neck and thin lips which were twisted in a permanent sneer. He had a habit of hunching his suit jacket over his shoulders as though it was slightly too big. Occasionally, someone would think it was, and imagine that the wide shoulders were the result of padding. This miscalculation sometimes led to them thinking he was an easy number. In the old days, when he fought he didn't finish till his opponent was maimed for life, or worse. His two teenage children - that is, his legitimate ones - were tucked away at good private schools. And whilst during the gangland days, he used to refer to Marigold his wife as 'the doormat', he now called her 'the missus'. He joked it gave her some respect. Though his treatment of her was still reminiscent of the old description. His business overheads, which included generous monthly payments to the local constabulary, had been minimised through good management, shrewd strategic planning and the application of sheer terror. Once upon a time a yardie gang had the temerity to intrude upon his territory. All four of the leaders were now incarcerated in perpetuity, within the concrete structure of the new underpass at Hammersmith. That is, except for the bits that he'd cut off to send as free samples to two other gangs who were sniffing at his door. Roger could easily have cruised into the straight life and become very comfortable, spending six months in England and basking for six months each year in the Costa Del Sol. But he'd have missed what he saw as the excitement of the nefarious life. And he enjoyed what he termed, 'the respect' from others of his kind, a euphemism for their reaction to his ability to intimidate, or frighten. TV soap thespians, usually faded queens and dolly actresses past their sell-by date, sucked up to him to bask in the shade of his notoriety. Yet no matter the level his debatable status, his East-End background would always be a barrier to the actual society he craved, yet paradoxically bitterly resented. He had thought of shedding Goldie on numerous occasions, get himself a classy bird. But she was safe, kept herself looking reasonable and didn't dare complain about his doxies on the side. Except the time he caught a dose and passed it to her. Silly moo had screamed at him and he'd been forced to take her in hand. But it hadn't been all bad, the capped teeth and plastic surgery if anything were an improvement on her old self. He specialised in breaking in Sloane Rangers. Their crystal cut voices and disrespect of anything smacking of convention was a challenge. They would commence the relationship in the belief he was their bit of rough. His gangster label provided inverted social glamour and was a snub at the establishment. But he knew exactly how to reduce them to fleeting shadows of their former selves. One, the honourable Antonia Fitzwalters-Simms, had double dated him with a rising football star. There was even a hint of marriage until the aspiring footballer's career had been cruelly cut short by a fracas at a night-club which had left him with two smashed kneecaps. Roger merely mentioned to Antonia that he'd been lucky they hadn't gone for his bollocks. Maybe next time, he'd hinted darkly. He'd also 'dealt with' Antonia herself. She was now in a rehabilitation clinic and would never fully recover from her experience. Heroin addiction, syphilis and HIV make terrible bedfellows. That is before one takes account of the mental scars. Roger meanwhile had moved on elsewhere. He didn't even visit Antonia. Though if he had done so he might have met her aunt, Daphne Winterson. Daphne had held her niece's hand. She was no angel, Daphne conceded. But if only half of the stories that the counsellor had uncovered were true then it was a wonder she wasn't a raving gibbering lunatic. Roger Tyland was a true specialist in degradation. Daphne did not show her anger. Nor did she call on her many political and influential networks. Except that is, to find out all she could about Roger Tyland. In this she was extremely discrete. Daphne never, ever, underestimated a potential opponent. Her conclusion, after a number of calls, was that he was an animal of the worst kind and she was convinced that no rehabilitation would ever scratch the surface of his conscience. But Daphne had other resources. Roger Tyland may have been a vicious sick SOB but he was not a fool. He took extraordinary precautions concerning his safety and well being. George, his chauffeur was a former welterweight tournament boxer, 3rd Dan Karate champion and wore a kevlar vest. He also had easy access to a Glock 9mm, with a throated barrel, Ariadne low mount combat sight, A-1 style trigger with a 4.8 pound pull. It was lightweight, compact and fitted easily into a specially constructed hidden compartment in the bullet proof Mercedes that Roger used daily. No one knew Roger's daily routine and, although this led to some inconvenience, he preferred it that way. But, as with all men, Roger had his Archilles heal. He liked to keep himself in shape and always used the same central London gym. When he called, no more than an hour in advance, any patrons currently visiting would be ushered out. George, and another minder called Martie, would accompany him and make sure he was not disturbed. There were no windows and only the minimum of workout equipment was there, with sauna and cold spa pool. Despite him having had his own gym in his London home and at his country houses, he endured this extravagance as the place came with it's own trainer and expert. But Daphne had arranged for the gym to be staked out for two days, not sure exactly when he would turn up. The trainer had been dealt with, immediately the call had arrived to say Roger was on his way, by Greta, a woman with her own specialist talents. Having taken up their guard near the door, the problem of George and Martie was surprisingly easy to resolve. The old umbrella trick with the poisoned end. Only drugged rather than poisoned, but fast operating. "Closed?" The mini skirted blond had exclaimed, blinking at them both in surprise. "Piss off." Martie growled. The dark haired girl with the low cut dress and full breasts had closed in on him while studying her diary. She fumbled, trying to balance both her diary and umbrella and Martie mesmerised by the cleavage beneath his gaze, leaned forward to assist. He was too late to stop the umbrella as it slipped forward into his leg. "Oh, God I'm sorry." She squealed in anguish as he flinched. Blondie moved forward with hers to assist and it caught George in the thigh. Before he could finish his expletive, both he and Martie had slumped to the floor. Inside, Roger changed into sports kit and, flexing his arms, called out for the trainer. When Greta entered, he gaped. "Where the fuck's Tiger?" he snapped. "He's out." Greta said. Which was technically true - out cold. "Not on." Roger said angrily. "He's supposed to let me know of any fucking changes. A matter of Security.' Greta gave a coquettish giggle. "You not approve?" She spun around. "I am Greta, und, I'm qualified. Physiozerapist und Olympic trainer." She chanted with a slight guttural accent. He liked that. "Trainer? What in? Fucking?" He quipped, quickly appraising her. She was around 5' 10", not slim but certainly not overweight. Anything but fat, he concluded as a closer inspection revealed her fine muscle tone. Ash blond hair pulled back, a slate grey leotard cut well up on the loins for maximum freedom. Ballet shoes? Odd, he wondered. But the steel toe caps within were undetectable. She was obviously wearing an athlete's bra but it did not fully suppress the generosity of her figure. Her wide cheekbones hinted at Slav extraction. Blue grey eyes and full lips. He gave her a high mark and started to debate whether he'd fuck her now or play her along for a while. "I give lessons." She retorted frostily. Roger was suddenly uneasy, he wasn't sure why and while he decided what to do he started his warm up routine. First thing he thought, was to alert George and Martie to the change of situation. Wankers! He frowned. They were supposed to be his body-guards and they hadn't even checked who was running the place. A number one level bollocking was due to them. But despite his anger the set up worried him. And with him anger and worry were a dangerous combination. He pushed the wall, stretching his thigh muscles. "Got me file?" He growled at Greta, standing with her arms folded. "I haf seen your file." She said. But it was not the file to which he was referring. "Seen it? You ain't seen nothing yet darlin." He smirked turning to face her. He still hadn't decided what it was about her that rang his worry bell. He felt a stirring in his groin but resisted the urge to 'adjust his dress'. She stood on the balls of her feet, hands on hips. The bulge of her mound of Venus drew his eye, and his tongue flicked out across his lips like a rock lizard. "Ah zinc zer is little you could surprise me vith." She pouted mischieviously.. "Oh, yeah?" Roger's eyes narrowed. "Yeah." She said in a low throaty voice. "What about this then." He said, and he slipped his fingers into the waistband of his shorts and pushed them down. His member sprang out from its constraint and started to rise. Greta exploded in mirth. "Ah zinc to myself, here is coming a big, big salami. But nein, et is a tiny chipolata! No?" Roger reddened, and he stepped out of his shorts. But his erection had faltered and he was breathing heavily. She was going to get a good spanking first he thought, and moved forward. Then he stopped. She was no longer laughing and was staring at him with feline intensity. She rocked slightly, adjusting her balance. Then Roger suddenly realised what it was that had bothered him so much. She was unafraid of him. Some people think they can hide fear, but you can't. It's in your eyes, that conduit that leads directly to the brain. But Greta was not afraid, in fact he detected contempt. Surely, he thought, she knew who she was dealing with? She didn't look stupid. It was a long time since Roger had encountered anyone who was not afraid of him. And never a female. He cupped his testicles in his hands to encourage his hardness. "Trying to find it?" She taunted. "You're about to have the worst day of your life darlin'." He grinned wolfishly. "Or maybe the best, depends on your inclination." He moved forward again but Greta stood her ground. She chuckled, her eyes mocking merriment. "Vat? From you? You big fat lump of lard. Ah zinc not. You have ze same effect on peoples as ze dog turds zey step in. Zey try to scrape off ze smell before ze go into zer home." With a roar of fury Roger charged at her. He wasn't quite certain what happened next for she moved into him and he was suddenly flying through the air. His breath expelled in a gasp as he landed on his back. But he didn't pause and in an instant was up on his knees ready to spring at her again. But she was quicker and twirling around the heel of her shoe smashed into his nose. He recoiled with the impact, sitting back on his haunches. A second kick dislocated his right knee cap. He squealed in agony and, calling on years of street instinct, he seized the lifting frame and quickly jerked himself to his feet. She stood watching him, her hands on her hips, legs slightly apart. "Now." She said. "Ah expect you vish you vere wearing a box, no?" His hand instinctively fell to his groin. Christ, he thought. Who the hell was she? "You're in big, big trouble darlin', believe me." He growled at her. Without taking his eyes off her he wiped at the blood from his broken nose with the back of his hand. Greta looked about her wide eyed, and laughed again. "Me? In ze trouble? It is you who has a smashed nose and knee. You who is naked, exposed?. Ah zink your judgement is flawed no?" He was breathing hard. He couldn't strike at her with any speed, he had to get her to come to him. "George and Martie'll be here in a jiff." He said, spitting away blood. He moved his right thigh forward to give his groin some protection, shifted his weight onto his left leg and raised his hands, beckoning to her. "Ok darlin, come on, try it again. Now I'm ready." Greta's eyes glinted. He was a tough cookie she had to admit. That made him dangerous, even injured as he was. To his amazement, she briskly stepped forward and he struck at her chin. She neatly evaded the punch and her right fist shot forward in a straight Okija punch sinking deep into his solar plexus. His eyes widened as he fought for air, his injured right leg dropping to the ground, leaving his genitals exposed. Completing the move, she stepped back and swung her left fist up between his legs. As he collapsed towards a foetal position, she followed it up with a kick to the point of his chin. When he regained consciousness he found his hands cuffed behind him and he was sitting with legs splayed, each ankle tethered with twine to the mini gym apparatus. Expressionless, Greta was watching him. He spat out more blood and with dull eyes he looked up at her. "Who in fuck's name are you?" He grunted. Greta smiled but remained silent. Since leaving the disbanded Stasi, East Germany's dreaded secret police, she'd had a number of roles, including briefly one for the CIA. "Ah am independent. And very, very expensive." She finally replied, not mentioning. the odd charity gig - like this one. She'd owed Daphne a favour. "Who sent you?" He fought back the waves of pain that racked every inch of his body. "Zat, you vill never know." She said. "I'll bloody well find out." He said. "And when I do�.." But before he could say anything else she leaned forward and clapped her open palms against each side of his head. He shrieked. His right eardrum had perforated. "No Roger." She said within inches of his face. "You can try. But you vill never ever find out. Unless of course, you disobey ze instruction ah'm going to give you. Zen ve vill come for you again." She paused and he met her stare. "And if we haf to do zat, you vill live ze remainder of your life in dreadful, terrible pain. Nicht Wahr?" He didn't answer and she took his testicles in her hand, gently at first, then squeezing slowly. He whined, gurgling as the pressure grew. "Pain." She repeated. "How vould you like zis sort of pain for ze remainder of your life?" She increased the pressure slowly until he pleaded, gasping for her to stop. Sweat drenched his forehead and he dry retched. Even when Greta released him the pain savagely persisted. "Why? For Christ's sake, why?" He whimpered. She shrugged. "Half of London haf a goot reason." She said. "It matters not. So don't try to find out." "You're�. not going to kill me?" He muttered. "Ach nien, zat is much too good for you." She said. "I haf somezing else here for you." Roger's eyes slitted, there was an edge to her tone that sounded very bad indeed.. She produced what appeared to be a pair of pliers that were by her side. "Zis is what they use for unmanning farm animals. How you say? Entmannen? Castrate?" Roger's eyes widened in horror. "For God's sake�" he screeched. But she hushed him and continued. "Oh, Roger. Zer is much vorse things let me assure you of zat. Zis is only a taster of vat is to come if you do not do vat ve say." She outlined the demands. He was to fold up his criminal empire. Eighty percent of his accumulated wealth to be distributed to various charities with at least twenty percent going to the women's refuge. His drug contacts were to be turned over to the authorities, he could apply for exemption from prosecution on the grounds of turning Queen's evidence. "Two mil." He cried out, trembling, dripping beads of sweat stinging his eyes. "Vat?" "You heard me, I'll give you two million if you just walk away. Swiss account. Untraceable. Or Used notes, diamonds? Whatever you want." "Roger, oh Roger�." She sighed. "You do not know who you are dealing vis. If I ver to take such money I would never haf the chance to spend it. I vould be dead in days." She lied, but he wouldn't know that and such a statement would scare the hell out of him. It worked, his eyes bulged. "Five." He upped in rising hysteria, as she carefully fitted a band onto the elastrator. "One billion?" She offered, mocking. "I might just about buy zem off for zat." "For Christ's fucking sake�" He squealed, squirming as she pulled his scrotum, slipped his testicles through the loop and snapped the band into place. He shrieked at the instant crescendo of agony then, sat groaning at the ensuing deadening acute ache. His mind swam and the world seemed to revolve at four times its normal pace, nausea welled up. Finally, when he opened his eyes, Greta stood above him, now dressed in a cream Burberry raincoat, the belt casually looped in a knot. Her footwear had been exchanged for smart black high heels. "Now Roger. You are secured by special handcuffs. Zey haf zer own timer. I shall not say how long, zat is for you to find out. Ya, it is slow, but Zis vay, you will have chance to reflect on ze bad, bad zings you haf done. Ven zey release, your gonads vill by zen be dead. Do not try to take off ze band, ze shock could kill you. Go to a hospital. Zat is all." She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment then added. "Oh, not quite. If you do not do as ve say, my employers vill also haf your son castrated." She let that sink in for a moment then added, "Und your daughter? Ah, mein friend, I leave zat to your imagination. Und ihre mutti vill also haf a visit� In fact, every single member of your family vill suffer from zis disease you haf spread." She prayed she sounded threatening enough to convince him, for even if possible, such terrible consequences would have been beyond her. "Disease?" He mumbled dully. "Ya, disease. Ze disease of vengeance." "Oh God." His head sank to his chest. He could barely speak for the ache in his groin. She started away, then swung back to him. "Ach, zilly me, I nearly forgot, you haf two months to complete our demands." She turned and strode to the door. "Wait�." He called out, but to an empty room. The hollow echo of the slammed door reverberated around the walls. Roger Tyland met all her demands within the first month. End