by John Nicholl
Killing Evil
John Nicholl
Copyright © 2021 John Nicholl
The right of John Nicholl to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-914614-21-7
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
A note from the publisher
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Also by John Nicholl
The Dr David Galbraith Series
White is The Coldest Colour
When Evil Calls Your Name
The DI Gravel Series
Portraits of The Dead
Before I Met Him
A Cold Cold Heart
Every Move You Make
Standalone Psychological Thrillers
The Girl in Red
The Girl in White
Mr Nice
The Sisters
1
I’m a keeper of secrets: dark secrets, filthy secrets, secrets that eat away at my peace of mind like a wild creature feeding on flesh. Unwelcome thoughts claw to leave my troubled mind, pounding, booming pressure and sound threatening to explode my fragile skull into a thousand jagged pieces. Destructive memories of the not-so-distant past, desperate to escape at almost any cost.
I think I’ve reached that time. An hour I thought may never come. The moment to speak out, to pour out my deep anxiety and dread, to tell you everything, to hold nothing back, whatever the potential consequences for my life. It’s something I need to do. Something I have to do. I know that now. I no longer have a choice.
Are you ready to read on? Have I captured your interest even slightly? I guess the answer must be yes if you’re still reading. I sincerely hope my story doesn’t keep you awake at night, as it does me. I’ve no investment in the discomfort of others, or at least not that of the innocent. You may find my tale shocking. There’s no avoiding the horror. But I make no apologies for that. I can’t erase the past. If I’m going to tell you my story, it has to be all of it.
I’ve experienced terrible things. And I’ve done awful things too. Some of which you may think are justified, and others perhaps not. Things have a way of running away with themselves. I sometimes went further than even I intended. I can’t pretend otherwise. I’ve committed to total honesty. I’ll leave it to you to judge my degree of guilt. All I can offer is mitigation. But try to be kind. Put yourself in my place if you can. Try to be understanding. And I’ll try to keep my writing as succinct as possible in return. I’m an enthusiastic reader, a lover of word games. But I won’t let emotion cloud the picture. I won’t let tears soil the page.
Have we got a deal? Can we shake on it, in a metaphorical sense, without actually meeting? Well, yes or no, I’ve got my laptop at the ready. So, I’m going to get on with it. I’ve put it off long enough. Now we get to the heart of the story – the foundation of all that came next.
2
‘Sticks and stones may break my bones. But words shall never hurt me.’
The familiar linguistic rhyme came to mind as I cast my thoughts back to my childhood, vivid memories, reliving events as if in real-time. I guess the author’s words were well-intentioned. I’m sure the writer meant no malice. But don’t believe a word of it, that’s my cautionary advice. Words have power; they can hurt; they can control. And they did me to the nth degree.
Words served my father’s purpose all too well, as he indulged his deviant tastes with no concern for my well-being, despite my tender years. The bastard! I still hate him with a burning intensity I can never hope to erase. Forgiveness? Forget it! He brought nothing but misery to this world, nothing but pain, nothing but suffering. And he did it simply because it pleased him to do so, because he could. Because he thought he could get away with it, that he’d never be caught and punished. Those were all the reasons the pig needed. The total fucking bastard! Ahhhh! The man was a parasite. I think that’s a fair description, although no single word could fully capture his vile persona. He oozed destructive evil. It seeped from every rotten pore of his body. But he hid it from the world; he wore the mask well. Only I saw the bleak reality. He thought of no one but himself.
I was just four years old when it all started; certainly no older than five. I was a young child; an innocent in a dangerous world. I should have been protected in my parents’ care. Home should have been a sanctuary, a haven, a place of safety where I could thrive. But it was so very far from that. If heaven can be a place on earth, then so can hell.
I’m not going to focus on that time of my life with any great intensity. It’s far too painful. But I’ll give you a flavour of events in the interests of understanding. I’ll open a window just wide enough for you to glance in. I’m sure you’ll get the gist quickly enough if you haven’t already done so. It’s not as if it’s difficult to comprehend. The man was a predator and I his prey. That sums it up very nicely. I was his plaything and in the worst possible way.
I can feel his dirty hands on me even now as I write these words. I can hear his sing-song voice, the urgency, the accent, the tone.
‘This is our special secret, Alice. No one else can ever know what we do together.’
That was one of his favourites. I must have heard those poisonous words at least a thousand times back then. He’d place his very ordinary face only inches from mine, with our foreheads almost touching, hissing his words, his whisky-soaked breath filling my nostrils, making me retch.
‘Tell no one, Alice! Do you hear me, girl? You’ll be taken away if you speak out, to somewhere awful, somewhere terrible. Somewhere i
nfinitely more horrible than you could ever imagine even in your worst nightmares.’
Another example of his repeated contributions to my confused anxiety. Inevitably followed by something equally diabolical. Anything to put the fear of God into me. Anything to ensure my silence.
‘Oh, dear, can you picture it, Alice? It would all be your fault. You’d never see your poor mother again. Do you want that? Do you? You’ll keep your mouth shut if you don’t.’
And I’d reply, ‘No, no, no, please, Daddy, no!’ or something along those lines, swallowing his every lying word, believing every untruth that spewed from his venomous mouth. That’s the way it works with adults. Children believe them. And I believed him. The bastard understood that. He used it to his advantage for nine long years. He used it because it was easy for him, he knew he could.
I can remember it now as if it were yesterday, his lies ringing in my ears, louder and louder. I’m trembling now as I think about it.
‘Tell no one.’
That was a line he often used, repeating it, driving his message home time and again. Anything to keep me silent. Anything to avoid detection. Anything to continue along his destructive path.
‘Never tell a single soul. If you did, if you said anything, the consequences would be too terrible to contemplate. You’d break your poor mother’s heart. Do you want that? Do you, do you?’
Then, just when I thought it was nearly over, he’d pick up a belt, or a hairbrush, or some other implement with which to beat me, somewhere where it didn’t show. Never where it showed. That was part of the subterfuge. He was never careless, always careful, considered. He was practised, his methods honed over time. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. And he kept doing it, however much I pleaded. However much I wanted it to stop. He hurt me often because he didn’t care.
Give me a second. I need to compose myself before continuing. The memories are closing in, raw, painful, surrounding me mercilessly. If only… if only… Oh, what’s the point in even thinking it? It happened. I can’t change that… I think I’m ready to go on:
‘No, Daddy, no!’
Whack!
I can hear the impact of each stinging blow even now. I can feel it on my skin. I can picture the bruises, red, blue, purple, green, yellow and brown. Once, then again and repeat. That was his usual pattern, as his breathing intensified, like an overheated dog in need of water, his chest rising and falling with the effort of it all. He’d get red in the face, sweaty, panting, then aroused, always aroused. Violence never failed to excite him sexually. For him, that was the point of it all. I’m certain of that as I look back on events now. Although, of course, I didn’t understand that at the time.
I’d be crying as he’d hurt me, hushed, as quietly as possible, swallowing my sadness, stifling my girlish sobs, straining my being to try and make it stop.
‘The punishment,’ he called it. I deserved it, apparently, time and again. And in the end I believed it. That it was my fault just as he said. That I deserved no less.
His face would contort, muscles tensed, contours changing, snarling. ‘You’re a bad girl, evil! Do you hear me, Alice? Evil! I’ll beat the sin out of you. I have to do it. You do know that, don’t you? It’s not me that’s doing it, it’s you, it’s you: you dirty, bad girl. You drive me to it. You’re a filthy temptress sent by the devil. You’ve brought it on yourself.’
I yearned to say no, to yell no, and keep shouting no, no, no, until he finally understood and stopped his abuse of my body, mind and spirit. But where would that have got me? Reason was lost on him. My wasted words would only have made things worse, infinitely worse. I think I always knew that, instinctively, without having to be told. My silence was a means of survival. Until I was old enough to… Until… Until… Well, more of that later. I will come to that part of the story but not quite yet. I mustn’t jump ahead. It’s not yet that time.
Whack!
He’d hit me again. Harder this time, with force, as he blew out the air, spittle spraying from his mouth.
Whack!
‘Stop moving, lie still and shut your mouth. What is wrong with you, girl? You’re making this worse for yourself. May God forgive you! It’s all down to you. Original sin!’
I’d fight to stop shaking, instantly, without hesitation, my entire body tense, fibrous muscles rigid; his words imprisoning me as effectively as any high prison walls.
’Don’t make a sound, not a bleat, not a whimper. Or you’ll be sorry. You’ll spend an eternity in hell. Do you hear me, girl? Hell! It’s no more than you deserve.’
I actually thought I may have been in hell for a time. The bastard had a million ways to silence me back then, skilled manipulations that ranged from feigned kindness to threats of brutality that he was only too ready to inflict at even the slightest provocation. I think he lived for those moments when he could harm me. They excited him to the point of orgasm. I could see it in his eyes as I got older, the glee, the thrill. I saw it, but no one else did.
He lived two lives, you see, the fiction and the reality he hid from the world. And he was good at it too. People liked him; they respected him, my father, the black-clad preacher with the contrasting white dog collar he seemed so very proud of. The apparent pillar of the community, the monster hidden in plain sight. He wore the mask well. Now do you get it? I was lost in a sea of despair. Do you understand the predicament in which I found myself? I like to think you can.
I’m going to pause for a second or two… To wipe away a tear… To regain my self-control… The writing process is proving infinitely more difficult than I anticipated… I need to blow my nose… There, that’s better. I can breathe more easily now. I’m okay to go on:
I still hear the bastard’s words sometimes when I close my eyes, as if whispered in my ear. As if he’s still with me after all this time, a dark, haunting spectre refusing to let me rest even for a moment. Hateful words repeated time and again, uttered in the dead of night when sleep is beyond my fitful reach. As if I never escaped his unwelcome clutches, those cold, filthy fingers that stroked or prodded, or poked, inflicting pain in one way or another, physical, psychological and emotional, offering nothing but confusion, nothing but distress.
But I’m not a child anymore. I’m my own woman now, an adult. It’s time to break the shackles. Time to shine a bright light into the gloom, to lift the metaphorical stone. Monsters thrive in darkness; they feed on secrets, hungry, ravenous; such things give them their power. And so here you are, my diary, the whole and unfettered truth; or at least my version of it. Others may have a different story to tell. I like to think it’s a tale of righteous justice, of my victory over evil, although revenge is perhaps a better word to describe it. I’m not in total denial. I know what I’ve become. And I accept it too. It’s my destiny, my role in life. A strange reality some will find hard to believe. But I can tell you it’s true. Every single word of it. I know because it happened to me.
3
I’ve decided to introduce myself now and be done with it. Anything less would seem impolite. And that’s the last thing I’d want. I don’t want to give you a poor impression of myself, not at this early stage of my tale. Things are bad enough without unnecessary rudeness. Of course, I won’t share my real name, the one I was given at birth. That would be ill-advised, inviting trouble, as you’ll come to realise. I’m not the brightest bulb in the box. But I’m not stupid either. I wouldn’t have survived this long if I was. I’ll call myself Alice Granger for the sake of the story. I think that works well enough. I heard the name somewhere along the way and liked it. I can’t remember where, but it serves my purpose.
I’m not expecting you to like me. I’m not out to make friends; that’s not my motive. But I do hope you’ll understand the extremes to which I’ve travelled when you fully consider events. I gave you a flavour of my childhood, the things he did, the things he said. The type of man he was. But I’m not going to dwell on it. Why torture myself? What purpose would it serve? You can fil
l in the gaps if you choose to.
I’m going to jump forward in time to the day of my thirteenth birthday. I think that makes sense. It was a bitterly cold, winter day with a cloudless pale-blue sky, and a low, bright sun that lit the coal-stained hills behind our semi-detached Victorian home as I looked out from my bedroom window.
I can still remember each moment of that day, the anniversary of my birth. It’s imprinted on my mind forever, carved in tablets of stone until my dying day. It was an important day, a causative day, a catalyst that created what I’ve become. Everything changed that cold winter day. I didn’t realise it at the time, not initially, that took time. But as I look back on it now, it seems glaringly obvious. Nothing would ever be the same.
I can remember sitting down for my birthday tea, me, my mother, that man all dressed in black, and my baby sister, just three years old, seated in a wooden high chair that had once been mine, looking from one of us to another, smiling, blissfully oblivious to the awful dangers that inhabited her world. And then I saw it. That man, the bastard, the monster, looking at my baby sister as he often looked at me. It was a look I hated, an expression I dreaded, lustful, drooling, an all too reliable predictor of the horrors to come. I knew in that instant that my sister was in terrible danger. The sort of risk I couldn’t let her face. I felt a crushing, almost overwhelming responsibility to protect her, to save her from the ravages that my father’s unwanted attention would inevitably bring.
