by John Nicholl
I actually thought that Big Boy might have ended our online conversation at one point. That he’d wriggled off the hook, slithering back under the nearest stone. The slimeball stopped typing for a time, but he soon began again. And then he told me everything I needed to know. He was a lover of children. That’s what the bastard claimed. A lover! A fucking lover! That’s one word for it. An abuser would be a better one. It was more of the same. It’s always the same.
He wanted to get to know me better, to meet up, to be my special friend. And then he sent photos. Of course, he did. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess of what. First came a picture of his flabby milk-white body, from the neck down, of course. Monster men like Big Boy never reveal their faces. And then a second image focused on his genitals. He was erect. They almost always are. Gross! No surprises there. It made me feel physically sick. I dry gagged, once, then again.
He was nothing if not predictable. Always manipulative, always with his deviant goals in mind. That’s why the predatory monster was online all along. That was why he trawled the internet in search of the vulnerable. And now he thought he’d found his next victim. How very wrong could a monster be? If I played my cards right, I’d have him. My trap was set. Now all I had to do was play him, to reel him in.
Did you like my photos?
Like them? Fucking well like them! The bastard, the total and utter bastard! I spat tiny globules of warm saliva at the screen, my face contorting with rage. I replied that I did. I liked them very much. I responded in childlike language, my online message including deliberate grammatical errors that wouldn’t ring alarm bells in the monster’s head. I wrote as I imagine a ten-year-old does. It’s something I’ve practised. And it worked well, as I expected it would. Big Boy asked me to reciprocate, to send photos of my own, naked photos, a ten-year-old schoolgirl, or so he thought. But that was never going to happen. I typed maybe next time and waited. Tap away; you slug, you rat, you monster, you curse on all that’s good.
I waited, resisting the temptation to start typing again, giving the bastard time to sign his death warrant. That’s how these things work. And Big Boy was no different, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest.
I was relieved that my new target obviously hadn’t suspected a thing when he finally began typing again minutes later. He was telling me what he’d like to do to me now, in ghastly graphic detail. He was telling me what he’d like me to do to him. He really was a repulsive creature, one of the worst I’ve encountered. I replied that his deviant wants sounded like fun. Without using those words, of course. I added that I’d seen sex films online. Videos of things I’d like to do myself when given a chance. The slug suggested meeting up at that point, and I knew I had him. What an utterly revolting man!
So, you’ll meet me? We can have some fun together, like the grown-ups you saw in the videos?
I replied that I was so up for it and that we could do everything he wanted. And then I waited for him to start typing again, as I knew he inevitably would.
We could make our own film. That would be fun. I could bring a camera when we meet. You could be a star.
I said that it all sounded so very exciting. Just what the pervert wanted to read. Anything to lure him in.
And then he promised presents, anything I wanted if I satisfied his needs. If I’d be his special friend.
I said I wanted a new smartphone, to which he readily agreed. He was playing his best cards now. He really believed he was in control. He’d give me anything I wanted, as long as I told no one. As long as it remained our secret.
Where do you live?
Ah! That was his next move. He was upping the ante. I laughed when he asked that. A cold laugh that had nothing to do with humour. That was precisely the question I’d been waiting for. I told him exactly where I live. I wanted him to know. I needed him to know. That’s the way I deal with these things – face to face, up close and personal.
Okay, that’s good, I know the area, you’re only about an hour’s drive from where I live. Do you think we could meet up somewhere nearby? I could take you somewhere really nice in my new car. Somewhere we could be alone to have some fun together. And I’ll bring the phone. That’s a promise! You do want the phone, don’t you?
What makes scum like Big Boy think their behaviour is even remotely acceptable? Can anyone answer that for me? How do slugs like him live with themselves? How do they sleep nights? Some claim they like children too much. Even that they do no harm. Are they really that deluded? Or are they simply too focused on their own perverted wants to worry about anyone else. I think that’s probably it. It’s the only thing that makes any sense to me. Men like Big Boy, men like my father, understand the damage they do. They just don’t care.
I waited for a minute or two before responding to his latest question, upping his anticipation. I took a slow, deep breath, watching the seconds tick by on the wall clock above the chest freezer to my right. Then I wrote the words I knew he’d be delighted to read: Yes, I wanted the phone. And I’d love to meet him too. It all sounded like a fun time.
And that was when I truly drove home my advantage. I typed quickly, using two fingers, the best I could do despite my years of study. I told him that my parents would be away for the day the following Sunday. I then added that I’m an only child. I’m sure he loved that. And finally that I’d be home alone, bored, keen for entertainment, and I didn’t have any neighbours. So, why not meet at my home address?
Those weren’t my exact words. I dumbed it down for the pervert’s ready consumption. I was sure not to scare him off with my intelligence or maturity. Raising alarm bells is the last thing I’d have wanted. So I was careful, as I always am. My methods had worked before, and I had no reason to think they wouldn’t again. He was probably thinking along the same lines, but for very different reasons.
What colour phone do you want?
I typed, Pink, I love pink.
Ah, okay, pink makes the girls wink, pink it is. Anything your little heart desires. Are you certain your parents will be away all day? You really need to be sure. That’s REALLY important!
I replied that I was sure, something I’m confident he was desperate to confirm. I bet he couldn’t believe his luck. I pictured him drooling, wanking as if his worthless life depended on it. And I’d never hated a monster man more.
I typed my address, told him we’d be safe, that we wouldn’t be caught.
What time shall I come?
Ha! The misguided fool. He really thought he was winning. But of course, he was wrong. Horribly, irrevocably wrong. If he thought he was grooming me, he was very sadly mistaken. The predator had become quarry. Just like my father, as he walked along that cliff path all those years ago. Oh yes, this sick bastard would pay too, as Father had. Not in the same way, of course, but the outcome would be much the same. Big Boy would meet me; he’d come to my home, deep in the Welsh countryside, where no one else can see. I’d look him right in the eye, our noses almost touching. He’d get to know me so very well. But he wouldn’t enjoy the experience nearly as much as he hoped.
10
Preparing for a new guest’s arrival is always a complex business. Big Boy will be my third caller in a matter of months, so I’m getting better at the process, learning from mistakes, building on what went well. Everything has to be just right for things to go smoothly. I’ve got just over twenty-four hours before he comes knocking on my door. That should be more than enough time to get everything in place, and more than enough time to worry.
What if he doesn’t turn up? That’s my main concern; I’d hate him to slither away at this late stage. But I don’t think that’s very likely. Slugs like Big Boy live for times like this when they anticipate indulging their aberrant needs, feeding their fantasies, making them real. He’ll be counting down the minutes, counting the seconds, such things define him. And I use that fact to my advantage. I like to think of myself as a purveyor of righteous justice, a force for good, jury, judge and executioner.
I’ll tear him apart, rip him to pieces once convicted. His life will end in a dark world of pain. But please don’t feel sorry for him. The monster deserves no less. He has no idea of the storm coming his way.
And so I’ll continue to prepare as the hours pass. Everything has to be all set, everything in its place, ready for any eventuality; there’s no room for errors. He looks flabby but strong in the photos. He’s a big man, at least six feet and two inches tall, and heavy, very heavy. I’m only a little over nine stone in weight myself. That always has to be a consideration. It’s some contrast, Mr Big and Miss Little. There are limits to my physical prowess. I’ll have to use my intellect and cunning to defeat him with my mind. I have to be cleverer than he is, which shouldn’t be difficult. He’ll only be focused on one thing. He’ll be thinking with his dick.
The clear plastic sheeting is ready. A big roll of it was brought to my door by a delivery man in a large white van with a bright blue logo on the side. I don’t know what it said, but it hardly matters. He seemed like a pleasant enough guy on first impressions. However, you can never really tell. Be careful whom you trust; that’s my advice. Monsters come in many forms.
I wondered if the delivery man asked himself what I wanted with all that plastic. Or if he’d worked out the kind of woman I am. Could he see the killer instinct in my eyes? It concerned me for a time. But I really don’t think he could. I was probably worrying about nothing. I remember him smiling as he helped me get the heavy roll into the cottage hall. I didn’t let him into my killing room for obvious reasons. That space is reserved exclusively for guests. In the end, he drove away without comment. As if nothing untoward was happening.
I think there’s plenty of plastic sheeting left for Big Boy plus whoever comes next. I’ve got a couple of likely candidates on my shortlist, monster men in need of stopping when the time is right. But my list may change depending on the assessed risk posed by individual offenders. I try to be as flexible as possible as new information comes to light. I find that works best for me. It’s how I maximise my impact. There’s any number of sex offenders out there – more than you could ever imagine. I can’t kill all of them, however much I’d like to. It’s a matter of priorities.
My doctor recently prescribed me a two-week supply of sleeping medication. She does that from time to time when I can be sufficiently persuasive. I cry, lower my gaze, play the needy patient, and she grabs her prescription pad with eager fingers, glad to get me out of there as quickly as possible. The medication is a green, sticky liquid in a clear plastic bottle with a black screw top, instead of tablets. The liquid may well come in useful. I’ll use it if I have to, to pour down Big Boy’s throat, to sedate him, to take away his strength. But only if it’s essential. Only if all else fails to subdue him. There’s a limited supply after all. I may need to use it for somebody else.
I’ve prepared my various butcher’s tools and knives, laying them out in order of size, next to a hammer I always keep handy. There’s a filleting knife with a ten-inch blade that’s a particular favourite; a utility knife with a short, strong replaceable blade that’s great for slicing; an old Scottish dagger with a bone handle, bought cheaply at auction, that’s ideal for stabbing one body part or another as the need arises; a bone saw; and finally a cleaver. All are practical, and all are useful. They’ve been thoroughly cleaned, polished and sharpened. There’s no room for sloppiness. If you’re going to do something, why not do it properly? That’s the way I look at it. I take pride in my work.
I’ll use one or all of the implements, depending on how things go. Big Boy’s end may be quick, or it may be slow. I have no way of knowing before I meet him. That really does depend on what he says, how he responds to my questions and observations, that’s down to him. I can’t take responsibility for the actions of others. But either way, he’ll pay an appropriate price for his crimes. That’s a done deal. He’s as guilty as sin. Yes, he’ll pay, it’s just a matter of how.
I use a room off the hall as my killing room in the winter months. I like to work in relative comfort whenever I can. I call the room my slaughterhouse. It’s a space I only use for one purpose. An empty room with no furniture or carpet, just bare floorboards that I cover in my plastic sheeting, secured by strong yellow tape I buy in a local hardware store, several rolls at a time. The walls are painted with a good quality white washable paint, of the type used in bathrooms. That’s of crucial importance when cleaning up. Although I can still see bloodstains in a few places I’ve missed or didn’t wash down sufficiently well if I look hard enough with my contact lenses in. I keep the thick red velvet curtains shut to keep out the daylight in the interests of privacy. But that’s not a problem; there’s a bright ceiling light at the centre of the room, just a bulb, no lampshade. I need to see what I’m doing as the process progresses. And there’s a small stainless-steel sink, the one little luxury I’ve allowed myself, installed by an acquaintance of my mother, a man she met in church. She still goes, can you believe that, after everything that happened? Each to their own, I guess, her attendance does no harm that I can think of. But it’s certainly not for me.
I think I’ve told you more than enough for now. I’ve set the scene. I’ve given you an idea of what to expect next. I won’t continue my story again until after Big Boy’s been and the deed is done. I need to concentrate on my primary purpose. My diary has to come second.
Oh, there is one last thing I wanted to mention before bringing this session to a timely close. I’ve discovered that I can dictate directly to my new laptop. I no longer need to write anything down, and that’s an undoubted bonus given my typing skills, or rather the lack of them. I should be able to speed up my tale-telling from this point in, once I’m washed and sufficiently rested. Entertaining a guest is exhausting, dirty work. I know that from hard-won experience. It’s amazing how much blood one body can hold. There are pints of the stuff, flowing red, it gets everywhere.
The next chapter is likely to be somewhat gory if you’re of a sensitive disposition. It may be challenging to read for some. But try to remember who I’m killing. Remind yourself who I’m chopping up for safe disposal. That may help you cope a little better. It certainly does me.
11
The minutes before a guest finally arrives are the worst for me. They seem to drag on forever, eating away at my sanity, clawing at my peace of mind. And this time was no different. Big Boy was a few minutes late. The bastard, the total and utter bastard! For one horrible moment, I thought the scumbag wasn’t coming at all. That he’d bottled out or seen through my trickery. I stared through my bedroom window, watching the lane leading to the cottage, willing his car to appear. I felt my gut twist as I checked my watch for the third time in a matter of minutes, my head starting to ache as my legs weakened, threatening to collapse under me with the stress of it all. But then there he was in front of me, driving slowly down the lane in a dirty blue saloon car, the make of which I couldn’t identify. He was on his way, that’s what counted. He was about to enter my world. The time had come. All my preparations had led to this.
I continued watching, dropping to my knees, crouching, hidden, as the monster in human form parked his car in the yard outside the cottage. I could see him staring through his windscreen, his neck craned, his nose almost touching the glass. He was studying the building with quick darting eyes, from right to left, up, down and back again, as if he was trying to look through the windows, even the impenetrable stone walls, to weigh up the risks, to figure out his next move.
I feared that the monster man might lose his nerve at any second, and drive away, to escape me when I was so very close to success. But no, my concerns were unjustified. He exited the car, closing the driver’s door behind him, placing his car keys in a trouser pocket with chubby, sausage fingers that made me laugh despite the tension. I’d parked my car well out of sight, to avoid alarming him, and that was a good thing, a wise precautionary move. He was walking slowly, looking around him as he approached my front door, g
lancing in every direction, even behind him, more than once, his head moving in quick, sharp, sudden movements.
I rushed downstairs as he knocked on the door, reticently at first, his knock barely audible even in the silence. Then, louder and more insistent as I entered my slaughterhouse, dressed only in disposable white paper overalls, ready, using a computer-generated voice to call out to him from inside a hidden recess in the wall that couldn’t be seen from the hall. The laptop mimicked a childlike female voice I’d developed and perfected over time. I pressed a key to start the process.
‘Come in; the door’s not locked. I’m in here. I’m waiting for you.’
He must have realised I’d left the front door slightly ajar by that time. He could push the door open if he chose to. Nothing was stopping him entering the building other than his reticence. But he didn’t open it, or at least not yet. I had to draw him in. I had to tempt him still further. I used my computer to lure him again, choosing one of several available pre-recorded options, as the door opened just far enough for him to place his bulbous, balding head through the resulting gap. He was listening intently, his head tilted at a slight angle, considering his next step.
‘Come on in. What are you waiting for? We can have some fun together. It’s open, the door’s open, come on in.’
I waited, watching, willing him to enter. Come on, monster, in you come, in you come. My slaughterhouse is awaiting you.
And then as I silently repeated my mantra, he pushed my front door fully open. I heard the familiar creak as the door swung on its hinges, and resisted my inclination to cheer as he stepped over the doorstep entering my domain. He was standing just inside the hall now, the door still open behind him, a fly in my web, a rat in my trap. He didn’t know it yet, but I was in control.
