Killing Evil: a chilling psychological thriller

by John Nicholl

  She sighed. ‘If you won’t agree to see a psychiatrist I would at least like you to speak to a counsellor. We have an excellent one here at the surgery every Wednesday afternoon.’

  I wasn’t going to fall into that trap. ‘I just want some more sleeping medication. That’s the only thing I need. I can’t sleep without it. Are you going to help me or not?’

  She checked her computer screen. ‘You should have plenty left according to my records. It’s not something you should overuse. It’s addictive, and there are some potentially unpleasant side effects. It’s not a long-term answer. I really think talking to the counsellor would be a good idea.’

  ‘I dropped the bottle. Most of it was spilt. I wouldn’t dream of taking too much.’

  She picked up her prescription pad, and I knew I was finally winning. ‘How about we make a deal? I’ll write you a prescription for the syrup if, and only if, you’ll agree to see the counsellor next Wednesday at two. It’s a one-hour appointment.’

  ‘What about work?’

  She held the nib of her biro above her prescription pad, preparing to write. ‘We can talk about that after your therapy session but not before.’

  I stood as she handed me the prescription, keen to get out of there with no more talk.

  ‘Don’t leave quite yet, please, Alice. I’d like to weigh you and take your blood pressure. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to repeat your blood tests. It’s just routine. Nothing to worry about.’

  I decided to go along with it in the interests of an easy life. I had no intention whatsoever of seeing the counsellor. Why would I need to? I’d make my excuses at the appropriate time. I may well need another prescription at some future date. A little tranquillising medication is always handy. I played the game. It was worth keeping my doctor onside.

  31

  I’ve killed again, another execution, using the same well-established protocol. I’ve had so much time on my hands due to my enforced sick leave. I was keen not to waste it. And so my quest continues. There was no car to get rid of this time. My gentleman caller came by train. I took a gamble, collecting him from the station at three o’clock one sunny Saturday afternoon. I hope that doesn’t come back to haunt me as the weeks pass. Maybe I was unwise to act so instinctively. But I was in a blue funk, bored, and it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss. So, what the hell, I got on with it.

  Over a week has now passed since my latest guest’s arrival. He’s still there dead on my slaughterhouse floor. I can see him lying there on the clear plastic sheeting as I write these words. He’s covered in body art, my latest guest, high-quality tattoos from ankles to neck. Ink at its stunning, creative best. Or, at least, I like to think so. And his skin is so very soft, like the best quality leather, although it’s deteriorating a little more with each hour that passes. I just can’t bring myself to put him in the ground. Not yet, not until I have to. There’s so much artwork to see and appreciate while I still can. Perhaps I’ll skin the rest of him before it’s too late. It will be so very nice to preserve the best of the tattoos as a keepsake.

  There was one of a sizeable leaping panther on his back that I particularly liked. I’ve already removed it with my utility knife. A messy job better done by experts, but I was careful not to damage the image. I think I did a reasonable job of it too. I plan to frame the hide when I get the chance to hang it on my wall for posterity. I’ve already measured for and ordered a suitable frame. Black ebony wood to match the black panther, with a white cardboard mounting to make it stand out. I paid a premium, but I’m sure it will be worth it. One gets what one pays for in this life of ours. It will be a lovely reminder of the time we spent together chatting in my bone-house – a memento I can treasure until my dying day.

  I shared a meal and a bottle of wine with the panther boy yesterday evening, finished off with a French brandy in a crystal glass. I’ve become rather fond of his company. There was just me, him, my mannequin, the mirror and my reflection, all sat together on my slaughterhouse floor. There wasn’t much conversation to speak of, but I appreciated the company. I think of them all as friends now, although I realise the panther boy will soon have to go.

  I’ve kept the room as cool as possible to preserve the body in a reasonable state. But there’s only so long that’s acceptable as spring fast approaches and the temperature rises. His face is already becoming more of a skull than a person in places. And my lavender air freshener is no longer adequate to alleviate the smell however much I use. I’ve gone through two full cans already and have had to buy a third.

  Soon I’ll have to face the inevitable and say my fond farewells. It’s such a shame, so very regrettable. I’m going to miss him terribly when he’s gone. But I’ll still have my memories, no one can take those from me. I’m glad he came at all; I’ll focus on the positives. He spent time with me here, my friend and confidante. I’ll just have to be grateful for that.

  The panther boy was the first of my many guests to express genuine remorse and regret. I think that’s to his credit. He was a nineteen-year-old young man with long blond hair and sky-blue eyes, who’d experienced abuse himself, or so he claimed as we talked of times gone by. He sat there naked and beautiful, chained to my black Victorian radiator, and told me that he’d thought the girl was sixteen when he had sex with her months before. She’d told him as much, or so he claimed when the two of them met in a student bar one drunken Friday night in September. That doesn’t make it right, of course. It doesn’t in any way excuse his crime. That goes without saying. But something about his demeanour told me his claim might well have been true. He was crying when he said it, a torrent of tears rolling down his handsome face as if they may never stop. And they seemed like tears of regret rather than self-pity.

  That impressed me; he had empathy for the girl. He wasn’t a complete monster like the others. I could have forgiven him if my circumstances had been different. I may even have let him go after a reasonable period of punishment to get on with his life. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. Not in this life, not in my world, there’s too much at stake.

  He promised he wouldn’t say anything; that he wouldn’t go to the police. He swore it on his mother’s life. And he declared that he’d never touch an underage girl again too, even if she looked sixteen and consented as I had in my messages.

  But I’m sure you’ll understand that was a risk I couldn’t afford to take. I spent one final afternoon with my panther boy, chatting, listening to his life story and telling him mine.

  I appreciated the opportunity to pour out my angst. I introduced him to my father, who made an inevitable appearance as the alcohol flowed. I described how I killed Father, pushing him off that cliff, the start of it all. And we discussed my previous guests, which seemed to unnerve the panther boy for some reason I still can’t fully comprehend. Maybe it was my description of their offending behaviour that so upset him. Or the extremes to which I went to punish them for their crimes. Although I like to think the boy appreciated my motives. I killed for a good reason. I think he understood that before he died himself.

  I shed a tear for the panther boy as I picked up my utility knife, already fitted with a sharp new blade. I didn’t want him to suffer as I slowly approached him, kneeling at his side and gently lifting his chin. I could feel him tense as he closed his blue eyes tight shut. And then I cut his throat, quickly from ear to ear, being careful not to damage a tattoo starting at the base of his neck. I dropped the knife to the floor and held the boy’s hand as he bled out, offering him comfort as I sang a lullaby into his ear. I think he appreciated that because he died easy. Maybe he was as fond of me as I was of him.

  32

  Maisie came to visit as I was busy working in my rose garden. Regrettable timing I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m sorry if I seem to be making light of it. Because it did unnerve me at the time. She blew my plans right out of the water with one thoughtless act. What the hell is wrong with the woman? Why does she feel the need to interfere in my pr
ivate affairs as often as she does? I could quite easily scream. But what would that achieve? She’s a bitch, I know that much, but as for the rest of it… I’ll put it down to the mysteries of life. Maybe you’ll let me know if you can come up with an explanation.

  I was digging the wet ground when the bitch arrived. I was preparing the panther boy’s final resting place with fond love and affection, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a vehicle approaching the cottage, just a few hundred metres away. I thought for one glorious but all too fleeting moment that my ebony picture frame was about to be delivered. But as I rushed around to the front of the building in my green wellingtons, my heart sank as I recognised the flash silver convertible. Maisie! At my home, she was there on my territory, invading my personal space, breathing my air. How dare she? How fucking well dare she? The bitch, the total and utter bitch!

  I swore as I crouched down low out of her sight. And then I retreated, turning and crawling behind a convenient stone wall bordering the lawn, where I could be sure she wouldn’t spot me with those snooping eyes of hers. I knew then that she was out to get me. She was poison, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. My suspicions had been correct all along. She’d become my nemesis, a virus seeking my downfall. I was determined not to let her win. If she wanted a fight, she was going to have one – the most challenging fight of her life. I’d beaten bigger and harder. She wouldn’t find me wanting. I’d gained far too much experience for that.

  My hatred for Maisie was so very intense that I thought my skull might crack with the pressure of it all. I cursed her very existence as I headed towards the back door, still out of the bitch’s sight. I hurried through the cottage to the lounge at the building’s front after locking the back door behind me. I’d never wanted someone to fuck off more as I peeped through the lounge curtains. I called out, telling the panther boy as much, but, of course, he didn’t reply. He no longer has a voice. But I know he’d have felt the same were he still able to speak.

  My father mocked me as Maisie exited her convertible in a tight floral dress, locking the car door with the click of a button. I chose to ignore him as the bitch pushed open my garden gate and strolled towards my front door in those high-heeled shoes of hers as if she owned the place. And then she knocked on my door as if that was okay. As if it was a reasonable thing to do. The woman is deluded, dangerous, around the fucking bend. I hated her even more for that. She’s devoid of any redeeming qualities.

  I waited, willing Maisie to walk away, but she kept knocking, harder and louder as the seconds passed by. Then she had the audacity to bend down to peer through my letter box. To look into my hall without my permission; what a dreadful unredeemable bitch. And then, as if that weren’t bad enough, she actually pushed the letter box open and called out through it, so loud that I couldn’t fail to hear her in my hiding place.

  ‘Hello, Alice, please answer the door. I know you’re in there. I can see your car. I’m concerned, I’ve tried to ring you. I have a duty of care as your manager. I need to know you’re okay.’

  The car, my fucking car! I’d given it no thought at all. Why hadn’t I hidden the damned thing? Attention to detail was everything. I felt my remaining confidence slipping away. Why oh why hadn’t I thought of it before? I’d let myself down.

  I heard my father’s all too familiar voice, and this time I saw him again. There he was standing in those jet-black clothes of his with that starched white dog collar around that scrawny neck, picking his moments as he does so very well. He was chipping away at my self-esteem, as is his custom. Why won’t my tormentor leave me alone?

  You silly girl, you make one stupid mistake after another. You’re a screw-up, Alice, my little plaything, a waste of space and breath.

  I shook a fist at him while baring my teeth in a snarl that didn’t seem to faze him at all. ‘I managed to shove you off that cliff without too much trouble, preacher man. I watched you plunge to your death. I did that, me! And I got away with it too. I wasn’t silly then.’

  But look at you now, Alice, crouching there, nervous, trembling, such a sad sight for a father to behold.

  ‘Shut up, Father, or she’ll hear you. Get back to hell. Hide under the devil’s tail. That’s where you belong. You’ve done enough damage in my life. I detest you and Mother loathes you too. I’ve got work to do. It’s time for you to go.’

  Let her in, Alice. You’re going to have to talk to her sometime, you ridiculous girl. If she goes away, she’ll come back. And she’ll bring the police. Where will your little escapade be then, my girl? Let the woman in. It’s the only choice you’ve got.

  I crouched there, still hidden, considering my limited options in light of my father’s unwelcome input. I tugged at my hair on asking myself if he were correct for the very first time. But I dismissed the idea as laughable as I reached for a vodka bottle. What the hell was I thinking? He was toying with me for his amusement, to do me down, as he always had. He was a monster when I was a child, and he’s a monster still. It would be crazy to even listen to the bastard, let alone do what he said.

  I let out a silent cheer as Maisie knocked on my door for one last time before walking back down my path towards my gate. But my joy proved premature when a minute or two later she tried to open the door at the rear of the cottage. And then, as if that wasn’t enough of an intrusion, she began looking through the ground-floor windows one at a time, prying into my private world, her tarty face pressed against the glass. I scuttled from one room to another on all fours, ensuring I was not seen as I continued to watch her. Thankfully, the slaughterhouse curtains were closed. That was fortunate. I think that may well have saved me. Had she seen it she’d have run, called the police, the game would have been up. But the panther boy remained my special secret. I thought to wait it out. To ignore the bitch until she finally went away. But she’d come back. That was inevitable.

  Something had to be done or I might never be free of her. Then I realised my father’s words had been a double bluff. The con merchant! He’d been playing me in the knowledge that whatever he said, I’d do the opposite. But I was too smart to fall for his lies.

  I stood up, waving and calling out to Maisie as she looked in at me with an awkward grin. I knew then that drawing her in was precisely what was needed to resolve the demanding situation that she alone had created. I had to do whatever it took to negate the threat she posed. Maisie had brought it on herself. She’d given me no choice. Any guilt was hers and hers alone. So she could hardly blame me for what was to come. I’m sure the panther boy would have agreed with me, were he able to express an opinion. However else could I take back control?

  33

  I could tell that Maisie was suspicious as soon as she sat in my lounge. She was trying to make out things were normal, feigning interest in my well-being. Asking about my health like she gave a toss. But I knew what she was up to.

  ‘I’ve been ringing and ringing, Alice, but your phone went straight to messages. I’m your friend as well as your manager. I was desperate to see you. I’ve been worried sick.’

  Like fuck she was! She was poking about, snooping, no more and no less. And now she was looking around my home with those beady eyes and trying to catch me out.

  ‘I’m fine. You’ve been worrying about nothing.’

  ‘You still don’t look well, Alice. What has your doctor said? I don’t want you coming back to work until you’re fully recovered.’

  ‘My doctor says I’m fine.’

  She uncrossed her legs, clearly on edge. No doubt fearing I’d see through her lies. ‘You’ll need your GP to sign a certificate to that effect before coming back. It’s probation department procedure.’

  She was seriously pissing me off. I needed a drink. Maybe I should send her on her way after all. I remembered the line my mother had used. It had worked for her. So why not for me? ‘I’m, er, I’m getting tired, Maisie. I need to rest. I think it’s time you went.’

  She stood, still focused on me. Her mouth was opening and clos
ing as if she was trying to say something but unable to express the words. But then, just as I thought I was about to get rid of her, she raised her snooty nose in the air and blurted out the words that made me realise just how much of a threat she truly was.

  ‘I’ve got to ask, Alice. Is there something wrong with your drains?’

  The bitch was onto me. I forced a smile that felt so out of place. My lips moved, but my eyes were cold. I hoped she wouldn’t be put on her guard. I calmed my breathing. Focus, Alice, focus. ‘Ah, yes, I wanted a chat about that. Have you got time for a coffee? I really would appreciate your advice.’

  She sat back down. ‘Thanks, Alice, that would be lovely. You know how I like it.’

  I had her. I knew I had her. Now all I had to do was hold my nerve.

  ‘And a biscuit?’

  Maisie patted her belly with a convoluted laugh that wasn’t convincing anyone. ‘I’d better not. Rob’s going to be tied up with the murder case for goodness knows how long. My sister’s planning a girl’s holiday to somewhere in the sun; to Egypt maybe, or the Canaries, I love the north of Tenerife at this time of year. If I don’t lose a bit of weight, I’ll never fit into my bikini.’

  The devious bitch! Why mention the detective again? It was always Rob this or Rob that. She never shut up about him. And murder, why call it murder? Execution wasn’t murder; what the fuck was she talking about?

  ‘How’s the investigation going? Has your Rob said anything more?’

  Maisie made a face. ‘It’s not great, to be honest. The police aren’t getting anywhere, from what I can gather. Although there is some news, there’s another missing sex offender. A young man with an unlawful sexual intercourse conviction. He was eighteen, and the girl was a few weeks short of her sixteenth birthday. The parents insisted on pressing charges, and for some reason the girl gave evidence. There’s nothing to suggest the boy’s a paedophile. But the police still think he may be another victim of our local killer. They’ve appealed for information. I don’t know if you saw it on the news.’