Deadly Silence

by OMJ Ryan

‘No thanks, honey. They’re supposed to be for you. A romantic gift on Valentines. Don’t you be sharing them now.’

  Ricky couldn’t contain his joy. ‘You’re right. I’m gonna save them for tonight when I’m watching The Notebook for the hundredth time.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Ricky gathered up the discarded wrapping paper and chucked it in the bin. ‘Is Belinda in yet?’ he asked, referring to his boss.

  ‘Yep, came in at eight. She’s been in her office with the door shut since.’

  ‘Right. I’d better go and show my face and apologise for being late or she’ll be murder for the rest of the day.’ He expertly picked out a truffle and popped it in his mouth. ‘Well…it’d be rude not to have at least one this morning!’ he mumbled through chocolate-stained teeth.

  Laughing, Charlie waved him off as she turned her attention back to the switchboard and picked up a waiting call. ‘Good morning, Media Mogul, Charlie speaking. How can I direct your call today?’

  After a slightly fractious ten-minute catch-up with Belinda, Ricky returned to his desk. Plonking down in his seat, he locked his phone into the cradle and switched on his powerful iMac. His biggest client to date had just launched their new site a few days ago, and each morning he found himself with a list of bugs that needed ironing out. This morning was no different.

  When he finally looked up from his desk, he realised it was almost lunchtime. Having already devoured the muffin and all four of the truffles (they were just too more-ish to resist), he wasn’t hungry. Nonetheless, he decided to go for a walk with Charlie when she asked at half twelve.

  As they strolled along Salford Quays, the winter wind blowing off the water cut through to the bone and, though it was a sunny day and ten degrees, it felt more like two or three with the wind-chill. By the time they returned to the heat of the office an hour later, Ricky’s skin felt hot and flushed. He checked his reflection in the compact mirror he kept in his desk drawer and was surprised to see his skin looked almost beetroot red.

  Tackling the latest feedback email from his client, he flipped from feeling too hot to suddenly freezing cold, so much so that he began to shiver as one of the web developers walked past his desk ‘Is there a window open, Jon?’

  ‘I don’t think so Ricky,’ his colleague replied.

  Unable to concentrate and feeling a little sorry for himself, he wandered over to see Charlie, leaning over the reception desk theatrically. ‘Feel my head. Have I got a temperature?’

  Charlie put a hand up to his forehead. ‘Bit clammy but no temperature. Mind you, you don’t look too good.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’ Ricky made off again before suddenly stopping in his tracks. He stood motionless, staring at the floor.

  ‘Are you ok, Ricky?’

  ‘I’ve got to go to the toilet.’ Luckily the Gents was just to the left of reception. Rushing through the door, he burst into the nearest cubicle and vomited noisily. Thankfully the rest of the stalls were empty as his stomach heaved and hot acidic liquid poured out of his mouth. Eventually, when he was sure there was nothing left, he took his time cleaning himself up and made his way back to Charlie.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, looking at him in concern.

  ‘You don’t want to know, but I think I’ve got that gastro flu that’s going round.’

  ‘Oh God, no. That’s knocking everyone out. You should go home. You don’t want to spread it around.’

  Ricky nodded weakly. ‘Will you let Belinda know? Tell her I’ll call her in the morning if I’m still bad.’ He headed back to his desk to collect his coat and bag.

  Ten minutes later, Ricky’s heart lifted when he saw the tram waiting at the Media City stop. It was due to leave in just a few minutes, which mercifully meant he’d be home soon enough.

  As the tram wobbled down the line, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to control his nausea. When the tram rolled to a stop at East Didsbury, he was already by the doors as they opened. He rushed along the platform and up onto Didsbury Road before hurrying left onto Burnage Lane.

  Seconds later, his front door came into view. Shoving his key in the lock, he tried to think of anything but his watering pallet, but as he opened the door, he was struck by a sudden urgency in his bowels. He virtually threw himself upstairs and into the bathroom. Dropping onto his hands and knees, vomit spewed from his mouth into the basin. At the other end, his bowels gave way as he soiled himself. Hanging on to the toilet for dear life, the hot liquid continued to pour from his mouth and backside. Finally, after what seemed an age, it all stopped and he slumped to the floor, crying pitifully.

  After a few moments of lying in his own faeces on the cold tiles, he summoned up the courage to lift himself up and carefully removed his trousers and underwear. The foul stench of the diarrhoea on his clothes and hands caused him to gag, and for a moment he thought it was about to begin again. Mercifully he held his breath a moment and it eventually passed.

  He didn’t have the stomach to wash the soiled clothing, so instead packed them into the bathroom waste-bin. Next, he stripped naked, ready to shower. He had recently bought the house at auction, and it was in dire need of renovation. He hated the fact he had to use a low-pressured shower over a bath, requiring the intricate balancing of the hot and cold mixer taps. It always seemed to take forever to get the temperature right – usually it was either freezing cold or scalding hot. All he wanted in this moment was to get under a hot power shower like the one he’d left behind in his old rented flat in the city.

  When he pulled back the plastic shower curtain, the sight that greeted him caused him to jump back in terror. A man stood in the bath, his black, manic eyes staring at him above a surgeon’s mask.

  ‘Poor, sick little Ricky,’ the man said softly.

  Ricky tried to scream, but was instantly silenced as the man sprayed something directly into his open mouth. A moment later he tumbled to the floor, unconscious.

  31

  After hauling Ricky’s naked body into the bath, he washed the filth off with the shower-head extension. Then he filled the tub with fresh water and, placing him flat on his back, cable-tied his wrists to the mixer taps.

  Everything he needed was laid out on floor in front of him. He sat on the toilet seat adjacent to Ricky’s hands and head, waiting for him to wake from the sedative. He passed the time by checking his phone – in particular, the local Manchester news channels and GMP’s twitter account – for updates on the so-called ‘Cheadle Murders’. He smiled at the thought of the journalists having to find a new name for them now he had moved his hunting grounds to East Didsbury. After a thorough search of all channels, he concluded there was nothing new to report. That would soon change.

  His attention was drawn back to Ricky as he began to stir, slowly at first as he opened his eyes, followed by frantic movement as he realised his predicament. He bolted upright, splashing water everywhere, and yanked at his hands, trying to free them from the cable-ties.

  ‘It’s no use, Ricky, they don’t come off. I can assure you of that.’ His voice was calm.

  Ricky instinctively shrunk away, but the plastic ties limited his movements.

  After three kills, he had grown more confident and begun to appreciate his own flair for the dramatic. He could, after all, have killed each of his victims by merely using a heavier dose of the sedative, but he had wanted them to suffer as he had. And now, with his fourth victim about to be consigned to the same fate as the previous three, he had decided to spice things up a little to keep it interesting. This time he hadn’t removed the surgeon’s mask, a sinister image for anyone to wake to, let alone Ricky Murray in his current predicament.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Ricky shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Do you know why I’m here?’

  Ricky began to cry. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  He nodded firmly. ‘Do you know why I’m going to kill you, Ricky?’

  ‘No!’ Ricky wailed.

/>   ‘What? Even after seeing what happened to Susan, Dee-Dee and Mrs Clarke? Come on. Surely you must have some idea?’

  Ricky managed to compose himself for a moment. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, come on Ricky. You may not recognise me, but I sure as hell know you. I also know that you and Dee-Dee McNulty were besties when you were little. You told each other everything. Everything!’

  Ricky’s eyes widened.

  ‘So, let’s not end our relationship with even more lies.’ He slowly removed the mask and smiled broadly.

  Ricky stared at him, confusion filling his face.

  ‘You still don’t recognise me?’

  ‘No,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Do you know, Ricky, each one of the others had the exact same reaction as you. They had no idea who I was at first. Have I really changed that much?’ He leaned forwards and picked up the thick plastic bag. ‘Do you know what I use this for?’

  Ricky shook his head vigorously.

  ‘It’s my magic ‘truth bag’. See, when I introduce this to the conversation, I find I’m suddenly told the truth. The truth, from people who had lied their entire lives about what happened to me.’

  Ricky stared at the bag. ‘I-I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. You don’t need to use that.’

  ‘Really? So you’d be willing to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets in return for me sparing your life?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I would!’

  ‘Well, Ricky, this is a new one for me, I must say, but I’m willing to give it a go if you are. Shall we try it your way then?’

  ‘Yes, whatever you want to know. I’ll tell you anything.’

  He leaned in closer, just inches from Ricky’s face, affecting his gameshow-host voice once more. ‘Ok, first question… Who am I?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He let out a loud noise imitating a gameshow buzzer, then stood and grabbed the bag tight in both hands. ‘Wrong answer, Ricky. It’s bag time.’

  Ricky reeled backwards as far as the restraints would allow, the sudden movement causing water to slop over the side of the bathtub again. ‘Wait. I’ll remember, I’ll remember! Just give me a second.’

  He smiled and sat back down. ‘Ok, and because I’m feeling generous, I’ll even give you a clue.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Pyjamas.’

  ‘Pyjamas?’

  ‘Tick-tock tick-tock! Ricky, time’s running out.’

  Ricky studied his captor’s face. ‘Pyjamas…’

  ‘I need your final answer, Ricky.’ The bag tightened in his hands. ‘What’s it going to be?’

  ‘Er…er…pyjamas? I don’t understand…?’

  ‘Come on, Ricky, you know this one. Think about it. When you were little, which kid was famous for his pyjamas?’

  Ricky’s eyes widened as it started to come back to him.

  ‘You remember me now, don’t you?’

  Ricky looked incredulous. ‘Winnie?’

  ‘We have a winner.’ He laughed maniacally, then punched Ricky hard in the nose. A sickening crack followed by a thick rush of blood indicated it was broken. ‘I hate that fucking nickname.’

  Ricky was crying again, his blood catching in his lips. ‘You forced me to say it.’

  ‘Only because that’s how you all knew me. None of you ever bothered to call me by my real name.’ Blood continued to pour from Ricky’s nose, which had already begun to swell. ‘Well, you’ve avoided the bag so far. Let’s see how you get on with a harder question…if you still want to play, that is?’

  Ricky nodded as blood dripped into the bathwater, turning it pink.

  ‘Ricky Murray…did you know that he was abusing me all those years?’

  ‘Who?’

  He thrust the plastic bag under Ricky’s nose. ‘Do you want me to use this? If you dare make me say his name, I promise you, you’ll regret it. I’ll ask you one more time and once only – did you know that evil bastard was abusing me all those years?’

  Ricky nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I did.’ Desperate sobs followed.

  ‘So why didn’t you say anything?’

  Tears streamed down Ricky’s face. He closed his eyes as his whole body began to shake in the water.

  ‘Why, Ricky? Tell me why? If you knew what he was doing, why didn’t you say anything? You could have stopped him. You could’ve saved me from almost thirty years of living hell.’

  Blood and snot bubbled from Ricky’s nose as he spoke. ‘I couldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Bullshit. You could’ve said something, anything. Why, Ricky? Tell me why?’

  Ricky was crying like a baby now. ‘Because he raped me before you! He had been abusing me for years before he started on you.’

  He hadn’t expected that response, and for a long moment was lost for words. ‘What? When?’

  ‘Every Sunday after mass, in the vestry. I was an altar boy and he would make me stay behind, so he could have sex with me.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Ten. Ten years old. I knew it wasn’t right, but he told me it was God’s way of punishing my mother for her sins – for divorcing my dad. I was atoning for her weaknesses as a Christian. That he would turn his attention to my little brother if I wasn’t willing to do what he wanted. He said if I told my mum, we would both be struck down by God and Aaron would have to go into care. I was ten years old. What the fuck was I supposed to think?’

  ‘Jesus. I thought it was just me,’ he whispered.

  ‘When he started on you, he began to leave me alone, until eventually he stopped. I’m ashamed of myself, but that’s the real reason I didn’t say anything. As long as he had you, he wasn’t interested in me.’

  Leaning back on the toilet seat, he dropped the plastic bag to the floor and stared in silence at the black gaffer tape by his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Ricky. I had no idea you went through that.’

  Ricky looked at him desperately. ‘Please, let me go. You don’t have to kill me. I won’t say anything. I can keep a secret, I promise.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. You’ve been doing it for long enough. But you know who I really am, and I’ve just admitted that I killed the others.’

  ‘I don’t care about the others. They weren’t abused. They didn’t suffer like we did. They deserved what happened to them. They knew what he was doing to us and they never said a word. We owe them nothing. As far as I’m concerned, this never happened tonight. I promise you. Just please, let me go.’

  For the first time since his abuser had robbed him of his innocence almost three decades ago, he felt a sense of shared pain, of empathy, for the plump little man in front of him, naked, sloshing around in the bloody bath water, battered and bruised. Superficial wounds compared to those inflicted all those years ago in the sanctuary of the church.

  Could Ricky be trusted? Could he let him live? Having heard his story, he no longer felt the unbridled rage he had directed at him over the last twenty years. Would he really not go to the police? He wanted to believe him, but it had been a long time since he had trusted anyone.

  ‘I need a drink. Do you have any?’

  ‘My bedside cabinet. A hipflask of brandy – for when the nightmares come.’

  He stood up and left the bathroom, located the cabinet next to Ricky’s bed in the main bedroom. When he opened the drawer, he spotted a brushed-metal flask behind a couple of paperback books and a box of tissues. As he pulled it free, one of the books fell forwards on the floor. Photographs spilled from the pages, catching his attention. He bent down to examine them.

  His face darkened. Standing up, he strode back to the bathroom and threw the flask at Ricky, who yelped as it hit him in the chest.

  He thrust the photos in front of him. ‘What are these, you sick fuck?’

  Ricky eyes widened. ‘I-It’s not what it looks like.’

  ‘Really? Because it looks like to me like pictures of small boys in a swimming pool.’ He stare
d furiously at Ricky. ‘Are you a fucking paedo too?’

  Ricky began to sob. ‘No, no. It’s not what it looks like. I help out with a kids’ group at church and took some pictures for the parents. I just haven’t had time to hand them over, that’s all.’

  ‘Parents want you taking pictures of their kids in trunks? What a load of crap. You’re getting off on them, aren’t you? There’s a box of tissues with them, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Ricky protested. ‘I have nightmares and wake up in tears when I remember what he did to me. That’s why I have tissues. You have to believe me, the pictures aren’t sexual – I’ve never touched any kids – I swear it.’

  He felt the hatred pour out of him again. ‘You may not have touched them yet, but oh you fucking will! The urge is too strong for your kind.’

  He grabbed the plastic bag and thrust it over Ricky’s head, wrapping his hands around his neck. Ricky frantically writhed against the bag, kicking his legs and sloshing water over the top of the bath in waves. His hands gripped tighter and tighter as Ricky’s gasps became more frantic as the bag filled his nose and mouth. His head lurched backwards and forwards, left and right, until, finally, there was no more splashing water, no more movement. Nothing but the deadly silence.

  Breathless and exhausted from the sudden rush of adrenaline, he slumped to the floor, leaning against the toilet, his eyes fixed on the face staring back at him through the bag. A whirlwind of emotions flooded his mind: hatred, anger, sorrow, regret. He knew what Ricky had endured since the age of ten had been a living hell – just like his own – but even that could never justify him taking the innocence of another child. The abuse stopped with them.

  Looking around the messy room, he felt a sudden urge to get away from Ricky Murray. Tonight had not gone according to plan, and he cursed himself for getting sloppy. If he was going to finish this, he had to stick to the plan. Always stick to the plan.

  It was time to clean up and get away.

  32

  ‘Watch out. Brown’s not a happy bunny,’ murmured Jones. He stood next to Phillips in the incident room as they surveyed photographs taken earlier that day of Ricky Murray’s bathroom.