Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  It was Mum’s 60th birthday and Dad had organised a party, which I wouldn’t have missed for the world.

  I needed to face the ghouls, revisit Weston, and collect a gift I’d ordered from the local jewellers.

  As I ventured along the seafront, the sun emerged above the Grand Pier and brightened the atmosphere.

  My fear subsided; it was as though it was telling me a brighter future lay ahead.

  I parked in the Sovereign Centre and descended three flights of stairs, humming Maroon 5’s ‘Sugar’.

  Crowds gathered under the giant clock pendulum, awaiting the arrival of the wooden bandsmen, which pop out like cuckoos every quarter hour to patriotic tunes.

  I caught my reflection in Waterstones’ window. Was it my fault I was targeted? Perhaps the rapists thought I needed bringing down a peg or two because I dressed well.

  I wasn’t a snob; I didn’t earn much or wear designer clothes. I was a normal, down-to-earth girl.

  I’d lost those qualities. I’d become flawed, damaged beyond repair, and hid away from the world.

  I’d also become paranoid and fretted I was being monitored.

  I imagined them smirking in the garden. Hands fondled crotches as they skulked closer and misted the glass with ghost breaths before etching the words ‘die bitch’. I carried a heavy burden of fear.

  The High Street was packed with the usual sights; a clattering of umbrellas gripped by woollen hands belonging to tourists from the Midlands, and dog walkers perched on benches.

  I entered the throng, weaving in and out, ears stealing snippets of broken conversations as I continued onwards.

  A lone man, late 20s, captured my eye, slumped in the vacant BHS store doorway, sharing a frayed tartan blanket with a black Labrador. I recalled laying cold in my grave and felt a sudden urge to help him.

  I queued outside Greggs bakery, rain pelting against my hair. I was warmed only by the scent of bread. I purchased a chocolate cookie, chargrill chicken oval bite, two Evian, and a hot chocolate.

  I retreated outside and placed the goods beside the stranger. We exchanged smiles, and I left, reciting a saying of Dad’s, ‘a good deed brightens a dark world’.

  Dispersing from the crowds, the warmth of H Samuel Jewellers embraced me.

  Mum had lost her Greek key bracelet. I’d ordered a new one to show that I do care, despite shutting myself away and keeping a distance.

  Nothing too expensive, I couldn’t afford it, unlike my brother Tom, the lawyer, who presents lavish gifts. He couldn’t do any wrong in my eyes though. We were inseparable as kids and, in time, would be again.

  A toddler in pigtails stared, content in her pram. She unplugged her mouth with a slurp, yanked her bottle away and dragged a spider’s web of drool from her lips to the teat. I smiled, and she offered a giggle.

  My eyes cast back to the assistant and my feet rooted to the spot. A knife tore into my gut.

  I balled my fists and lost control of my bladder. Urine seeped into my underwear.

  “Madam, are you OK?”

  I studied the assistant; badge embossed, Jonathan. I needed to breathe, I’d held my breath for too long, petrified.

  Blood rushed to my head in a violent wave making me dizzy with fear. He stood behind Jonathan, eyes fixed and offering an innocuous expression.

  The man staring was the most brutal of the rapists. He offered a female assistant a revolting smirk.

  He didn’t even recognise me! His ignorance made me want to gouge his eyes out.

  I blinked, willing the possessed demon to disappear. He didn’t.

  I snuck my hand inside my bag, fishing for my protection. The blade brushed my palm. I stood silent, contemplating whether to stick it into him.

  My legs shook, fear coursing through me like a virus.

  The callous brute moved closer, eyeing a range of diamond bracelets. He pointed at a £1,199 1/4 CT diamond tennis bracelet and claimed it was a present for his wife.

  What creature was he? Loving husband by day, gang rapist by night?

  The beast came within touching distance. I snatched breaths, heart on the verge of detonation.

  Old Spice cologne wafted over me and a tear escaped.

  I was back in the woods, crouched before him as a prisoner. The stench continued its descent, burning my airways. My fingers tightened around the blade, drawing blood.

  His flabby stomach pressed against the counter. I saw him on me again, whispering, ‘dirty bitch’.

  Chunky fingers fondled the bracelet; the ones he’d violated me with.

  I gripped the blade handle. I was ready to stab the fucker, make him fear for his life, like he did mine.

  A tap offered distraction. I peeled my eyes away, dragging them against their will to the toddler. She waved a pink teddy and I released the knife in horror.

  “How would you like to pay?” Jonathan asked, cheerily.

  “Card.”

  I fumbled for my wallet with my other shaky hand to conceal the blood, eyes wandering back to my rapist.

  He was mid-50s with wayward eyebrows, greying hair and oversized Elvis sideburns. Had a distended drinkers’ nose and fat neck, which over-spilled his starched collar.

  I lingered on his laminated ID badge clipped to his mac; Dr. Piers Whitehall, Paediatric Consultant.

  Until that moment my life had been on hold. I’d drifted along like a bottle discarded in choppy waters with no sense of direction.

  I was a fool to think the past wouldn’t catch up; it always does. The beast stirred me, awakened me from the pathetic existence I’d been living.

  For the first time, I saw clearly. My mind rehabilitated itself and focused. I understood what I must do; kill him.

  Not there. I would scar the child for life.

  I became invigorated and empowered by my spontaneous decision.

  I would act. I’d withdraw to the shadows and plan his execution. It was my new purpose, my destiny: it was the reason I survived. My raison d'être.

  16

  EMILIA

  SUNDAY 27 MAY 2018

  The only thing on my mind was murder.

  I could no longer lie to myself and pretend my ordeal didn’t happen having learned my tormentor’s identity.

  I lay in my childhood bedroom, head foggy with Prosecco. The Boyzone posters had long been stripped and the scent of So…? body spray absent.

  At the party I’d drank to excess to suppress my simmering anger. Behind my smile, I was on fire and burning rage.

  All I could think of was you; Dr. Piers Whitehall, paediatric rapist.

  You lurked as an evil spirit. There was no escaping your obnoxious face, or your arrogant presence.

  I tried to put you to the back of my mind, buried myself in conversation with Tom, but your taunting voice whispered, “You like it bitch?”

  Were you a paedophile and a rapist? I knew of your capabilities; a lecherous leech with no bounds.

  I felt sorry for your wife, presuming that she had no idea who she’d married. She would, in time. I’d ensure of that either before, or after, I killed you.

  I’d make it my mission to find undeniable footage. You told me during my attack I was your game changer, propelling you up the leaderboard.

  My investigations would unearth your sinister game and I would expose your atrocious crimes.

  Birds chirped from the old ash tree we climbed as kids. I pictured Tom’s gangly legs dangling, laces hanging loose, and recalled our laughter.

  I felt safe at Mum and Dad’s, as though I’d stepped back in time and I was a little girl again.

  I longed for it to be true, so I could rewrite my life. The moment I stepped outside; reality would impale me.

  I wanted you dead. I considered slitting your throat, ramming you with my car and reversing until I crushed your bones to a pulp.

  Poison was another option. Or I could cut off your dick and watch you bleed out. I would have vengeance and hurt you.

  I’ll never forget those wor
ds; “We all have our vices.” I’d discovered a thirst for a new hobby, one that would become darker than yours.

  You would come to wish that you hadn’t laid eyes on me and had kept that puny penis in your pants.

  Whatever method I decided upon, I promised myself one thing; I would hurt you far more than you had hurt me.

  I’d been feeble and fearful. All that changed the second I came face to face with you, and your vulgarity.

  You didn’t acknowledge my existence, and that added fuel to the fire. It morphed into an inferno.

  Sweet Emilia was dead. I’d been reborn, and I liked this version far better.

  For the first time since my attack, I no longer felt afraid. My ongoing silence would be the beginning of my reign of revenge.

  In time, you’d lead me to the others. I would remain patient, the clock ticking, until I identified all my targets.

  You’d all lost any right to a future or to freedom, the night you stole my life.

  There is capacity for good and evil in everyone. I was always good. A typical straight-A student and class nerd.

  One trigger can turn your world upside down and corrupt your mind. A deed so terrible, it replaces the blood in your veins with poison and infects your heart.

  My mind had become a disaster. I turned my back on everything I’d ever known to protect myself, my friends, and family, even Mark.

  I was living a lonely existence, believing there was no way to come back from atrocity.

  My outlook had now altered. The trigger was you, Piers, seeing you poised bold as brass flirting with the assistant, who was young enough to be your daughter.

  You flicked the switch in my brain and sent my blood boil‐ ing. I was fed up with being good, acting fake while you all continued to haunt me. It was my turn to be wicked.

  I frightened myself when I realised how much I wanted to hurt you all, but hunting you made sense. It was the first thing that had felt logical since I woke in the hospital, bludgeoned and torn.

  I was naïve. I could never forget. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d had payback.

  You’d met your match, only I was smarter and ahead of the game. I was dead in your eyes. Non-existent, and that made me deadly. I would have the element of surprise.

  I closed my eyes and recalled fond memories of applying glossy Rimmel Heather Shimmer lipstick in front of the mirror, studying my reflection, and imagining the brave woman I would become.

  I was naïve and unprepared for the monsters lurking outside my bedroom door.

  “Monsters aren’t real,” Daddy said, arm draped around my shoulders, comforting me from a nightmare. Only I discovered, in the worst circumstances, that to be untrue. My daddy lied.

  Monsters are very much alive and walking the streets. Their façade disguises their inner evil. We live in a dark world, and one that I wish I did not exist in.

  I longed to change history so that I didn’t encounter my monsters. That was not an option. The only thing left was revenge. I would not be a victim any longer.

  17

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 16 JUNE 2018

  Identifying you, Piers, brought me back to life like a charge from a cardiac defibrillator. I again had purpose.

  I would track you, and my other attackers down and kill you, and it was much easier than anticipated.

  I tailed you for two weeks to learn more about your life, your routine and, most importantly, your associates.

  First, I surveyed your prestigious five-bedroom home in Brean Down Avenue, shielded by wrought iron gates.

  On the surface, it painted a conventional picture, but I knew what lurked beneath the landscape.

  You and your wife, Francesca, both drove expensive Mercedes with personalised number plates. I presumed you acquired them with the profits from my rape footage.

  One morning, Francesca sipped tea on the balcony in her slinky, satin robe. She thought her privacy was assured by the colossal apple trees lining the driveway.

  You joined her, your velour robe adrift, repulsive stomach bursting through. I felt your weight on me again, and your vulgar words whispering in my ears.

  That moment cemented the idea that I would steal your last breath and take your soul.

  Further surveillance took me to Weston members-only golf club. There, you socialised in the clubhouse with a repellent group of overweight men.

  None of them were my rapists. Finding my attackers took patience, but it was worth the wait.

  I shadowed you to Caesars Palace, a high-end strip club in Clifton.

  The thud of T-Pain’s ‘Apple Bottom Jeans’ pounded in my chest, as I strode toward the bar.

  I blended amid the throng of customers. Two ogling guys propped the bar. I smiled, before turning my attention to the barmaid.

  She stood, palms on the sticky bar, red acrylic nail talons jetting in points like cat claws, ready to scratch eyes out.

  Double D boobs over-spilled her plunge bra that protruded from a vest top.

  The UV lights transformed her teeth and bleached hair snow white, while her skin took on a plum tone.

  I was grateful that I, too, was obscured by the neon lights, which minimised the redness of my cheeks.

  I opted for half a lager and lime and propped myself on a stool. The lads beside me were only interested in leering at the dancers.

  Nerves kicked in; I downed the lager. The barmaid cocked her head to one side, pointing to the pump.

  “I’m Trudy,” she introduced.

  “Chanette,” I replied, offering a smile.

  Trudy became distracted by another punter. I turned and scrutinised the crowd.

  In a split second, the blade stuck in and blood surged inside, drowning me. I saw the prize; my attackers.

  You were all sat in a dimly lit, red velour booth undressing the scantily clad dancers with your eyes while they gyrated for your pleasure.

  I continued to observe you all in earnest conversation, and I watched your perverted minds reunite.

  I’d been sceptical about remembering your faces, but they taunted me, hammered my mind with out-of-focus snapshots.

  Memories came charging at me. I felt you violating me all over again.

  I ordered, and downed, two vodkas to stem my threatening tears. The shots burned but kept me calm enough to continue my game.

  Trudy continued chatting. I told her I was studying at the University of Bristol and needed extra cash for tuition.

  She suggested a job at the club, pointed out her best customers, and told me what ludicrous tips are given.

  Of course, she was discussing you and the guests at your table, sharing a lavish vintage Champagne costing £2,600.

  “Huge spenders,” she claimed, cocking thick trendy eyebrows.

  Trudy elaborated further, informing me that Goulding, the only female in the pack, made her fortunes via the Dark Web.

  I didn’t understand the term. I’d heard speculation of it, but thought it was pure fantasy.

  Trudy enlightened me, however, assuring me that it’s both real and dangerous.

  She told me the underground Internet is an encrypted network allowing users to surf beneath the everyday Internet of Google with complete anonymity. She was more intelligent than I’d given her credit for.

  The normal Internet surfed is around three per cent of the actual Internet, the remaining 97 per cent fell beneath the surface offering a criminal black marketplace.

  The Dark Web, she said, offers over four billion sites where users can buy drugs and weapons, access child porn, hire assassins, conduct sex trafficking, and even view snuff films of people being murdered live.

  To access it, you download Tor, a programme that masks the computer’s IP address. Once installed, you become anonymous; there is no way to identify you or your location.

  Trudy could not lock her filler-pumped lips. She told me she’d overheard Goulding bragging over the sheer volume of Bitcoins clients pay to access her site.

  She didn�
��t know what service was offered, but told me, as she tucked her hair behind her ear to expose a gold hoop, that anyone surfing the Dark Web needed a ‘stomach of steel’.

  Trudy confirmed my worst fears.

  18

  EMILIA

  SUNDAY 17 JUNE 2018, 12.06 AM

  The Dark Web had taken my soul and shared it across the globe for the gratification of perverts.

  I shifted an angry, scrutinising glare from one rapist to the next. On the surface, you looked like ordinary people.

  Goulding, on the other hand, was sinister with devilish, fierce cats eyes, framed with heavy black eyeliner, prominent cheekbones, and blood-red lacquered lips.

  One of her eyes was partially concealed by a razor-sharp, red-streaked fringe. She sat tapping her claws against a Champagne flute.

  Trudy’s voice trailed off, replaced by the sound of your voice, “Smile for the camera ... people are paying good money to watch.”

  I slipped my palms beneath my hair, cupping my ears to block your plaguing, incessant words.

  I’d learned you were all elite members of her dark forum, acting out your sexual deviancies for status and Bitcoins - a digital cryptocurrency.

  I gauged the saying true, people with money and status brag about their lifestyles and wealth. Trudy knew the ins and outs of the club and its clientele.

  “Goulding’s a millionairess with a very dark past!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was forced into prostitution after being sold by her own father to a sex ring as a youngster.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah, apparently she escaped. Guess she’s never known any different, which is why she does what she does.”

  I digested the information. No matter her past, it was no excuse to run a torture game, targeting innocent women.

  Trudy continued talking. She informed me that the obese man, late 50s, to Goulding’s left, was Judge Geoffrey Peterson, a divorcee, who left his wife of 40 years to cavort with strippers and prostitutes.