I watched the monsters who stole my smile. I spent weeks tracking them, observing each assailant.
I bided my time, planning with precision, and turned my back on my old life to map out my revenge.
I was nothing to them, only a point on their depraved scoreboard and a distant memory. Only, the past caught up, it always does.
Dribble pools in the corner of my mouth; cheek pressed against cold tiles.
Colours separate, beige morphs to red as the fog evaporates and I drift into consciousness.
Reality smashes my mind; my eyes fixate on a blood- smeared stiletto in my palm.
I recoil, panicked, and try to flee. My soles slip like a new-born lamb finding its feet. I fall, slamming my coccyx and smearing bloody fingers and footprints.
Limp legs stretch out before me; feet turned inward. My gaze strays to his face. A vacant, long-dead stare rests on mine, his skin mottled with blue tones.
I gag at the disturbing stench. Hugh’s bowels have released after death. I cup my hand across my face. Blood smears on my lips like balm. I freeze.
My tears erupt. I wanted this. I killed him. Evidence litters my body and his. I’ve been careless.
I will be caught. It is only a matter of time.
23
EMILIA
SUNDAY 29 JULY 2018, 01.15 AM
Daddy doesn’t utter a word. His jaw sets, and all colour vanishes from his cheeks.
I collapse into his arms. My bloody body pressed against his chest, sullying his dressing gown.
We stand in an embrace for what feels like an eternity, his hands stroking my blood-matted hair.
My legs struggle to stand, drugged by fear and shock. I can smell the acrid festering stench of blood and hints of Hugh’s aftershave mingling with olive soap from my dad’s skin.
I only hear Dad’s breaths, and my rattling heart pounding a thousand beats a minute in sync with his.
The hallway is dim, the rest of the house shrouded in darkness. Mum is sleeping, unaware of my arrival.
I burrow my face into Dad’s chest, masking my howls, which continue to spill.
He shushes me, whispers in my ear to be quiet, while he strokes my head as though he’s petting our cat.
Dad will protect me. I knew he would. I’m his little girl. Only I’m not anymore. I’m a killer.
When our eyes meet, he eyes me curiously, a calmness etched in them. He presses his forefinger against his lips instructing me to be silent.
His hand envelops mine escorting me to the kitchen. He slides a black bin liner on the chair and ushers me to sit.
I stare through distorted tears, barely recalling my journey. I only have snippets of screeching gears as the car tore through the dark negotiating my escape.
“We must get you clean, Emilia,” he whispers.
I feel safe and expel the air trapped in my lungs. It is time to lift the burden.
Dad remains anxious, pacing the room. He opens the cupboard pours himself a generous measure of scotch and equally large vodka.
Not a word is exchanged between us. He skulks back towards me and raises his eyes onto mine.
“Drink it, steady your nerves.”
My twitching fingers clasp the glass as though they’re grip‐ ping it for dear life. I am, I’m clinging to my freedom by a bare thread that could snap at any minute.
I sip the Vodka, watching bloody fingerprints emerge on the glass surface, evidence of my crime.
“Did you hurt someone, Emilia?”
I bite my lip, maintaining my gaze on the liquor, too ashamed to meet his gaze.
“Emilia, everything will be OK ... I promise you. We will get through this, together.”
I lift my heavy head and find comfort from his nervous smile. Dad vacates the room and returns with a folded white forensic paper suit and two bath towels.
“Remove everything that you are wearing. Place it into this black bag, shower in the gym and put this on ... understand?”
His eyes drill me to ensure I understand the instructions.
“Scrub under your nails vigorously, like you’ve never scrubbed before,” he adds.
Dad’s soles slap against the tiles. He ensures all the blinds are drawn before slipping away to the hallway.
His footsteps pad over the oak flooring with the odd creak. My junkie-like fingers peel off my clothes.
I glance into the hall. Dad is now donning a forensic suit, dabbing the floor with cloths and baking soda.
I do as I’m told, and wash Hugh off me. Each fingerprint, every grimy touch. The water comforts my face. None of this feels real.
I wonder if I’m still having another nightmare. Only the remorse overriding me, and blood tarnishing the water, says otherwise.
The floor shifts underfoot, the world beneath falls away. I’m slipping, plunging into darkness straight to Hell, ragged flames licking and setting me alight.
I had plotted and dreamt of enacting revenge. I thought it would make me feel better, only I feel numb and ashamed.
I’m no better than those animals and I’m afraid of myself and what I’m capable of.
The water washes away my tears. I stared, appalled, at the diluted blood pooling my ankles. A surge of panic spears my spine, envisaging how this could play out.
I see myself handcuffed, clothes removed in front of police officers, and my dignity stripped while every orifice is swabbed by forensic experts for evidence.
The image jumps to the dock. Disappointed eyes stare: those of his family, glaring with contempt at the murderer who has killed their perfect, precious son.
It switches once more. I’m stood in a prison jumpsuit encountering inmates’ eyes full of intrigue and excitement, being offered fresh meat.
I become hysterical and silence myself with the water. I count from one to ten.
Noises hound me, my shoe pricking flesh. I cup my hands over my ears shielding them.
I scrub my body with shower gel. It oozes between my fingers, removing all traces of Hugh.
As the realisation of what I’ve done sets in, I grab the bathroom cleaner instead. I saturate my skin with it. I cannot have his blood on my hands. Not if I want to survive.
24
EMILIA
SUNDAY 29 JULY 2018, 01.40 AM
Dad isn’t ready to ask questions nor am I ready to tell him I’m a killer.
He retrieves the towels, bundles them with gloved hands in the bin bag, and secures it in a triple knot.
I slip on an old pair of Mum’s boots and watch, mesmerised, as he cleans the shower cubicle with a trio of solutions.
Dad checks his handiwork with UV lights and a sensitive reagent (Luminol) to highlight any wipe marks left behind. There can be no lingering trace of my murderous exploits.
Star clusters light the pathway to Dad’s old Jag. We are a team as always, only this time, he will help me get away with murder.
Dad dumps the bin bag in the boot. I slide into the front passenger seat, overcome with the stench of bleach.
The car usually reminds me of happy, childhood outings to Devon, playing on the beach.
Only this time, those fond memories are absent. It has reverted to a mechanical shell with only one purpose, getting me back to the scene of the crime.
“Give me the address, Emilia,” Dad instructs, voice tense but deliberately calm.
I search his face for compassion, support even, but I cannot read him. He stares expressionless.
Part of me thinks he’s afraid, though I haven’t seen him scared before. I feel fragile, as though I could shatter at any moment. If I do, the pieces will never go back together.
I take a deep breath, comparing myself to a rose with a concealed inner bud where the truth is hidden.
Entranced, I stare into the darkness and whisper the location before locking my lips.
The atmosphere remains tense. Dad turns over the ignition and the engine purr breaks the silence. My heart is ferocious.
“He raped me,” I blurt.
Dad side-glances me, eyes raging as though they could burst. Never in all my life have I seen him incensed.
“They all did.”
I dip my head, ashamed.
Dad doesn’t speak. He continues driving, eyes fixed ahead, a whisper of danger hanging in the air.
I leak snippets. Part of me wants Dad to tell me to shut up and say he doesn’t want to hear any of it; he doesn’t.
I tell him how they scarred my body; burnt, whipped, and stabbed me, but I was too frightened to tell anyone.
“Hit-and-run?” he asks.
I nod. Tears trickle down my cheeks. I want the world to swallow me and wish I could take the truth back and protect him.
His restless leg twitches and taps the footwell with agitation. The whites of his eyes transform bloodshot with distress; jaw fixed in a grim line suppressing rage.
Dads are meant to protect you from harm. I can sense he believes that he’s failed me. This was not his fault.
It feels as though we are the only people on the planet, the world is asleep while Dad and I roam the darkness on a dangerous course.
I divulge everything I’ve learned on Cipher, pausing between sentences to allow him time to absorb.
I tell him how my ordeal was filmed for viewers to subscribe to. I reveal their identities, the number of video hits, and the sum generated.
Dad’s fingers grip the steering wheel, knuckles glowing white. He will clean up the mess I’ve made.
Dad works for Avon & Somerset Police as a forensic scientist. To him, this is another job.
Only it isn’t, it’s a cover-up. Dad is protecting me from prosecution.
“Where is the murder weapon, Emilia?” he whispers, not putting his eyes on me.
I sit puzzled as he eventually turns and examines my shocked expression.
“The blood spatter ... I know you stabbed him.”
My eyes drift, overcome with shame.
“It’s OK,” he says, softly.
“I left it behind, I’m sorry.”
Dad rests his palm on my knee. The suit rustles as he gives it a reassuring squeeze.
“I panicked, fled, and drove to you.”
Flashbacks of me pricking my stiletto into Hugh’s neck hit me like a fist to the face. Realisation sinks in - I’ve committed murder.
25
EMILIA
SUNDAY 29 JULY 2018, 02.05 AM
Murderers always return to the scene of the crime.
Only, this isn’t about gratification, it’s about saving my life and preventing my arrest.
A part of me believed I wouldn’t go through with my plan because Hugh would apologise.
Only the vile bastard showed no remorse, he’d laughed in my face. That made me livid and I alleviated my rage with my stiletto.
Dad’s bright forensic suit glows against the nightfall as he carries his forensic transit case.
I follow Dad’s lead, securing my hood, covering my mouth with a surgical mask and my boots with shoe protectors.
A lightning bolt zigzags, illuminating us under a spotlight, followed by a thunderclap. We pause, motionless, until the black air camouflages us, and I’m thrown back into my nightmare.
My legs, heavy with dread, creep toward the gates of Hell, ascending the secret steps to Hugh’s death chamber.
It’s like stepping onto the set of a horror movie. Hugh’s pale face is contorted, set with shock.
The scent of death and faeces lingers and brings fresh tears to my eyes.
“Look at me, Emilia, not him. Talk me through everything you did here ... what you may have touched.”
I can’t move my lips.
“Focus Emilia, we don’t have much time.”
I remain silent, dazed and perturbed by Hugh. I’ve killed him, drained all the blood from his body.
A slap stings my cheek, pulling me out of my stupor. I muffle the burn with my hand, dismayed Dad has hit me.
“For goodness sake, Emilia, talk!”
I whimper my earlier movements, pointing at the Champagne bottle and glasses.
Dad cleans fastidiously, wiping, and disinfecting surfaces as though he’s carrying out a military operation.
He exchanges an angry glance while bagging the bloody stiletto. He may as well stick it in me.
I want to cry, but hold back, dumbstruck that I’d left the murder weapon on the floor with my prints all over it.
Shock had obliterated my memories. It was as though I had suffered a complete blackout, or my mind didn’t want to record my atrocious crime.
Dad continues to study me; disappointment etched in his probing eyes. My tears erupt and spill onto the paper suit.
I stand motionless as he collects all potential evidence and plucks hair strands from the bed with tweezers.
He refastens Hugh’s shirt. Experience of reading scenes tells him an unbuttoned shirt could insinuate a female killer. Dad is my saviour.
He uses durable cloth towels to absorb blood on the floor, hands working fast, using hydrogen peroxide and ammonia to remove my bloody footprints.
I feel like a useless flat tyre and stand like a six-year-old; toes pointed in, fingers knotted, sensing he’s furious with me.
After cleaning the floor for the third time and spraying it with Luminol to highlight any minuscule traces of blood, Dad’s eyes fall back on mine, firing an angry stare.
“You should have come to me first,” he admonishes.
Tears obscure my sight.
“I was ashamed.”
Dad struggles to hold back his own tears. He’s no longer mad, his mind refocused on protecting his little girl.
He takes Hugh’s watch, wallet, and phone. We retreat to the ground floor and steal high-value goods, an iPad, laptop, and several antiques.
Dad forces the terrace doors. A robbery gone wrong is the perfect picture he’s painted.
“I’ve made it right. We need to leave.”
I see my Dad again, not the forensic expert who’d punished me.
The weight lifts from his shoulders. He still loves me, even though I’ve committed murder.
I glance back at the Victorian mansion and take a deep breath, reciting over and over, “I was never here.”
26
RICHARD
SUNDAY 29 JULY 2018
The moment I laid my eyes on you, I knew you’d killed someone.
The sight of blood didn’t horrify me, it was the nature of it, blood splatter. Blood freckles insinuated that you had stabbed someone in a frenzy.
I never imagined in my worst nightmares my sweet, darling girl, could be capable of murder.
You had always been kind-hearted and innocent. You believed in Father Christmas until you were 14.
But the girl stood before me wasn’t my Emilia. She’d been destroyed by an action so horrific, she felt compelled to kill.
I saw panic and fear in your eyes. It was as though you’d been administered Succinylcholine – a muscle paralytic drug and you were locked inside your own body.
You fell against my chest, trembling like an earthquake and I embraced you tight.
Your heart raced in sync with mine. It frightened me, and I have never felt afraid.
I began to think forensically. I had to save you, no matter what you’d done. You protect flesh and blood. It was my duty as your father.
Time was against us. While much of the world slept, the awakening hour was approaching. I needed time to clean up your mess.
I just wanted you to blurt out the truth, tell me what you’d done and why, but I didn’t push you. I remained patient until you were ready to divulge your secret.
Your bottom lip quivered and those three words that I never wanted to hear tumbled from your mouth.
“He raped me.”
I felt as though my organs had been ripped out and pulverised in a blender. My anger grew to rage, rupturing my body in panicked pulses.
I screwed my eyes and rammed my foot on the accelerator to speed away from
what I’d heard.
Some bastard had tarnished my beautiful girl and there was no way I could ever erase your ordeal.
I’d wished it had been me who’d killed him. I even pictured myself strangling the son-of-a-bitch.
I didn’t think the situation could worsen, but then you ended your sentence – “They all did”.
My blood boiled over the pan, spitting hissing sparks. It was the most distressing moment of my life.
You’d been violated by strangers and you had kept the atrocity secret through shame. I wanted them all dead.
Hearing all the graphic details and seeing his corpse ruined me. It tore an irreparable hole in my heart.
After the clean-up was complete, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. My pupils swamped with darkness. I’d already changed, there was no going back.
27
DI CARMICHAEL
TUESDAY 31 JULY 2018, 10.26 AM
Cipher has been targeted. Hugh Baldwin has been murdered.
His putrid body lays before us, marbled skin bloated with an accumulation of gas.
The backs of his legs and his back are reddish, indicating hypostasis, where the blood has flowed to the lowest point in the body.
Hugh deserved this; we all do. Though Cronwell is keeping tight-lipped and placing a firm distance between himself and the victim.
Each Cipher member has earned a sinister fate such as the bloodbath before us. We all deserve to be punished and die a brutal death for what we did.
Hugh Baldwin was one of the most vicious Cipher members, always in the top three rankings for his level of depravity.
I regarded him as a sex addict, always cavorting with women of all ages. They found his charm, and pockets of cash, irresistible.
It wasn’t solely sex he enjoyed. He liked using weapons, it gave him a profound sense of satisfaction.
Kill List Page 6
