Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  “Why the fuck are you showing me this?”

  I stare at his vulgar face, identifying new stress lines.

  “Because it wasn’t suicide.”

  His frown deepens with anger.

  “Call me crazy, but it’s a plausible theory.”

  “Bollocks, you’re losing the plot, Carmichael. The silly prick died getting aroused.”

  I slam my fists down hard onto the table.

  “Look at that,” I spit, pointing at the metal pin.

  “It’s a shitty pin, how is that relevant?”

  “I symbolises fates colliding. I think the killer planted it on him. She wanted us to know that it wasn’t suicide.”

  “Wow, Carmichael, that’s a bold leap. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

  “I’m not. I’m certain it demonstrates revenge.”

  “Or it could be a badge that means fuck all!”

  “Peterson was a twisted bastard, into all kinds. But autoerotic asphyxia? That wasn’t him. He liked girls and he paid girls.”

  Cronwell necks his malt and folds his arm in a defensive pose.

  “I didn’t ever see him wear it. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you find it odd, then, that it suddenly appeared from nowhere, pinned proudly to his dead corpse?”

  “It could be a coincidence. Why would the killer change tactic and decide to leave a calling card?”

  “Because Hugh and Piers were murdered. There’s no doubt how they met their ends. Peterson was different. The killer wanted his death on record as suicide, to deflect it away from her.”

  Cronwell looks confused.

  “The pin was placed on his body for us, Cronwell. The killer wanted us to know that she was attacking Cipher. Come on, we’ve lost three members, all of them dead within months of each other.”

  Cronwell’s chin rests in the crevice between his thumb and finger.

  “OK, say you’re right. The killer has murdered three Cipher members with ease and is forensically aware. We’ve nothing. Not one shred of evidence from any crime scene.”

  “These are professional hits, and we’re next.”

  “I’m at a loss, Carmichael. If what you’re saying is true, we are running out of time.”

  “I do have a lead. I’ve been digging around Cipher.”

  “What the hell? You’d better not have drawn any attention to us,” he spits.

  “I haven’t. I maintain the belief that the killer is a Cipher victim who is tormenting us, for payback.”

  Cronwell hushes me.

  “Keep it down.”

  I lower my voice to a whisper, eyeing the punters at the bar.

  “I studied the video clips. Nine girls were attacked in the last year and could have survived!”

  I reveal a list of potential suspects.

  D.A.N.I.E.L.L.A - Daniella degraded for your amusement.

  E.M.M.A - Emma entrapped & fighting for her life.

  Watch her begging like a pathetic child.

  M.A.D.D.I.S.O.N - Maddison muzzled and mauled.

  E.M.I.L.I.A - Emilia enslaved. See her stripped of her dignity & learning to please. Helpless for your amusement.

  L.I.Z.A - Liza restrained & raped. Extreme hardcore.

  T.R.A.C.Y - Tracy tied & tortured. Hear her pathetic whimpers.

  D.E.B.O.R.A.H - Deborah destroyed. Not for the faint- hearted.

  S.O.P.H.I.E - Sophie suffocated and slashed.

  J.U.L.I.E.T - Will a Romeo spare her from the torture chamber?

  “It’s a plausible theory. One of these girls could be the killer.”

  Cronwell’s face clouds. He snatches the page and conceals it.

  “This is messed-up, Carmichael, and you’re taking a bloody stupid risk putting this on paper!”

  “So is Cipher.”

  I’m regretful the moment this remark tumbles from my mouth. He ignores it.

  “I can access the database.”

  “What database?”

  “Come on, Carmichael, Goulding isn’t stupid. She documents them all.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He expels an exasperated breath.

  “For every clip, there’s an accompanying file with their full name and address, for back up.”

  His smirk makes me nauseous.

  None of them ever stood a chance, they would always be Goulding’s girls. She could get to them anytime she wanted. She’s sick.

  “I’ve underestimated you, Carmichael. It must have taken balls to watch all of the clips.”

  My stomach flips, recalling their haunting screams. I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering.

  “Leave this to me. Back off before Goulding learns you have been sniffing around collating evidence of her crimes. I’ll have our hit list within 24 hours and then we’ll kill the smug bitch.”

  61

  EMILIA

  THURSDAY 22 NOVEMBER 2018

  Dad and I are stronger than ever. While I carry a burden of guilt, harbouring my gruesome secrets, I’ve unfinished business.

  I’m done running from my past and accept that I must co- exist with my alter-ego, the dark personality, in order to eliminate all of my targets.

  Life is unexpected. Things happen to change the course of your existence and make you do things that you never envisaged you could even contemplate.

  I’ve become a vicious killer, an expert in IT, the Dark Web, Bitcoin crypto-currency, and hacking.

  And now, with the help of Dad, I’ve discovered a smart meter can be hacked to take an opponent out.

  The world craves the next technological advances, from video doorbells to camera Pet Talk systems, but people are uneducated about securing devices with encrypted passwords.

  This goes in my favour and will aid Goulding’s demise. We’ll handle the ‘death plan’ differently now.

  I’m taking control of Goulding’s home. I’ve joined her meter’s network and received the encryption keys, allowing me to impersonate it.

  I’ve run a test, sparking a simple segmentation fault to cause a blackout. I can now masquerade as the meter.

  Goulding’s out; Dad’s surveilling her at Caesars. We remain in communication via two-way ear radio pieces.

  I enter her home with purpose, not trepidation. I’d felt helpless and afraid when I unearthed Cipher in her lair, but Dad has glued me back together into a stronger person.

  I’m still damaged and fragile, to the point I could break at any moment, but I draw strength from Dad, who’s at my side, offering support.

  I will eradicate Cipher, even if it kills me.

  I know another vile site will surface on the Dark Web. There are hundreds of thousands of forums, each offering their own entertainment, exploiting women and children.

  But thanks to us, one less website will exist. One fewer ghastly ‘Red Room’, taking innocent lives. I’m saving women by minimising their chances of being targeted. That, and retribution, are my motivations.

  The kitchen smells of disinfectant. I open the fridge and ascertain its contents; water, milk, orange juice, and an open Champagne bottle with a silver spoon in it.

  I pluck the open cartons and bottle and line them on the worktop like soldiers. I plant my rucksack alongside the troops, fishing inside for my remedy; GHB.

  I’m surprised by the steadiness of my hand. I lace each drink with 15mg of my ‘miracle solution’ and restock the fridge with precision.

  I complete my mission by spiking an opened bottle of red wine. I feel accomplished, comparing myself to the Marvel movie Avenger character, ‘Black Widow.’

  The image is satisfying and side-tracks me from the task. I must search for other potential drink sources.

  I continue my quest, my hand caressing the curves of the infinity badge in my pocket for comfort.

  In her office, on the desk, rests a decanter of whisky, and an opened bottle of VOSS water, both of which I fortify with GHB.

  For the first time, I realise
how easy it is to drug a person. How I stupidly became a victim of Cipher and ended up in the beasts’ circle, performing for them.

  Resurrecting their violence makes me question whether Goulding’s death is adequate. Unconscious, she won’t experience the pain of the smouldering flames.

  She should be made to suffer. Feel blistering agony as her skin sets on fire, and she’s writhing on the floor, unable to flee. But I must listen to Dad, and not deviate from the plan.

  Drugging Goulding is the only way I can ensure she cannot escape her death chamber. I’ll watch her go up in flames like the skyscraper in the film ‘Towering Inferno.’

  “Target leaving the location. Copy?” Dad whispers.

  “Understood. Task complete.”

  “Meet you at the rendezvous.”

  Dad’s referring to the stolen car we acquired, now parked beyond the pool house on a track to a field. It’s equipped with my laptop and the malicious code.

  We’ve agreed I’d remain in the house, assessing Goulding’s movements to ensure she’s taken a concoction and lost consciousness. There can be no scope for error.

  This will allow me to pin the infinity badge on her clothing before making a swift exit to join Dad, where we will ‘play with fire’ and make her burn in Hell.

  62

  EMILIA

  THURSDAY 22 NOVEMBER 2018

  Headlight beams pierce through the darkness. This is going to be one hell of a reunion.

  Scenarios pound my head, one of Goulding on her knees, the other, with her hands rammed around my throat.

  My heart thuds. When I imagined this, it played out with ease. She poured a drink, was drugged within minutes and my prisoner.

  I now fear she’s going to capture me, call in the cavalry, and throw me back in the ring for the beasts to slaughter.

  The thought is unbearable, Dad awaiting my return, unaware I’ve been beaten, chucked into Goulding’s car, and transported back into the hands of darkness.

  Dad wouldn’t be able to live with himself if I came to harm, let alone explain the situation to Mum and Tom.

  I tiptoe up the staircase to the mezzanine level above the kitchen, and pass a disturbing canvas depicting a bull encaged inside a ceiling candelabra.

  From here, I have a bird’s-eye view. I can peer through the railings, watch and wait for her to take the bait.

  I slouch on the leather chaise lounge against blood-red cushions. Suspense rattles me.

  I welcome the sound of the toilet flushing and stiletto heels clipping the floor tiles. I close my eyes, telling myself, ‘breathe deep, she doesn’t know you’re here.’

  It’s clear from the temperature and my misted breaths, that I’ve tampered with the heating.

  A clink startles me. The fridge door opens and omits a hum. I lean forward, allow my elbow to dig into my thighs and rest my chin on my knuckles, statue-like.

  Metal clangs against the granite; a discarded spoon. She snatches a Champagne flute and fills it to the brim, slurping it in one swoop. Bingo.

  I observe her closely, thumb flicking over her mobile.

  A tingle starts deep, becomes unbearable as I try to suppress it. My eyes widen, alarmed, aware I’m on the cusp of a sneeze. This is game over.

  My fingers pinch either side of my nose above the tip and stretch it out as though I’m removing it from my face.

  I scrunch my eyes to withstand the pain and move my hand to the indentation on my upper lip and squeeze it with equal force. I wait and pray, and the sneeze passes.

  My heart slows. I sink my teeth into my lip to still myself before peeking. Goulding refills her flute, slugs the Champagne and strides away.

  GHB can take 10 minutes to an hour to take effect, depending on the dosage, and the person’s weight.

  The coroner’s inquest will record her cause of death as ‘misadventure’ following a blaze. Blood tests will only detect GHB for up to 8 hours after last use. Toxicology won’t find it, nor will they be looking for it due to the inflicted burns.

  The clock is ticking, the substance weaving its way through her system, poisoning her blood.

  I wait in my hiding spot for her body to enter the stages - euphoria, relaxation, and disorientation - before progressing to nausea, vomiting, unconsciousness.

  Drinking alcohol increases the risk of respiratory collapse or coma, but it was her choice of tipple, not mine. Either way, she will die.

  63

  EMILIA

  THURSDAY 22 NOVEMBER 2018

  I stride undetected like ‘Black Panther’. It’s time for Goulding to die.

  GHB has been in her system for 25 minutes. The effects will now be entering the advanced stages.

  The house remains silent, akin to a mortuary. It will soon become hers, but first I need to mess with her head.

  Dad wouldn’t approve. I’m going to taunt the bitch, so she knows that it is me, collecting her soul.

  My pulse rages as I enter her office to access Cipher and the gruesome E.M.I.L.I.A clip.

  The sound of retching is music to my ears. I tap the keys, turn the volume on full, hit ‘play’, and exit.

  Goulding regurgitates alcohol and GHB in the bathroom sink as my high-pitched screams echo. Panic flits across her face.

  The GHB is depressing her central nervous system, shutting her down. I feel as though I’m actually playing out the role of the panther Avenger, taking the enemy out.

  My stomach clenches, hands trembling like a junkie in need of a fix of methadone. I count from one to five, reassuring myself that I can do this.

  Goulding’s hunched over the sink, legs wobbling like Bambi on ice. Her head bobs, eyes hectic, studying her reflection and trying to comprehend what’s happening.

  She drags herself away, arms propped against the door frame, willing herself on.

  I absorb the satisfying image and smile. She crashes to her knees, crawling pathetically toward my howls.

  “Mmm ... you smell so good.” Whitehall’s voice ricochets off the walls.

  “Get on your knees.”

  My tears follow, desperate howls tinged with fear cramming the office and hallway.

  “Aw, she’s crying. Don’t cry ... smile for the camera.”

  Goulding’s face smashes into the floor, body sluggish, razor nails clawing onwards, following a trail of screengrab photographs I’ve planted.

  “Who’s there?” Goulding stammers.

  I remain silent, fighting the urge to answer. Eyes riveted on her. She tucks her leaden legs to her buttocks in a desperate attempt to crawl.

  “Please, I’m begging you ... leave me alone,” my voice whispers on the recording, between snatched breaths.

  “Now that wouldn’t be any fun, would it!”

  Goulding’s frantic fingers grasp the images, her eyes fixated on each of my assailants. My face ends the trail.

  “Pretty little thing, isn’t she,” Whitehall announces.

  “Please stop.”

  Tears resurface recalling the ambush. A bolt of panic surges and goose bumps swarm my skin.

  I catch my reflection in the office window and crash to the floor panicked, waiting for her pursuit, and the feeling of cold steel; a gun between my eyes.

  A thud echoes. Goulding collapses. She clambers to rickety legs, spots me, and lunges, like a charging bull.

  I stumble and strike my head against the wall. Survival instinct kicks in. I reach for the blade tucked in my rear pocket. Goulding garbles profanities, zigzagging towards me.

  “Fucking bitch! You want some?”

  Her words ignite a hurricane of dread in my chest, blood pumping through me on a high.

  “I want you ... come on, kiss me,” Whitehall groans.

  My haunting screams ricochet off every surface.

  Goulding charges at me and grapples the knife, taking possession of it. I’m unarmed in her venomous presence.

  Goulding’s face alters, her eyes mist. She fights the debilitating drug, and staggers, arms outstretched,
blade slashing through the air inches from my neck.

  I emit a raucous laugh. She stares with disbelief.

  “Something wrong? Feeling a little poorly are we? Want me to call you a doctor?” I mock.

  Her fingers wrap tighter around the weapon, knuckles whitening with determination.

  “Or shall I call, Mummy dearest? Oh, I forgot, she sold you as a kid, didn’t she? Even she didn’t want you!”

  I begin to hopscotch away, as though I’m a kid in the playground, reciting: “One, two, buckle your shoe. Three, four, shut the door. Five, six, pick up sticks.’”

  Goulding stares transfixed, as though she’s staring at a mental patient who has escaped from an institution.

  I urge her to follow me for a game of cat and mouse.

  “Seven, eight, lay them straight. Nine, ten, this is the end!’” Her eyes rage, lips curl into a revolting, ugly snarl. I will be her last implanted memory for her to digest in Hell.

  “Come on, catch me if you can,” I taunt, laughing.

  She’s now barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other, wobbling on pointed stilettos.

  “I thought you liked to play games?”

  Her pupils dilate like pinholes. With sheer determination, she launches an ape-like attack, and stammers five unexpected steps.

  The blade slices through my forearm piercing my black fitted coveralls. I retreat in a stunned silence, hand clasping the gash together to stop the blood spurting.

  Arterial blood spray sullies the floor. I stare in horror and fall backwards. The beast hovers above, swaying, licking her lips.

  “Get back. You’re vile,” I spit.

  She wipes sweat bubbling on her temples and crashes to her knees, grappling my breasts. I lash out with my fists, slamming them, punch after punch, into her face.

  Her eyes roll into the back of her head. The blade falls, clambering on the tiles. Her mind drifts, vomit erupts from her lips. She crashes on top of me.

  I’m trapped under the beast again. I claw my way out, pushing and shoving until she’s off of me.