Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  His curious eyes study my trembling hands. I’m going to die. He’s going to kill Hamilton and then slice me up.

  Hamilton’s car growls closer. Cronwell hands me a galvanised Gambrel; a steel bar with entailing hooks.

  “Smash it against the back of his head, not too hard though, or you’ll kill him. And we need him alive,” Cronwell orders, casting a wicked stare and wink, “for now.”

  I cannot do this. I close my eyes, recalling Annabelle’s Cipher clip, to find the strength and courage I desperately need.

  Boots drag over stones. Hamilton emerges into our den. Cronwell smiles and rubs his palms together eagerly.

  “Ready to play?” he teases.

  “Hell yeah, nice bit of meat you acquired!”

  He inches inside, his back still toward me. I grip the pole, draw inner rage, and slam it against his skull.

  Hamilton staggers, zig zagging in a stunned motion towards Cronwell, and crashes to his knees. He falls onto his face, out cold.

  I drop the Gambrel, shocked by my own actions. Cronwell ejects a baleful chuckle.

  “Nice work! Let the game commence.”

  88

  DI CARMICHAEL

  MONDAY 26 NOVEMBER 2018, 11.44 PM

  Hamilton ejects a hideous scream. His eyes dart desperately between Cronwell and myself, aware that execution awaits him.

  His stripped, naked body hangs alongside carcasses, hands bound, bloody feet embedded into hooks.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Hamilton screeches.

  “Playing a game,” Cronwell replies, smirking.

  Hamilton’s bald, shiny ‘egg head’ sways over the blood drains, eyes ejecting vengeful daggers.

  “You sick fuckers!”

  “It’s Emilia’s game. She wants you to die.”

  “Who’s Emilia?”

  “One of Cipher’s girls. Carmichael was right; one who got away. She wants payback.”

  “Why are you doing this, for her?”

  “She has my fiancé. This is the only way, I’m sorry.”

  “Let me down, you motherfuckers.”

  “We can’t. We must obey her orders. It’s you or Anna!”

  Hamilton’s face reddens, blood flooding his head. We could leave him to hang until the blood vessels rupture and trigger a brain haemorrhage, but it won’t be enough to save my Annabelle. It has to be violent. Hamilton has to suffer.

  “You twisted bastards. How could you?”

  “We’re saving our arses,’ Cronwell answers”

  “You can’t do this. Cut me down. Now!”

  Cronwell skulks closer, passing a line of strung pigs, pushing on their guts to make them sway back and forth.

  “This little piggy went to market. This little piggy came home. This little piggy had roast beef and this little piggy had none,” he recites, laughing.

  It sickens me to the pit of my stomach just how much he is enjoying this, relishing the act of killing one of his own.

  He pauses before Hamilton, slapping his chest.

  “And this little piggy didn’t go all the way home.”

  “You twisted fucker! Get me down!”

  “No can do.”

  “I’ll kill you; I swear. I’ll cut you up,” Hamilton hisses, swaying back and forth. Blood casts over his thighs. Cronwell stares at me, willing me to participate.

  “Carmichael, let’s get the party started.”

  “Fuck you!” Hamilton spits.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but I must save Annabelle,” I say, avoiding eye contact.

  “Stop being a pussy,” Cronwell screeches.

  “We’ll go after the bitch. I’ll kill her,” Hamilton says.

  “It’s too late. We’ve got a deadline, or Annabelle dies.”

  “So, you’re going to butcher me?”

  “We’re in an abattoir, seems logical. Normally, you’d be stunned to die in a humane way, if you were cattle. But Emilia wants you to suffer, so we’re going to skip that part and move to stage two. Bleeding you dry.”

  89

  DI CARMICHAEL

  TUESDAY 27 NOVEMBER 2018, 12.32 AM

  Hamilton’s eyes bulge, as though they’re popping out of his head, transfixed on the blade in Cronwell’s hand.

  “Like this little piggy here,” he says, stabbing the knife into the pig’s rectum with perpetual force.

  He drags it downward, creating a shallow cut, then shoves the knife into the abdominal cavity. The blade punctures its bladder, splashing urine onto the floor.

  “Pigs are left to bleed out, then soaked in a vat of boiling water, stripping the beast of its hair. But we can’t boil you alive, that would be over far too quickly. Emilia wants you to endure pain like you’ve never known.”

  “Stop it. You won’t kill me, you’re both cops!”

  Cronwell laughs, holding his stomach like Santa.

  “Since when did that ever stop us?” he mocks.

  His hands excavate inside the animal, yanking out its organs. He lets it hang there, partially out of the cavity, like a mass of violet interlaced worms. I swallow sick.

  “Fucking demented fucker!”

  He scrapes away the webbed caul fat casing and holds it in the air, examining it like it’s a map, with its twists and turns. He chucks it over Hamilton’s face, it falls like a veil.

  “Smell it, that’s what death smells like.”

  Hamilton shrieks like a baby, twisting his head in a vehement motion, to shake it off.

  “The next step, I believe, is to remove your fingernails and toenails,” Cronwell utters, plucking a pair of pliers.

  “You’re not right in the fucking head!”

  Cronwell hands over the pliers. I hold them in shaky, sweaty, palms. Hamilton’s eyes rage like wildfires.

  “Please, stop this. Carmichael, this isn’t you. You’re not one of us. Walk away while you still have your legs!”

  His facial creases deepen with anger and fear.

  “If you touch me, I’ll fucking kill you!”

  “You won’t have the chance,” Cronwell interjects, grabbing Hamilton’s left hand.

  “Do it!” he screeches.

  I clamp the pliers either side of his nail, lock my eyes and yank the pliers in a quick snap.

  Hamilton’s howls swamp my head. Cronwell stares with disbelief as I grab a second finger.

  “Stop, please! I’ll pay you fifty grand if you let me down,” Hamilton begs.

  “We’re not stupid. The moment you’re down, we’re dead. There’s only one way this is going to end. There’s only one way it can end. Now get on with it, Carmichael.”

  Hamilton screeches like a baby with colic as I continue plucking off his nails one by one.

  “Shut him up, Cronwell,” I yell.

  “With pleasure,” he answers, shoving the caul fat into Hamilton’s mouth, plugging it.

  Blood drips from his fingers, casting red dots on the floor beneath him. I proceed to his right hand.

  “Wow, Carmichael. You’ve finally grown yourself a pair of balls!”

  I feel as though Cronwell has summoned a demon in me, causing me to inflict macabre violence. But I try to blank out what I’m doing; I don’t want to dwell on it. Instead, I turn all my thoughts to Annabelle. My reason for living.

  “Cut him open, Carmichael,” Cronwell instructs, passing the knife, which smears crimson onto my gloves.

  Hamilton shakes his head, mimicking a puppy with a rag in its mouth, his face saturated with tears.

  I never intended for this. I thought I’d find a way to free Annabelle first. But it was him or my beautiful Anna; and that meant there was no contest.

  “Make him bleed!” Cronwell yells.

  He’s enjoying this too much. Blood layers Hamilton’s body like a glazed toffee apple.

  “Cut him like the pig, from the rectum to his nose.”

  Hamilton’s cheeks remain stuffed, cobweb caul fat spewing from his lips. They pulse like a blower fish forcing the stretchy f
at out of his mouth. He gulps in air.

  “Fucking stop! You’ve had your fun! Please!” he begs.

  “I must kill you; don’t you see? It’s you or her.”

  “Get on with it, Carmichael, slice him like Miss Piggy.”

  “Fuck off, Cronwell! Carmichael, please, don’t do it!”

  Snaking vessels flood the whites of his eyes. There’s no connection, nothing telling me to stop. I love Anna too much.

  I shove the knife into his ball sack, splattering blood onto my cheeks. He shrieks, recoiling his body in the motion of a caterpillar escaping from a cocoon.

  Cronwell’s grin widens like the ‘Joker’ supervillain.

  “It’s him or Annabelle. Cut him!”

  I tighten my grip and pull hard, dragging the knife like a lever. Hamilton’s screams coil around me, but this is the only way Anna can be free.

  The knife cuts through Hamilton’s flesh like a pork joint. I stop, horrified, as his blood touches my hands.

  “Fair bloody play! I underestimated you, Carmichael,” Cronwell says, applauding.

  Hamilton’s body twitches. I stare at his blood, gushing like a river from the incision. The realisation of what I’ve done hits home.

  I drop the knife and vomit beneath Hamilton’s hands. It splashes on his face and mixes with his blood.

  I’m wicked. I’ve sliced a man open. I love Annabelle but I’m no killer. I can’t do this.

  “Get on with it!” Cronwell screeches, his mouth wearing a cruel, twisted, grin.

  I stare into his demonic eyes.

  “I can’t do this,” I stammer.

  “For fuck’s sake. Give me the knife!”

  I kick it over. He grabs it, darts to Hamilton, viciously slashing through his chest, making a deeper incision.

  He grapples Hamilton’s insides, initiating a game of tug of war. The sloshing sound is repulsive.

  My gaze slips to Hamilton’s face, resting on a vacant, dead stare. We killed him, slaughtered him like an animal. The game is almost over.

  90

  RICHARD

  TUESDAY 27 NOVEMBER 2018, 9 AM

  I’m riddled with shame and remorse. I was going to commit murder like a crazed madman.

  I was going to take a young woman’s life. What possessed me? They’ve damaged my mind, every one of them; Emilia included.

  I longed to fix her, make everything alright. But how could it ever be? None of it could be forgotten, and Emilia’s killing spree has only damaged her mind further.

  A person cannot live with so much blood on their hands without it impacting on their mental wellbeing. I’ve effectively helped to destroy Emilia; I haven’t helped heal her at all. I’ve ruined her and, in turn, torn our family apart.

  Any love in my heart has been replaced with anger and shame. In teaching Emilia how to become an accomplished killer, I’ve almost killed the love of my life.

  I cannot fall apart. I need to protect Tom and Claire; that’s if she survives and doesn’t know the truth that it’s our fault she was put into a coma in the first place.

  I cannot continue this game; it will be the death of the entire Francis family - I’ve already lost my adorable Emilia to darkness. It’s feeding on her, warping her mind. I cannot save her. She must continue her quest alone and end this before we all die.

  91

  EMILIA

  TUESDAY 27 NOVEMBER 2018, 9.30 AM

  Hamilton was slaughtered. I never believed Carmichael would actually go through with it; maybe darkness does exist within his soul.

  I fear, having watched the horrific footage, that I’ve judged him wrong; he is a violent, merciless killer, after all. That means, surely, that he must also die. I’m undecided.

  Carmichael had help; Cronwell. They killed a fellow Cipher member to save themselves, and Annabelle.

  It was ruthless; the duo butchered him alive. I never expected that sheer level of depravity. Still, he deserved to die, I wanted him to die; I asked for him to suffer a vicious death, and I must remember that.

  Daddy doesn’t know that they’ve gone through with it; he’s made no contact. Silence lingers between us and that implies he wants nothing more to do with me, or my game.

  I believe now, more than ever, that my actions have broken our inseparable bond. If Mum dies, he will take his own life, I’m certain.

  I’ve no choice but to go it alone and face the inevitable storms ahead. I will end this game once and for all.

  Two players remain: Cronwell and Carmichael. But first I’ll free Annabelle, now that Hamilton is dead.

  She served a purpose; destroyed Carmichael. He doesn’t know yet, but he will once Annabelle confronts him about his wicked past.

  It’s caught up with him; it always does. I’m proof of that. Carmichael’s life, as he knew it, is over, even though he’s still breathing.

  Cronwell is the next piece of the puzzle. Dad has been the perfect mentor; I can complete his work. Daddy taught me well.

  The game must go on and end on an explosive high; a grand finale.

  What happens at the end of all this, who knows? I can only think about taking out the vicious villain who raped me and attempted to kill my mother.

  I pray that Mum is recovering. I’m glad she’s not in Heaven watching over me, observing the monster that I’ve become.

  I never envisioned living this life, but I cannot go back in time. I must accept the path fate has set me on.

  Good always conquers evil. I was good, they were the devils. I’ve conquered most of my demons but, while I recall their deaths, I realise that I, too, have crossed over to the dark side; become evil.

  Soon, good will come knocking at my door and punish me. I deserve it. I deserve to die for my crimes.

  92

  DI CARMICHAEL

  TUESDAY 27 NOVEMBER 2018, 11.30 AM

  I’m an accomplice to murder and a filthy rapist.

  I killed another man to save my Annabelle. My actions sicken me to the core.

  Cronwell enjoyed taking him apart, he relished playing the game. He sawed Hamilton in half and pulverised his remains in an industrial blender.

  All that remains of Hamilton is sludge, flowing through the drains into the sewer, never to be seen again.

  The only thing I can be thankful for is the fact that I’m still alive. He didn’t turn the knife on me.

  We’ve gone our separate ways, for now. Both of us needed to wash Hamilton off us. I’ve showered, but I still feel him crawling over my skin, whispering, “your turn will come”. I’ve no doubt that’s true, but I won’t allow it until I’ve saved Annabelle.

  This is my mess; she didn’t deserve to be caught up in it. I will bring her home and remove her from harm’s way.

  Once I have her in my arms, I’ll drive as far away as I can from this town, from Cipher. We’ll start a new life, free from the chains that bind me to darkness.

  Cronwell sent Emilia a video of Hamilton’s murder. In return, she has provided Annabelle’s location.

  I pray to God that Emilia hasn’t broken her bond. I cannot find Anna’s mutilated body; it will kill any part of me that’s left. There’s also a part of me that fears a trap lies ahead. Emilia is luring me there to kill me in front of Annabelle.

  The Severn Channel winds batter my car as I reach the abandoned MOD site, St Thomas’ Head.

  Why didn’t we take time to identify abandoned buildings in the area? We could have narrowed the possibilities. Hamilton could have been spared.

  Now I’m beholden to Cronwell twice over; he has footage of me committing rape, torture, and now acting as an accomplice to murder.

  While I didn’t kill Hamilton, the tape clearly shows me cutting him open; that, alone, is an attempted murder charge.

  I’ll never be free of Cronwell, he’s a tumour. Even when I have Annabelle back, this will never be over.

  I step out of the car and approach the high-fenced, barbed wire cordon, protecting the site like a war concentration camp.

>   The gates are locked. I follow the cordon, hiking over uneven ground, until I find an intrusion point, and enter.

  “Anna! Anna!”

  I hear nothing, just the wind howling, waves crashing. Please don’t let me be too late. Please let her be alive.

  I stumble down steps to the inner site. A door bangs in the distance.

  “Anna! I’m here!”

  I run faster, through a doorway into a chamber.

  “Anna?”

  Silence.

  I wave the torch, searching. The sight ahead renders me still. Anna, my beautiful Anna, restrained, her mouth gagged, pretty face sullied with dirt and tears. She blinks, shielding her eyes from the light.

  I run, drop to my knees, and yank the gag away. It falls to her neck. She stares in shock.

  “Anna, are you hurt?”

  Her mouth clenches, locking her lips.

  “Anna, tell me you’re OK.”

  I grapple the bloody binds and free her hands and ankles from their snare; they dangle limp, like a rag doll.

  Saliva hits me in the face like a fierce snowball. I fall backwards, shocked, and wounded.

  “Anna! I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t touch me. Get away from me!”

  “Anna, it’s OK, you’re safe. I’m here.”

  “How can I be safe in the arms of a fucking rapist?”

  Her words slice me in two. This is it, the moment I prayed with all my heart that would never come. I’ve been exposed as a rapist; my life is over.

  “Anna! Please…”

  “Save it,’ she screeches, ‘You repulse me.”

  “Anna, they forced me do it! I swear!”

  I rise to my feet, place my hands on her shoulders. She flicks them off defensively and shoves me away, as though I’m contagious.

  “Anna, please forgive me.”