Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  “Shut up. Stop talking. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Please, I never knowingly took part, they got me drunk on purpose.”

  “You’re a dirty, disgusting rapist. Don’t ever lay a finger on me again. You’re poison. Evil!”

  “Please, Anna, I love you.”

  “Love ... you don’t know the meaning of the word. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have raped that poor woman. And you wouldn’t have left me locked up like a caged animal. I hate you. Do you hear me? I fucking hate you!”

  “Please, Anna, it was all a mistake. We can run away from all this. Please don’t do this!”

  “You disgust me,” she screeches.

  “Anna, I love you, you’re my world.”

  “You’re a monster. I thought I knew you, Ben. I adored you, until I found out what you’re into! I saw it all on your computer. You’re vile.”

  “I’m not, I swear. I was curious, trying to understand their game, and see if here was a way I could stop it!”

  “You’re disgusting!” She yells, pushing past me, heading towards the door. I crash to my knees, pleading.

  “Anna, come on, please. We can sort this.”

  She glances over her shoulder, the light casts shadows under her sorrowful eyes.

  “No, Ben. Karma is a bitch! You’ve got what you deserve. This is over. You destroyed us.”

  93

  EMILIA

  WEDNESDAY 28 NOVEMBER 2018, 3 PM

  I’ve lost everything over a demented game.

  I’m a mess. Dad has abandoned me, Mum is in and out of consciousness, and poor Tom is unaware of the hideous truth. A small mercy. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

  I wake up in repeat mode; downing wine for lunch to numb myself from the reality of it all.

  The shattered part of me wonders if it would be better to drink myself into an alcohol-induced coma and be free.

  My alter-ego, the serial killer, is prodding my brain, trying to jumpstart me, and kill Cronwell.

  I don’t have the strength, well, not right now. I’m lost and lonely, unsure if I can fix myself enough to end the game.

  I’d considered various options for Cronwell – framing him with category A child pornography on his computer. He’d be like a lamb to the slaughter as an imprisoned cop.

  Inmates would enjoy a cop toy to play with. It seemed fitting; he would be raped; proper justice for what he had done to me.

  It isn’t enough, though. I want him dead. And when I’ve had time to think, to drink, and escape life for a few days, I’ll formulate a new line of attack.

  I pour the dregs of a bottle into a glass, ignoring the sediment layering the bottom, and go in search of more alcohol.

  Cat circles my ankles, as I reach the hallway. I pause and stare at my gaunt, reflection, a stark contrast to my blood-red snaking eyes. I’m a hideous, murderous creature. I look half-dead myself.

  As I stare with distain, my heart skips a beat. Sudden realisation that Cronwell won’t go down without a fight. He won’t stop until I’ve been mutilated like the other girls.

  The wine rack is empty. I snatch my keys, ignoring the stench of booze on my sour breath. My only aim is to get off my face and hide away; for now.

  I ram a £1 coin into the trolley and walk with determination to the wine aisle.

  I load 12 bottles of red wine to make the pending days bear‐ able and throw in crisps for good measure to avoid any raised eyebrows, not that I give a shit what anyone thinks.

  I manoeuvre the trolley poorly, unavoidably crashing into a basket, which appears out of nowhere.

  My eyes climb to apologise. I’m confronted by Mark.

  He stares with bewilderment, eyes screwing, deciphering the pathetic creature before him.

  He’s appeared like a genie, staring right at me with his irresistible Bombay Sapphire eyes. His lips twitch into an uncomfortable smile.

  “Emilia,” he whispers.

  “Mark,” I breathe.

  “Are you OK?”

  He breaks our stare, studying the copious wine bottles.

  “No. Mum is in a coma, she was attacked,” I blurt, as though that makes the volume of wine acceptable.

  “I’m so sorry, that’s awful.”

  His face reddens, dimples vanish.

  “I’m truly shocked; have police caught the culprit?”

  Tears flood my cheeks. Despite acting a prize bitch toward him, he offers me compassion.

  “I tried to call you, Emilia. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry if I upset you, it was never my intention.”

  His hand grazes my shoulder. I jolt at the unexpected touch, as though his fingertips carry electrical current.

  “I’m sorry, Mark. I shouldn’t have treated you the way that I did,” I answer, dipping my chin to avoid eye contact.

  “It’s OK. I’ve wanted to see you for a very long time. But I didn’t know where you’d gone.”

  “I moved here to Portishead. Why are you here?”

  “A meeting at Gordano School.”

  I’m repulsive. I reek of booze and look like a tramp. But Mark still places a comforting arm around me.

  “Let’s say we ditch the shopping, get out of here, and go and talk. I’m a good listener.”

  “I need them,” I answer, staring at the wine bottles pathetically, sounding like a junkie in need of a fix.

  “OK, let’s go to the till,” he answers, taking control of my trolley, whisking us both to the self-pay tills.

  I follow behind like a child, dragging my feet. I fumble into my bag for my wallet, my hand grazes over the blade.

  Before I’ve even chance to register what’s happening, the 12 bottles have been scanned, bagged, and paid for.

  We amble along in silence. Mark smells heavenly. Memories of us together flood back, us walking hand in hand by the river.

  I’m swamped by sadness. Cipher destroyed my life, my future, and it turned me into a coldblooded killer. Mark can never learn the truth.

  94

  EMILIA

  WEDNESDAY 28 NOVEMBER 2018, 4.05 PM

  The past always catches up. I’ve told myself that so many times, but I never thought I’d reunite with Mark.

  “Let me take you home,” he says cheerily.

  I collapse into the front seat of his Audi, not even caring that I’m leaving behind my own car. It’s as though the world is spinning, my heart fuelled with shame or lust. Or both.

  Slumped against the leather upholstery, I inhale citrus from an air vent freshener as he starts the engine.

  We drive in silence. I’m riddled with guilt for my past behaviour, and he’s uncomfortable, sensing my anguish.

  “You only had to call me, Emilia. I would have been here for you,” he blurts.

  I keep my eyes on the road, staring at the traffic lights.

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you,” I mutter.

  “It’s OK, you clearly have a lot to deal with. Where do you live, Emilia?” he asks, changing the subject.

  I answer robotically and feel a pang of nausea, recalling the state of my apartment. He’ll assume I’ve turned into an alcoholic recluse.

  I pluck cash and pop it on his lap for the wine. He places it back on my thigh, his hand grazes my knee.

  The sensation of touch, which has been absent for so long, warms my skin in a rush.

  “I haven’t tidied, the place is a mess,” I confess, cheeks aglow, as we park on the driveway.

  “Mess is the least of my concerns, Emilia.”

  I visualise the stray bottles, and childishly hum in my head, ‘10 green bottles hanging on the wall.’ They’ve all ‘accidentally’ fallen onto the floor like a tramp’s bed.

  “I’m not here to judge. I want to help.”

  I push the door open and step inside, collecting, and cradling the bottles in my arms like a swaddled baby.

  Cat rushes to us, rubbing her head against Mark’s ankles. He smiles.

  “Where do I find the glasses?�
� he asks.

  I had expected his disapproval.

  “Here,” I answer, opening a cupboard.

  He plucks two glasses, cracks a wine seal and pours. My embarrassment drifts, as does the awkwardness. I wish I’d fought harder for my old life and not walked away.

  Mark hands me a glass and sips from his, eyes not shifting an inch off me. I drag my fingers through my hair to try to make myself just a little more presentable.

  “You’re fine as you are, Emilia. Relax.”

  I take two gulps to calm my frayed nerves and drag myself into the lounge, to the sofa.

  Mark joins me, sitting close, barely an inch between us, and places his glass on the table. My glass remains prisoner in my hands, fingers laced, suffocating it.

  I cannot believe Mark is here, in my home. He places his hand on my thigh. It’s warm. I blink to make sure that this is real. He remains at my side.

  I’ve been thrown a lifeline. Perhaps Mark has been sent by God to change tactics, steer me away from darkness, and my murderous exploits, to save myself, and my family from impeding death.

  Perhaps Mark is my silver lining. And perhaps, after all I’ve been through, and all I’ve done, just perhaps, I deserve that silver lining.

  95

  EMILIA

  WEDNESDAY 28 NOVEMBER 2018, 4.20 PM

  Mark can never learn the truth, that I’m dancing with the devil, and collecting vultures’ souls.

  To him, I’m vulnerable, sweet Emilia, the carefree, school teacher. He doesn’t see the real monster in me. And he must never see it.

  “Emilia, you shouldn’t be going through all this alone.”

  I sip wine and place my glass down. He takes my hand, encasing it between his.

  “Everything will be OK,” he adds, reassuringly.

  I cry. How can he be so kind after I fled?

  “I loved you, Emilia. Why did you leave?”

  I hold my head in my hands, shielding my face. He pulls me close, against his chest.

  His heart beats fast, swamping me with a mixture of emotion. He strokes my hair, comforting me.

  I breathe in his alluring scent, feeling safe in his arms. Our embrace lasts, he doesn’t want to let me go in case I fall apart. I feel relief at being able to cry.

  His head rests on top of mine. I want to stay in his arms, protected from harm, from Cipher; I want to stay like this forever.

  But that’s what my heart wants.

  My head tells me that I can’t let Mark back into my life. It’s dangerous. Everyone close to me is a potential target.

  I push myself away and lift our glasses, handing him his. Our eyes lock. I study his dimples as he smiles.

  The uncertainty is killing him. He wants to know why I left; he deserves to know the truth.

  “I was raped,” I divulge.

  His smile slips, face in a state of shock, horror even.

  “That’s why I left. I didn’t want you to know what they did to me,” I continue, breaking eye contact.

  He lifts my chin, pulling my gaze back to his. I feel his other hand on mine, squeezing my fingers.

  “They?” He quizzes, face stricken.

  “There were seven of them. I was drugged and attacked after our night by the river,” I stammer.

  “Emilia, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I felt ashamed. I couldn’t fight them.”

  “There was no hit and run, was there?”

  “No. I invented that. They left me to die but someone found me in Worlebury Woods.”

  His eyes well, mirroring mine.

  “Emilia, I’m so sorry. I would have supported you.”

  “They made me feel dirty. Violated. How could you want me, after that?”

  “Emilia, I’d fallen for you. It wouldn’t have changed how I felt.”

  He pulls me back against his chest, arms locked tight. I don’t want him to let go of me.

  “I couldn’t let you see what they did.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  I snuggle against his chest. He kisses the top of my head. His warm lips offer a welcome tingle.

  “I left to get away from the nightmares, not you!”

  “I would never have abandoned you.”

  “I’m sorry. I was afraid. I couldn’t bear the shame of you knowing and then rejecting me.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  “No.”

  “What?” His tone shifts a gear.

  “Please don’t lecture me. I made the decision to bury it. It was the only way I could cope. I pretended that none of it happened. I tried to move on with my life.”

  “I understand. But they should pay!”

  “I had no idea of their identities and they threatened to hurt my friends and family.”

  His fingers stroke my cheek, wiping away the tears.

  “Emilia, I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He lifts my chin and places his soft lips, on mine. I feel a pang of electricity reinvigorating my still heart.

  Can I be saved? The thought of a future free of pain, had always seemed impossible after everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve done.

  Is it possible that I’ve found someone who, despite every‐ thing, might still believe in me? And who perhaps might enable me to believe in myself again? I don’t know. But I do know that Mark must never learn the whole truth. Because that would destroy him. And too many people have been broken already. Mark doesn’t deserve that. I don’t think he deserves me. He deserves better. But he’s here, now. And he’s close; very, very close.

  Mark’s parted lips hover inches from mine, sultry eyes fixed on me. My teeth tug sensuously at my lower lip.

  I’m dizzy with booze and lust, heart thudding, as his fingers run through my hair. He can’t possibly want me like this, can he?

  He inches closer, planting kisses on my neck. Hot breaths linger and tickle as he drags his lips across my cheek, my own breaths heavier, the barriers falling.

  His hand grazes the nape of my neck. He pulls me close, kissing with urgency. His swirling, ravenous tongue tastes sour, but erupts a sweet stir in me, every nerve fizzing in response to his touch.

  I feel his hand drag, following the curve of my spine. It slides under my jacket. Cold fingers dance across my skin in a delicious sensation.

  My abs clench, back arches deeper, as my chest presses against him. I feel a tingling inside me; something I never thought I’d feel again.

  We kiss until we’re breathless; lips pursed inches from one another. I lean back, wondering if he’s having regrets. His eyes slip, cruising my figure and breathing me in.

  A luxurious smile brightens his face, dimples deepening, as he pulls my zip, unearthing heated, sensitised curves.

  I flinch, eyes widening in panic, knowing he’s about to witness my scars. He senses my nerves, planting another kiss on my lips.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

  I allow him to continue. He exposes my lacy bra. I wait for his smile to fade, but it doesn’t. He lifts me, lowering my body onto his lap; legs coiled around his waist.

  My shaky fingers unbutton his shirt, revealing toned pecs. His skin is as smooth as satin, mine swarming with goose bumps of pleasure.

  Soft kisses trace from my neck to my cleavage. Just before the moment where I feel I can’t take the anticipation anymore, and let out a deep breath, he climbs to my lips and kisses me passionately, our tongues racing.

  My hips rise in response to him, muscles tense. It feels good. I’ve forgotten what it could be like, to feel good. I feel wanted. I feel attractive. I feel desired. I feel...I feel normal. And I don’t want it to end.

  96

  DI CARMICHAEL

  WEDNESDAY 28 NOVEMBER 2018, 4.30 PM

  I deserve everything that is coming, I’m a rapist, and an accomplice to murder.

  Sins always come back to haunt you, and I’ve lost my beautiful Anna forever; she’s never coming back.

  Anna
belle’s repulsed face replays on repeat. My body is aflame with shame and that fire is never going out.

  The threat of her turning me in weighs heavy. I deserve to be shamed, to be punished for the monster that I am. But I don’t believe she’d want the world to know she was engaged to a rapist, linked to a sex-torture ring. The only thing I can do is wait and let her make first contact.

  Cronwell is determined to end Emilia’s game before she can kill him, so, yet again, he has taken matters into his own hands.

  Forensics discovered a fragment of hair lodged in a crack on one of Claire Francis’ fingernails. The only explanation for its presence would be from an altercation - Claire fought back against her assailant.

  The hair could yield a DNA match. Cronwell acted fast and swapped the sample. He planted a hair acquired from a comb at the crime scene.

  As of this morning, Richard Francis has been arrested on suspicion of the attempted murder of his own wife.

  I never saw this coming. Cronwell’s mind is disturbed. He knew that the only way to evade detection was to tamper with the evidence.

  And what better way to halt Emilia than to go after those closest to her, again. He’s putting an end to her killing game by framing her own father, for murder.

  I hadn’t expected this, and I would bet everything I have that Emilia, as cunning and clever as she clearly is, would never have anticipated this twist of fate.

  Richard Francis has been processed, swabs collected, and his clothes swapped for a forensic suit. Only, it doesn’t look out of place on him, it’s his usual work attire.

  He sits alongside a solicitor, awaiting questioning, face pale. He’s silent, having taken instructions. This is wrong but there is nothing I can do to stop it.

  Cronwell eyes me with a glint of accomplishment.

  “This interview is being tape recorded. I'm DCI Christopher Cronwell and this is DI Benjamin Carmichael. Could you please state your full name for the tape?” Cronwell instructs.