by Diane Saxon
He’d taken the TV, the thoughtless moron. He’d bought it for her the Christmas before last. It belonged to her and he’d taken it.
Annoyance whipped through the self-pity. She’d bloody kill Ray if he’d decided to sneak around the house, the thoughtless little prat.
She listened.
Nothing but silence greeted her.
To the count of ten, she let out her breath. In, to the count of five.
Overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions, she squeezed her eyes closed. She was going to her mum’s.
The soft whisper of a breath stroked over her consciousness. Her eyes flew open and she reared her head back. Her heart stumbled to a halt, then thundered violently, the wild thrum of it lodging in her throat to choke off her breath mid-stream.
A ghostly shadow reflected in her window stood in the kitchen behind her.
Marcia whipped around. That weasel of an ex-boyfriend.
Confusion chased every coherent thought from her alcohol infused mind.
Dread crushed her chest until she could barely draw a breath.
She opened her mouth and her voice cracked on a desperate gasp.
‘You’re not Ray.’
3
Tuesday 4 February, 00:15 hrs
‘Who the hell are you?’
He angled his head to one side to better study her, curious to get a closer look after so many days of observing with the quiet thrill of knowing he’d made her doubt her own sanity.
The alcohol he’d seen her drink earlier in the evening had slowed her responses but not dulled eyes that sparkled with tears, nor taken the shine from her cherry-red nose she’d blown all too much while she sobbed the last few days away.
It had been priceless to watch as her stupid, thick-headed ex had told her about the pregnancy. She’d broken then.
The man had denied everything, accusing her of losing her mind. She hadn’t lost her mind. She was right. Her mug had been broken, things had been moved, underwear taken. But it hadn’t been her ex. He hadn’t even been in the house, the coward. The only thing he was guilty of was the writing on the lawn.
Eyes wide, mouth slack, she stood frozen to the spot.
Poor, pathetic soul. He thought he’d lost her when she went out. Dressed to kill. Obviously on the pull. She’d already had too much to drink before she left. A cheap bottle of red wine. Not to his taste. He’d taken a sip from her glass before he remembered DNA. He’d scrubbed it clean and then placed it very carefully in the wrong cupboard, just to see her reaction, but she’d not looked since she’d returned.
Dutch courage, she’d told her friend on the phone just as she went out. Dutch courage. She’d need more than that now.
She’d returned earlier than expected. He’d still been in the kitchen, but he’d soon shot up the stairs to wait.
He’d been prepared to sneak back up into the attic space above the spare bedroom where he’d been waiting and watching for the past few days. If she’d brought someone home with her, he’d have had to brave the chill of her attic once more, but when she’d stumbled from the cab all alone, her distressed sobs echoing up the stairwell, he’d considered his options and decided the time was right to carry out the next phase of his plan. A little earlier than anticipated, but he had all the equipment he required with him. He’d stashed it in the attic.
Anticipation fluttered through his stomach as he took his time to study her.
Her haunted eyes sent out a desperate appeal. An appeal he was willing to help her with. She didn’t need to suffer from a broken heart. Not for long. Pitiful little woman.
He leaned his shoulder against the door frame, effectively blocking the one and only exit from the room. As he crossed his arms over his chest, he schooled his features into friendly, approachable. He forced his lips into a wide grin and a sharp thrill raced through his veins as her eyes widened and her sluggish brain evidently caught up. He could only hazard a guess at what she thought of the stranger in her kitchen dressed in pure white personal protection equipment.
From the fear slashing over her features, she had an idea. It didn’t really matter what his face portrayed, the outfit said it all. She wasn’t stupid. He didn’t want stupid. Half the game was the taunting, the teasing, the breaking down of the spirit so once he made his move the game was already well under way. The thrill was in the chase, the hunting down of the prey. The cornering of the victim.
When she recognised him as her executioner, the game would truly begin.
She swayed, a drunken rolling lurch, and reached behind her to lean her hands against the kitchen bench to steady herself while he waited and snapped out a smile.
She found her voice at last, recognition slashing over her features. They hadn’t met, but she knew him. ‘What are you doing here?’
He squinted at her and then pushed away from the door frame, heart soaring with excitement. Years of study, plotting, planning, fell perfectly into place. Narrowing down his prey had only taken a matter of a few weeks. Y’ello had provided him with so much information. Too much. It was so easy to prise personal details out of people. Flattery went a long way, when someone was lonely. Sad.
His lips twitched into a genuine smile this time. ‘You have the most beautiful hair, Marcia. I’ve told you that before.’
A brief flash of confusion flickered through her eyes before the fear dashed it away as he brought one of her kitchen knives from behind his back, the white light of the kitchen flashing across it.
Only four paces in front of him. The scent of her heady perfume wound through his senses. The perfume he’d come to enjoy, the one he’d take with him for the memories the aroma would invoke.
Yes, this was right. It was all perfect.
4
Tuesday 4 February, 01:25 hrs
Darkness engulfed him disguising the tremor in his hands. He’d never killed before. He’d dreamt of it, imagined his hands around a woman’s throat. Tested it from time to time on various girlfriends, the thrill shooting through his veins like liquid nitrogen, making him an all powerful being. A god.
Not that the two girlfriends he’d tried it on had enjoyed it. The experiment had been short lived, as had the relationships.
This had been nothing like his previous experiences.
For a start, he’d never expected so much blood. The warm explosion of it had still managed to penetrate through his thin nitrile gloves.
Nausea clenched his stomach, pushing hot bile into his throat.
Hands on hips, he lowered his head and panted out short bursts of breath, his lungs burning as his chest tightened.
He swiped the back of his hand over his dry lips. A ripple of pride pulled him back from the edge to gain a better grasp of control. Control was what he needed. He’d almost lost it for a short while.
His first kill.
It hadn’t been strangulation, but something much darker, more final. Once the single, vicious stab of the knife had been made into her throat, there was no opportunity to turn back, no relaxing of his fingers against the fine line of her throat. No redemption.
It hadn’t been a clean death. He could see that now, would know what to do next time. He’d not plunged the knife deep enough into her throat to make it a swift end. He’d fudged it. No matter how much he’d studied, he’d been unprepared for the reality of it. It should have been a deep slash, ear to ear, rather than a stab and pull. He knew that now. Next time would be cleaner. More efficient. Despite his plan, it had all been too rushed.
He wiped the blood from her kitchen knife and placed it neatly on her countertop as he stared down at her.
He’d not anticipated the terror that had her rushing towards him, spoiling the whole plan of controlled fear.
With one punch to the face, he’d stunned her. That’s where he’d made his first mistake. He should have gagged her, tied her up straight away and then taken his time. He could have used one of the two ladder-back kitchen chairs from around her small drop-leaf table in the corner. Sh
e’d have been in position then. He could have used her beautiful red hair, wrapped it around his fist to pull her head back and expose the whiteness of her throat. Instead, adrenaline still boiling in his stomach, as she dropped to her knees on the floor in front of him, he had shoved the knife straight into her throat.
Eyes wide with shock, she’d wrapped her hands around her neck to staunch the flow.
When the blood spilled, thick and glutinous, soaking its heat through his gloved hands, he’d panicked, never imagining blood had the power to spread with such energy. Not a thin trickle, but short, hard spurts of crimson liquid straight from the carotid artery.
Worse still, no one had ever described the sound. The desperate gasp and bubble which filled his head. The accompanying gagging from her as she struggled to draw in that precious last breath of air while her lungs filled to drown her in her own bodily fluids. The hopeless struggle as she thrashed against the cream tiles of her kitchen floor, sending blood splatter in a pattern up the kitchen units and across the magnolia tiles of her perfect, pristine house.
As she crumpled to the floor, he’d stepped back, out of reach of the spray of blood, fascination chasing away the nausea while the woman’s limbs slowed their frenzied grasp on life as she dug her heels down to gain purchase on the slippery floor. The last of her blood pumped ever slower to soak through the thin man-made fibre of the dress which barely covered her.
He hunkered down beside her, leaning his head close to hers to engage in the last precious seconds of her consciousness before the desperation in her eyes faded to leave a bleak emptiness, regret and sorrow sliding away to nothing.
Curious, he leaned back on his heels to observe while her right foot gave one last twitch, then all movement ceased. Bright copper hair, matted in the stickiness of her blood, pooled out in a halo around her angled head.
Distracted with every feature of his kill, he studied her inch by inch. Her position on the floor, the way the pool of blood bloomed like an opening rose and then dribbled in straight lines where the grout formed grooves. His purpose slipped away as he absorbed every interesting detail.
With a jerk, his brain engaged again. A zap of static kick-started his thought process.
He straightened, stretching out the taut muscles in his back, the crack and grind of them reminding him he’d taken so much longer than he intended. Long enough to have forgotten his next move.
He strode to the kitchen window, jerked the blind down, not that the house was overlooked, but just in case.
He blew out a breath and turned to face the scene.
Never to lose sight of the purpose. He twisted his lips, a lick of irritation tightened his chest. He’d lost sight easy enough. Straight into a dreamworld of crimson pools and gaping wounds. But he was back.
With a careless swipe, he smeared the blood from his nitrile gloved hands onto the trouser legs of his white PPE suit while he gazed around at the literal bloodbath she’d created with her messy death. His heart still hammered hard against his ribcage despite his attempt to control it.
He needed to get a grip, clean up the mess. A mess far worse than he could have imagined. Stupid of him not to have realised. The volume of blood in one body contained between eight and twelve pints.
Looked like she’d pumped out all twelve pints of hers with all her thrashing around, her hands grasping at her own throat to staunch the flow that wouldn’t be stemmed. Who’d have thought it would leach so far?
He blew out a breath in preparation of phase two of the job. The clean-up. He knew exactly what he needed to do. He just had to move. Legs heavy, he acknowledged the shock had hit him harder than he’d believed, the drop from the adrenaline rush left him weak and empty.
He glanced down at the white shoe covers he’d pulled on. Crimson streaks daubed them, but despite the amount of blood on the floor, he had relatively little splashed on his PPE.
With a twitch of irritation, he moved to the kitchen doorway, swiped off the left shoe cover first and replaced it with a fresh one, careful not to place his shoe directly on the floor. Once he’d replaced the cover on his right foot, he made his way up the dark stairs, conscious of not switching on a light, familiar with the place after three days of scoping out the tidy little house while she was out. He cruised his gaze around. He’d miss the place, miss lodging in her compact attic. Miss the little tricks he’d played on her. It hadn’t been difficult to gain entry. Her little key safe hadn’t taken much to figure out. Year of birth. Why weren’t people more inventive?
She’d drawn the curtains in her bedroom before she left, and the soft glimmer of the bedside lamp cast enough of a glow for him to find what he wanted. He opened the second drawer down in her bedroom chest and pulled out the neat, ironed uniform. The memory of the original etched deep in his mind, disappointment had his lips turning down at the edges. The practical green scrubs were hardly a close comparison to the old-school, pristine blue uniform with the matching cap and little white apron.
He glanced at the time, speeding by faster than he realised. He needed to press on. He knew what the format and procedure was, he’d paid close attention, but the actual execution of it had been far beyond his expectation.
The whistle of air streaming in through his nose in panicked gasps stilled him. He clung to the uniform, spread his arms wide and invited energy in from the universe, tossing his head backwards he parted his lips. Muttering soothing words under his breath, he drew in measured air to expand his chest.
There.
One. Two. Three.
He pursed his lips and blew out, his eyelids flickering as bright golden lights sparkled behind them, pulling energy from around him.
The control was back.
Time. Time was his enemy, therefore he wouldn’t allow himself to be controlled by it.
Without consulting his watch again, he dashed downstairs with the uniform tucked into the top of the brand-new holdall he’d left at the top of the stairs.
He chewed his lip as he stared at the dead body sprawled on the kitchen floor in a wash of blood. The loss of dignity in her death didn’t escape him. He’d meant it to be a humiliation, a ripping away of all respect.
With lips parted, he dragged in the overriding smell surrounding him. Tannic undertones coated the back of his throat with metallic wisps burning his nose.
Sensations bombarded him while he settled down to clean the scene.
A step-by-step guide to covering your own footsteps, cleaning your DNA. Deniability was the key. Leave nothing and nothing could be proven.
The gloves crackled as he rubbed his hands together and then reached into the holdall for a thick, black bin liner. Each item thought out, planned.
A quiet thrill chased through his veins to heat his skin. He appreciated the total silence as he took a moment to study her before he reached into his holdall and took out a thick length of rope. He rolled out a clean sheet of plastic and lifted her onto it, so she no longer lay in her own oozing blood.
It was all an exercise. An experiment.
Affording her no dignity in death, he took the knife from the counter and slashed the flimsy dress from her body. He soaked a bundle of tea towels in diluted bleach. He angled his head as he cleansed her body, wiping away the blood with swift, efficient strokes, her flesh wobbling under his ministrations. He curled his lip.
‘Distasteful little liar. You’re much bigger than you claimed on Y’ello – by at least a whole dress size. Possibly two. And older. By a good five years. I found that out when I stalked your Facebook.’ He leaned in closer. ‘Yeah, not so obvious until you get up close and personal.’ He chuckled to himself.
With meticulous care, he stroked the bleach dampened towel over her body to remove all traces of blood. He swiped at her neck, irritated as blood insisted on bubbling again and again where he removed it, no longer pumping, just seeping.
Practicality filtered through a mind cluttered with the death of her, his first victim. He fished the thick brown tape from
his backpack, tore off a long strip and wrapped it around her neck, then continued until her body was clean of all traces of blood.
He gave her skin a brisk rub with one of her dry towels he’d stored in his holdall and then yanked her uniform on, tutting as inevitable smudges of blood smeared over it.
He lay her down, her shoulders slipping from his grasp. The wet thunk of her head hitting the floor invoked a deep satisfaction. His belly warmed as he grinned down at her. Better dead than the pathetic being she’d become. He’d done her a favour, putting her out of her misery.
He dragged one of the chairs closer, then lifted her body from the floor and positioned her on the seat. The dead weight of her flopped forward, but he arranged her, using her hair to gently pull her head back, stripping the tape from her neck so both the gaping wound and her eyes stared vacant at the ceiling, her shoulders slumped backward over the wooden frame.
He took the palette of make-up from his holdall. Dipping his gloved finger into the blue eye make-up, he smudged it over the bronze she’d applied earlier. Not as neat as he wanted, he dragged his thumb over it, but only succeeded in smearing it with the nitrile glove. Her slackened lips wobbled as he applied the crimson lipstick.
Little quivers of excitement pulsed through him to speed his heart rate.
Next time, he’d extend it. Torture the poor soul as he’d originally planned. Irritation circled as he considered the cat and mouse game he could have played out, keen to observe the fear and the pitiful pleas for mercy. The begging wouldn’t bother him. It interested him. The human mind.
He combed his fingers through her blood-soaked hair to try and put it in some semblance of order before he held her head, one hand on the back, the other beneath her chin, and tipped her forward. He slid the hand from under her chin and let it touch her chest. He stepped back and gazed down at the thick layer of blood surrounding the chair.
