by J. D. Weston
"That's what the reports say," confirmed George.
Harris turned his face away from the headlights of a passing VW camper van that trundled past them.
"The guy that was boiled, what was his name? The Eastern European guy, he was the only one out of all those unsolved murders that wasn't on the sex offenders list, right?"
"Right," said George slowly, trying to see where Harris was going.
"So what if the boiled guy was actually a sex pest, but just hadn't been caught? What if nobody knew he was a sex pest apart from our killer? And what if our killer had been looking for this guy all along?"
"I think I'm beginning to see," said George.
"Good, stay with me," said Harris. "So if the killer was hunting the boiled guy all along, it could have taken years, George. Meanwhile, he hunts down known sex offenders, easy targets, to satiate his needs and to hone his skills."
"His demons?" asked George.
"Yeah, you saw the heat map," said Harris. "He stayed local. He only ventured out when the hunger struck and he needed a kill. That's what it is, George. He's got a need, a thirst, and when the need strikes, he kills, but not just anyone, only sex offenders. It's like maybe he was abused or something by the boiled guy? Or maybe someone he was close to was abused, or worse? I don't know. But the boiled guy was the ultimate hit for him, and the killer was angry enough to go vigilante against sex offenders until he found him."
"And that's when the killings stopped," finished George.
"Exactly," continued Harris. "He'd found what he'd been looking for, and his thirst died."
"Only now, his thirst is back,” said George.
"And Shaun Tyson is the only man known to have survived this guy."
"So how do you explain the nationwide killing spree in the past two weeks?" asked George.
"Like I said, George, he's reliving the past. He's awakening-"
"The demon?"
"That's right, George," said Harris. His voice lowered, and his eyes focused on the house in front of them. "Tonight, we're going to catch ourselves a demon."
Panic set in the moment Shaun opened his eyes.
His heart raced, and he searched blindly into the dark corners of the room.
He flung back the covers and stepped onto the soft carpet. His confused mind took a few seconds to understand where he was, but then reality caught up, and he leaned with his elbows on his legs and his head in his hands as his breathing calmed and his heart rate slowed.
It would take a while for Shaun to adjust to life on the outside.
No shrieking drug addicts were filling the night, no howling and torturous cries of repent or begging for mercy. There was just silence.
There was no cold brick wall either, or hard concrete floor that welcomed the icy and stale air. There was just the warmth of the central heating and his mother's soft furnishings that retained the heat.
There was dark, but Shaun reached for the lamp that stood beside his bed, a luxury he'd been without for three years. Nobody could dictate lights off to him anymore. He flicked the light on, off, and back on as if reconfirming the power of choice, a luxury of freedom. He then turned it off once more to enjoy the darkness in safety, the safety of his home, a way of pushing his mind to understand that he no longer needed to live in fear.
Not inside the house anyway.
Shaun rose and walked barefoot to the window. The feeling of the warm, soft carpet under his feet brought a smile to his face. He pulled the curtain back and peered through his bedroom window. He'd had a small window in his cell but the bars had obscured the view and the sloping ledge had prevented him from pulling himself up to see out of it. The most he'd ever seen had been of the dull, grey London sky.
A few houses opposite had lights on, and Shaun felt the urge to wait for a careless neighbour to step out of the shower as he'd done many time before. But he tore his eyes away from the houses, battling to keep his perverse habits at bay.
He focused on the dark instead.
Somewhere out there in the darkness was the girl he'd met in the park that time, the girl that had been so keen to see and feel an adult male in all its glory, yet had run when they had finished and told her mother. He wondered if she was okay. He wasn't sure if it was his own remorse, guilt, or if it was a genuine concern for her he felt, but he certainly felt it. He'd thought about her many times over the past three years. It had started the day after they had met, with lustful images of their short time together, but then, once the police had knocked on his door and taken him away, his thoughts of her had turned to spite and hate. He'd remembered her in the darkness of his single cell, bad thoughts, not the soft touches that he'd remembered fondly, but evil, sadistic thoughts of what he could have done to her. What he should have done.
Maybe?
But the emotions that he felt for her as he stood by the window in the dark, experiencing his freedom for the first time in three years, were kind. He realised that it hadn't been her fault. He should have known better. No matter how hard she had asked, no matter how relentless her hands had been, he should have walked away.
He hoped she was okay.
He'd considered sending her a note but had been advised that his restraining order would see him back inside. He wondered what might happen if they were to meet on the off-chance on the street, if he would have a chance to tell her how sorry he was. He played the scene out in his mind over and over. The first time around, she was friendly. She'd be older now, maybe even old enough, and they'd held hands. She apologised for what he'd been through, and he told her how he felt, how he'd thought of them together and the softness of her skin. But the scene rolled around again in his mind and returned to them meeting on the street. This time, she screamed for help, shouting that she was being attacked. People recognised him. There were angry men all around, towering above him. But between them, he'd seen her, and she smiled cruelly, a devious evil smile as she stood in the background and the blows had rained down on him from above.
He let his forehead rest against the glass. It was cool and refreshing. It pulled him from his imagination but left the images there as a reminder.
He wondered if he was actually better. He wondered if the urges would return. His thoughts suggested they were still there somewhere, hanging in the shadows waiting to strike, waiting for the chance when Shaun's mind was weak, and the opportunity arose.
His mother's disappointed face drifted into his thoughts. She was surrounded by a sea of hate and anger. He remembered that feeling of hatred in everybody's eyes that had stabbed him like daggers as he'd stood in the dock, while the judge and the prosecution had painstakingly carried out the legal procedure to the letter. He'd wished that he could have just told them yes. "Yes, it was me. I did those things. She was innocent, and I took advantage. Now please take me away. Take me away from the eyes, the hate."
It had felt like a lifetime. But when the judge had finally brought his hammer down and declared him guilty on all accounts, and he'd been led shamed from the room, he'd turned briefly to see his mum once more. The look in her eyes had pierced him. While those around her sent sharp, hellish looks of hate, they had merely formed the shaft of the arrow. It had been his mother's disappointed eyes that had formed the sharp point. But not of evil, not of hate, they'd carried a look of shame, a shame so deep and gut-wrenching that he'd been unable to shake it from his mind, even as he stood there beside his bedroom window three years later.
The last image that crossed his mind that evening had been of Pops, of the things he had made Shaun do, and the things he had done to Shaun in return. The old man's rough beard had been abrasive against Shaun's stomach, and his calloused hands around him had been rough, not like hers. He'd tried to contain his arousal at the time, but Pops had been smart, evil but smart. He'd sat with Shaun and provoked filthy conversations about the dirty things they'd both done. He'd watched as Shaun had relived his time with the girl. Shaun remembered all of the girls, but it was mostly the last girl he fant
asised about, the girl who had cried to her mum. Pops had waited to see Shaun's body react, when there was no turning back. Shaun, in his tight tracksuit bottoms, hadn't been able to conceal his arousal and had succumbed to Pop's desires.
Shaun felt sick.
He needed water to wash his mouth of the evil that Pops had put in there. He could feel it. He could taste him.
He began to cry.
But he didn't wail or sob. Prison had taught Shaun to cry quietly. It was best if nobody knew. He wiped the tears from his eyes and reached for the glass of water beside his bed, but movement outside caught his eye. It wasn't much, just a shadow that moved briefly in his mum's back garden. He searched for it again and wiped his eyes with his sleeve to see more clearly. But there was nothing out there except the shed, the greenhouse, and his mum's favourite little apple tree.
13
Abduction
"I hate sitting here knowing that Harvey could be in there right now doing God knows what," said Melody.
"We could move closer?" suggested Reg.
Melody hovered on her answer. "We might drive him away," she said.
"So what's your plan?" asked Reg. "Wait for him to leave and then nab him? We don't even have weapons."
Melody gave Reg a sideways glance.
"You do have weapons, don't you?" he said. "Melody have you been driving around with-"
"I've carried a weapon for nearly ten years, Reg. It's not something I like to leave at home if I can help it. It's a hard habit to break."
Reg shook his head. "I'm seriously going to lose my job, you know that?"
"Who's going to find out?" asked Melody.
"The entire street if you starting opening fire in the middle of the bloody night."
"Relax. I have a suppressor," said Melody. "Besides, we won't take him down here, we'll follow him. Find somewhere more suitable."
"You're really going to shoot him?"
Melody took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I don't see any other option apart from calling it in and watching him be taken away."
"Melody, listen to yourself. You were going to marry this guy and now you're talking about killing him. Maybe we should let-"
"I'm not letting him go to prison, Reg," Melody snapped. "He'd rather be dead than locked up. I know that much about him."
"Melody I'm not sure I can be involved," said Reg. "I'm sorry. But I didn't realise we'd be killing anyone, that will just make us as bad as-"
"As bad as him, Reg? No. No, it won't." Melody lifted up the bench seat she had been sat on and pulled out a long black peli-case.
"Oh no, Melody. I've seen that case before," said Reg.
Melody popped open the two latches and lifted the lid.
"Oh for God's sake," said Reg. "When you said you were carrying, I thought you meant a little Sig handgun or something, Melody."
Melody began to build her Diemaco sniper rifle. She kept her head down and continued to piece the gun together as she spoke.
"Have you ever fired a handgun, Reg?" she asked, as she snapped the stock into place.
"In training, and once or twice in-"
"Did you ever hit anything, Reg?" she asked.
"Well, come to think of it, no. No, I didn't."
"Do you know how close you'd need to be to take someone down with a handgun, Reg?" She stopped what she was doing and looked up at her friend.
"Erm, well no," he replied.
"You could get lucky. You could hit him in the head. But even from twenty metres away, the odds are against you."
She started to load the magazine with rounds from a brand new box.
"So imagine this," she continued, "you're twenty metres away from someone, a trained man, quick and agile, and you miss your first head shot. Close your eyes and imagine it, Reg. Tell me what happens next. Tell me how it plays out."
Reg took a breath and closed his eyes.
"Erm, I take another shot?"
"Did you even aim? Are you nervous?"
"Yeah, I'm aiming."
"At his head? He's turned. He sees you."
"Yeah."
"He's coming for you, fifteen steps."
"I fire again."
"That's still a tough shot, Reg. You missed. You're shaking with adrenaline and fear."
"I'd go for the body; it's a bigger target."
"Five steps away."
"Even I couldn't miss from there."
"Bang. Too late. He's on top of you. He's wounded, he might even be dying, but he's disarmed you and just put the gun to your head."
Reg was silent for a moment. "It happens that quick?" he asked.
"Now," said Melody, as she snapped the magazine into the rifle's slot, stood it upright on its butt, and closed the lid of the case, "imagine it's Harvey you were firing at."
It was a strange feeling for Shaun, as he sat at his mum's kitchen table in the dead of night. His head was thick with the pressure that formed from a whirlwind of emotions, guilt and mostly shame, but also the desire not to be a bad person, not to go back to prison, and not to let shame rain down on his mum. She deserved better.
It was with these words that Shaun finished his note and scrawled his name with an X underneath it.
He told her he loved her and would be back once his head was clear. He hoped she'd understand, and he would, of course, phone, so she would know how he was doing and where he was.
Shaun didn't fold the note. He left it on the table by the ashtray where she would see it as soon as she woke up.
The trip away would do him good. It might even toughen him up a little and teach him to stand on his own two feet. He'd heard a guy in prison talk about how he went travelling when he was younger, and Shaun had marvelled at his courage. At just eighteen, Jason King had jumped on a ferry with barely enough money to get to him through a few weeks of eating poorly and sleeping in hostels or on a beach. But he'd done it and survived with so many wonderful tales.
"Life has a funny way of working out," Shaun remembered him saying.
Shaun recalled how Jason had found buses and trains to get him to the coast, then either walked for miles or scrounged rides where he could to get to the next town or village. He'd ended up joining a few other travellers and picked fruit for a small wage and free board in an old shack. Then, when the season was up and he'd saved enough money for the next stage of his journey, Jason had moved onto another adventure.
Prison life had allowed time for Shaun to think. Often his thoughts felt like they were hideous B-movies that had been cast by the devil himself. But sometimes, a positive thought slipped through and found its way to the front of his mind. Life on the outside, a new beginning, a fresh start. Whichever form they came in, they encouraged the hope that had been suppressed by the evil inside him.
It was hope that now ran freely in his thoughts.
Thoughts of what France might look like, or what it might be like to once more stand amongst peers, and not be that guy, to not be avoided. Most of all, Shaun clung to the hope of one day being normal.
He could have listened to Jason talk all day about how beautiful Austria is and what life is like in Amsterdam cafes, about Roman architecture and the treasures to be found in the small villages that dot Europe's countryside. But Jason's audience had been a party of imprisoned perverts who, each time Jason had begun an anecdote, had steered the tales of wonder onto the less pleasant topic of sex and debauchery.
Shaun had quietly considered Jason's stories of the girls that he'd met on his travels, and he'd felt a pang of jealousy at how easily Jason had spoken to them. Jason had said that people are more comfortable approaching a man on his own, whereas they might hesitate before talking to a group of guys. Shaun would like that. For someone to ask if he'd like to join them doing whatever they were doing, dinner, drinks, or even just laying on a beach chatting.
Shaun had a plan, albeit rough and loose. He'd walk through the night, just to get away from Potters Bar; that was the first and most crucial part of his esc
ape. If he tried to leave during the day, his mum would hold him back with her emotional ties.
Then the devil inside would smile at his captivity, and creep out from the shadows again. He needed to strike while hope ran freely through his mind.
In the morning, he'd be far away enough to find a train or a bus station, where he'd start his journey south to Dover and wait for the ferry to France. It might take him a day to get there, he didn't even know how far Dover was from Potters Bar, but it didn't matter. He'd get there eventually. There was no time constraint, and freedom truly did lie outside the door.
All he needed to do was strike up the courage to take the first step.
He'd emptied his little savings pot that he had in his bedroom, and then shamefully taken the envelope that his mum kept in an old coffee pot in the kitchen. He knew she would be angry, and he'd tell her as soon he could, once he was far away. She'd understand. It was all to make him better.
He stood and collected his little rucksack from the floor. He hadn't taken much, just a few changes of clothes, his trainers, his passport and the photo of his mum that he'd kept in his prison cell.
Shaun gave the room a final glance and made sure the note was in full view. Then he turned out the light and closed the kitchen door quietly.
A nervous smile crept onto his face when he opened the front door and stared out at the dark and empty street. Freedom is just a few steps away, he told himself. He zipped up his jacket, stepped out into the night, and closed his mum's front door behind him.
Shaun noticed that since he had begun to prepare for the trip, which had been just an hour, he'd managed to restrain his evil thoughts more easily, and more positivity was being let through.
Things were changing.
Life has a way of working out.
He took a final look up at the house and thought to himself that he'd return a few months or a year from now. Maybe he'd have a girlfriend. Maybe he'd find success as well as growth on his travels. But whatever happened, when he returned, he would be a changed man, of that Shaun was sure.
