Psychomania: Killer Stories

by Stephen Jones

  ‘I have to call the funeral home ...’

  ‘Let me.’

  ‘And my brother—’

  ‘I’ll take care of it. Rest.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The phone. I’ll be right there, in the kitchen. Okay?’

  She nodded.

  I found her brother’s number by the phone. No answer. He was probably on his way. I’d try again in a few minutes if he didn’t show up. The next thing would be to call the funeral home. I didn’t know which one it was. I started back to the living room and heard her cry out suddenly, louder and more desperate. The sound stopped before I got there.

  The kid moved in front of the couch to block my way.

  ‘Everything’s cool,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  Across the room the front door was still open. There were spatters on his clean white T-shirt. His bag from the convenience mart lay on the carpet with the contents spilling out: a blister pack of cheap steak knives, a roll of twine and a dispenser of wide package-sealing tape. In his hand was a pizza cutter.

  She was where I had left her, only now her ankles were bound together with the twine, a piece of the tape covered her mouth and one of her arms dangled to the floor. Blood dripped from the wrist.

  ‘I was gonna save my stuff,’ the kid said, ‘for when I get home. But I could tell you needed a hand.’

  I tried to get past him before the room became any blacker.

  He stepped aside and grinned.

  ‘You really got it down, man, about the bitches. I guess I always knew. There just ain’t no other way ...’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘What you said,’ and he winked at me, his eyes dancing wildly in his skull. ‘I mean, like, you got to kill them all. Right?’

  <>

  ~ * ~

  MARK MORRIS

  Essence

  AS SOON AS she walks through the door they know that she’s the one.

  It’s like a sixth sense, like they’ve been genetically augmented to home in on the vulnerable, the uncertain. They play it cool, however, saying nothing, their flat shark’s eyes never even meeting in a flicker of mutual recognition. Pa continues to sip his pint of bitter, his solid, weighty body relaxed into a round-shouldered slouch. Beside him, Ma still toys with her rum and Coke, turning the greasy tumbler round and round on the stained wooden table-top. They appear unaware of their surroundings, uninterested in the choppy clamour around them.

  But in truth they are focused wholly on the girl, who is still clearly acclimatizing, having stepped from the frosty November night and into the over-warm, sour-smelling fug of The White Hart.

  The girl is slight, her complexion too peachy-smooth, her features too delicate, to be from this neighbourhood. The faces that bob and leer around her, gulping at drinks, engaged in braying, aggressive conversation, are coarse, or mottled, or cunning, or sometimes all three. She is like a fallow deer that has inadvertently stumbled into the midst of a wolf pack.

  Both Pa and Ma see her eyes widen imperceptibly, her shoulders stiffen with tension, as she looks around, her head making little darting motions, her golden hair shimmering as it flickers and bounces around her face.

  Then, as if nervous of making a move which might incite hostility, she tilts her right wrist towards her face and carefully peels back the cuff of her soft grey hoodie. She glances down, then up again. Checking her watch. Then checking to see whether anyone has noticed how expensive it is. In that instant, despite their lack of mutual consultation, both Pa and Ma know her story.

  She is new in town, a student maybe, judging by the dinky little backpack she is wearing. A friend has arranged to meet her here, and she is wondering whether she is too early, or too late, for the appointment. Is wondering, in fact, whether she is in the right place.

  She probably is. The White Hart is a no-man’s-land kind of pub, frequented by locals and occasionally by students, but not particularly cherished by either. Dirty-walled and dirty-windowed, it gives the impression of trying hard not to be noticed. Its sign is faded and colourless with age. It perches in a dark, forgotten street of largely shuttered and abandoned businesses, somewhere between the edge of a decaying council estate and a neighbourhood of once-grand houses which have now run to seed, their chilly, high-ceilinged rooms sliced and diced into bedsits for itinerants: students, casual labourers, the dispossessed.

  The only reason people come here at all these days is because it is convenient. Within walking distance of the main road, and therefore of the bus route into town; grim, but not too dangerous; quiet, but not entirely dead. It is a meeting-place, a stopping-off point, a stepping-stone. It serves a similar purpose to a city-centre bus station, and has a corresponding lack of allure.

  All of which makes it perfect for the purposes of Pa and Ma. They know they won’t be remembered here; they know they can blend in; they know they can move on quickly if things go wrong, to any one of numerous such hunting-grounds dotted throughout the city.

  They watch the girl decide whether she’s going to stay or not. If she doesn’t it’s of no importance. They know there will be plenty more opportunities. They know that the city is full of young flesh, impressionable minds. This is a game not of desperation, but of patience, persistence. They are hungry, but they are not reckless. It is better to take small bites, when they can, than to gorge themselves. They know that if they were to feast without compunction, they would risk exposure, and subsequently face a future of nothing but famine.

  When the girl eventually takes a deep breath and marches almost defiantly to the bar, they show no response. They watch as she slides her lean frame between bulkier shoulders. As soon as the barman gravitates towards her, Ma finishes what is left in her glass and stands up. Without looking at Pa she walks unhurriedly to the bar, her eyes fixed on her target, her expression blank. She arouses no interest. She is drab, invisible - a plain, dumpy, middle-aged woman in colours that deflect attention. She positions herself directly behind the girl, knowing that she remains unnoticed.

  The girl leans forward to take a jingling handful of change from the barman, her tight-fitting jeans stretching over a bottom that is almost breathtaking in its perfection. Ma is close enough to the girl to smell her. She smells of youth and freshness, of springtime, new growth. Ma breathes it in, relishes it, is aroused by it, even as she feels a giddy, enraged desire to destroy it utterly.

  The girl pockets her change, and as she picks up her glass of Coke, Ma steps forward, a practised move, so subtle it is almost balletic in its execution. The girl turns. Instantly surprise and alarm cloud her face as she bumps into Ma, her elbow jolting. Coke splashes out of her glass and down the front of Ma’s grey cardigan.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” the girl says.

  She looks distraught, though Ma guesses she is more fearful of the reaction she might provoke than of the fact that she has stained this dull-looking woman’s shapeless item of clothing.

  “Oh!” Ma says, as though startled by the collision, and drops the purse she is holding. She bends to pick it up, and then staggers slightly. “Oh,” she says again, her voice fainter this time.

  She feels the girl’s hand clutching her arm, hears her anxious voice: “Are you all right?”

  What do you care? Ma thinks. You only ask because you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.

  Weakly, raising her head like a tortoise emerging from its shell, Ma says, “Yes, I... I’m sure I’ll be fine. I just felt a bit dizzy there for a minute.”

  The girl is biting her lip, an expression of concern on her face. Ma’s eyes flicker down to the purse at her feet, and immediately the girl says, “Oh, let me pick that up for you.”

  “Would you, dear?” Ma says. “That’s very kind.”

  She steps back to allow the girl room to lean forward. Staring down at the girl’s blonde head she allows herself a moment of ind
ulgence. She imagines herself naked before the girl, imagines twisting her hands into the girl’s shimmering hair and forcing her face into the sour, damp crevice between her meaty, dimpled thighs.

  Then the girl rises with the purse and holds it out. Instead of taking it, however, Ma sways slightly. “Oh,” she says for the third time. “I think I’d better sit down.”

  “Here,” the girl says, stepping forward quickly. “Let me help you.”

  She has no hand to spare, though, and Ma sees she is in a quandary. She hesitates a moment, then stuffs Ma’s purse into the side pocket of her hoodie. With her left hand now free, she curls it slightly awkwardly under Ma’s right arm.

  “That’s where I’m sitting,” Ma says, nodding towards Pa. “That’s my husband, Gerald.”

  Gerald is not Pa’s real name, but he’ll know that’s what she’s calling him tonight. They had decided on names earlier, as they always do before a hunt. Tonight he’s Gerald and she’s Phyllis.

  She allows the girl to lead her to the table, knowing that this is the most dangerous time. Knowing that if she and Pa are going to be noticed and remembered, then this is when it will happen. She doesn’t think that they will be noticed, though. If any of the pub’s customers are looking their way right now, their attention will be on the girl. She’s the one who catches the eye. She’s the beacon whose glare will reduce those she’s with to dim silhouettes.

  Ma knows that people are spectacularly unobservant. They think they remember everything until pressured to recount precise details, whereupon they discover that their recollections are hazy, that the finer points have become smudged and blurred.

  Pa is hunched over The Times, which he has folded into quarters. He is doing the crossword, holding the newspaper in his left hand, a stub of pencil in his right. Pa has a look of intense concentration on his face, his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. He doesn’t look up as they approach the table. He appears to be lost in thought.

  Ma knows that the girl will find the sight of Pa reassuring. The fact that he is engrossed in The Times crossword, and that he is wearing spectacles, will give her the impression that he is educated, reliable, unthreatening. The further fact that he appears not to have noticed their approach will cement this impression. The girl will be used to men staring at her, admiring her, assessing her physically. But Pa will seem to be above all that. She will think of him as a fatherly figure, someone to be trusted.

  Only when their presence is too close to ignore does he look up. And then he barely glances at the girl before his attention focuses fully on his wife. His face creases in concern and he puts down his newspaper and pencil in one swift motion. Struggling to his feet, and wincing as he does so, he reaches out, as though to catch her should she fall.

  “My dear,” he says, his voice a gentle rumble, “whatever’s the matter? You look terribly pale.”

  Ma tries to laugh it off, to wave it away, but she knows that the sound she makes is hollow, her movements feeble. “I’m fine,” she says. “I just felt a bit dizzy, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

  Despite her words, Pa’s face looks no less concerned. “Sit down, sit down,” he urges, waving towards her chair.

  Ma does sit down, plumping into the chair a little more weightily than she needs to. Pa’s eyes rove anxiously over her face, and only then does he glance at the girl.

  As if prompted, she begins to speak, the words spilling out of her. “I’m afraid it’s my fault. I accidentally bumped into your wife and spilled my drink on her and made her drop her purse. She reached down to pick it up and went a bit dizzy. I have it here. Her purse I mean ...”

  She snatches it from her pocket, as if afraid that she might otherwise be accused of trying to steal it. She places it on the table, her face flushed.

  Pa eyes the purse, and then looks up at the girl again. He takes his time before replying. When he does, his words are accompanied by a warm smile. “Thank you, Miss ...?”

  “Veronica,” the girl says. “My friends call me Roni.”

  “Thank you, Veronica,” Pa says. “You’ve been very kind.”

  Veronica demurs modestly and haltingly, but Ma cuts across her words with a groan. “I’m terribly sorry, Gerald,” she says, “but would you mind getting me a drink? I’m feeling rather faint.”

  Pa immediately looks away from the girl as if he has entirely forgotten about her. As if all that concerns him now is the welfare of his beloved wife.

  “Certainly, my dear,” he says. “What would you like?”

  “Oh, anything soft,” she replies. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Right you are,” he says, and turning awkwardly, he reaches for a walking stick propped against the wall. He hobbles from behind the table, leaning heavily on the stick. Wincing again, he lets out a low but quickly stifled grunt, which gives the impression that he is attempting to cover up the fact that his leg is causing him considerable pain.

  Spotting this, the girl puts her glass down on the table and raises her hands, as though to physically impede his progress.

  “Please,” she says, “let me get you both a drink. It’s the least I can do.”

  Pa smiles and shakes his head. “No, no, my dear, you’ve done more than enough. You go back to your friends.”

  The girl pauses. Pa knows he has given her a get-out clause, but he is not concerned; it is all part of the game. Though the pause seems prolonged, it is really no more than a second or two before the girl is shaking her head.

  “Honestly,” she says, “I’d like to buy you both a drink. Besides, my friend’s not here yet. I was supposed to meet her ten minutes ago, but she hasn’t turned up.”

  Pa looks at Ma, doubt on his face. Ma sighs, and wearily says, “Don’t look at me, Gerald. You decide. But do it quickly, please. I really do need that drink.”

  “It’s already decided,” the girl says firmly. “I’m buying.” She swivels to face the bar and throws a question back over her shoulder. “Gerald, what can I get you?”

  “Oh ... er ... half a pint of bitter, please,” he says, grunting as he lowers himself gingerly into his seat. It’s a convincing performance, and one he maintains despite the fact that the girl is already marching back towards the bar and doesn’t see it.

  Ma and Pa sit in silence until the girl returns. They do not look at each other. The game is going well, though their faces betray no trace of triumph. They are both aware that there is a long way to go yet before the girl is theirs. If her friend arrives, which is more likely than not, then the girl will slip from their grasp. But the prospect does not concern them. Many such girls have slipped from their grasp over the years. The majority that do serve only to make the victory of procuring the few that don’t all the sweeter. Indeed, it amuses Ma and Pa to think that there are hundreds of girls alive today who have no idea how thin was the ice upon which they once skated.

  No doubt most of those girls don’t even remember the nice couple with whom they once had the briefest of encounters. If the friend of this girl, Veronica, appears as arranged, full of apologies for her lateness, Ma and Pa know that they will all too soon be forgotten. It doesn’t bother them. It’s the way things are. People are inherently selfish, inherently callous. They resent dwelling on the needs and misfortunes of others. Out of sight, out of mind.

  The girl returns with the drinks, and after thanking her, Pa casually invites her to join them. The girl glances at the door, as if weighing up her chances of reaching it before they can bring her down (although both Ma and Pa know that she is actually wondering about her friend’s whereabouts), and then gratefully accepts their invitation. She clearly feels less vulnerable in their company than she would do if she were waiting alone.

  They chat, though because Ma is still feigning recovery, it is Pa and the girl who do most of the talking. Occasionally one or other of them will break off to ask Ma how she is feeling. “A bit better,” she replies weakly, or “Not too bad.” The girl texts her friend,
but after receiving no reply calls her, only to reach a voicemail message. “Where are you?” she asks, her voice thin with frustration and restrained anger. She frowns at the phone as she puts it away. Ma and Pa look sympathetic.

  Almost half an hour passes. Eventually Pa lifts his glass, tilts back his head and drains the last of his beer. Placing his glass back on the table with a decisive thump, he gives a gasp of satisfaction.

  “That’s my lot,” he says, and smiles at Ma. “Shall we make tracks, Phyllis?”

  Ma nods, then casts an anxious look at the girl. “But what about you, dear? What will you do?”

  The girl looks momentarily indecisive, then straightens, shakes back her hair and sighs. “I might as well go too,” she says. “It looks as though I’ve been stood up.”