The Killer Inside

by Will Carver

  But then I picture Audrey.

  ‘Audrey David?’ Her voice softens as though she is being sensitive to my emotions.

  ‘Time’s up, Doc.’ And I smile a smile of superficial charm.

  She glances up to her right at the clock on her wall. There are fifty minutes left.

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Her eyes close briefly as though she is thoughtful and setting me at ease. Understanding me. Building a trust between us. She understands me.

  I am just making my stay here more tolerable. This is entertainment.

  This is practice.

  January

  August 2009

  Violent Crime Office, London

  ‘You do not walk out on me when I am talking. OK?’ I wring his throat a little as I ask the question and he forces a pathetic nod. ‘You do as I say. And right now you are coming with me and Paulson to every site where a person has been killed on this case, and you are going to fucking dig. With your hands, if you have to,’ I say, somehow pushing him further into the wall. ‘If we get there and we don’t find anything, you can go off and report back to whoever is pulling your strings.’

  This is the second case in a row that I have acted physically towards Murphy and it is going to come back and bite me. It doesn’t matter how vague Paulson makes his account of the events sound, or whether Chief Inspector Markam supports me, you can only cut procedural corners if you get the job done and, even then, there’s a ceiling. Someone wants me out. And in my current mental state I’m not doing anything to strengthen my own position.

  But this is the breakthrough we have needed on this case, I think. If we find the box buried at the crossroads in Parsons Green, we’ll be a step closer. We can understand the ritual of these killings, we can extrapolate motive, we can build a stronger, more accurate profile of this killer.

  ‘I don’t know what you—’ Murphy tries.

  I tell him to shut up and eventually release the hold on his neck when Paulson’s agitation becomes too much to bear.

  I need clarity. To solve this fucking case and regain some control. Because, stupidly, I think it will all be over when I bring this murderer to justice. It will give me time. The uneasy cure for a troubled mind.

  But time is what Eames wants. Concentration on something other than the man who tried to kill my wife twice. Even thinking a dalliance with a cut-price version of Audrey will heal my broken mind.

  Everything is a distraction. And he’ll be coming for me again soon.

  There is no end.

  Eames

  August 2009

  Crowthorne, Berkshire

  Dear God

  I am not sorry. I am not your child. If you exist, then it is your own fault that I do, too. You are the biggest killer of all. I respect that. Only that. But I do not want your forgiveness. Save it for somebody who has nowhere else to turn. I’m not finished yet.

  I write a reply to the latest too-Christian Christian impersonating the figure they fear and love the most. There was no address on their letter to me, so I fold the page, place it inside an envelope and write the word heaven on the front. And they call me insane …

  The scribbler of the original letter actually lives in Oxford, but they will never receive my response. That is not the point. I am acknowledging every letter sent to me. It will make the real correspondence more difficult to notice.

  Dearest Paula

  Thank you, firstly, for your picture. I can see that you keep yourself in shape. That’s very wise, the world is a dangerous place and physical weakness is often exploited. Please do not change your hair colour. You are not a synthetic woman, I can see that. Remain natural, it is your greatest allure.

  Thank you, also, for the cards. All hearts, I see. An excellent choice. Regarding your question about how I would choose to kill you, I feel we should get to know one another a little better first. Feel free to write back. I’m not going anywhere.

  Not everything is hate mail.

  There are these women. I can smell their desperation on the page. The lipstick marks and smudged-by-perfume-spray handwriting. They think they are being naughty. Dangerous because there is no way their sordid fantasies will ever come to fruition, because my life is to end within these walls.

  Her address is written in the top right corner of the letter. Imagine her disappointment if I never respond again. Picture her natural beauty turn to washed-out trepidation when I turn up at her house one day.

  She sent me playing cards. They all do. I tell them I like to collect them. That the act of shuffling has a calming effect on me. They never send me an entire pack. This tasteless whore dropped thirteen cards in with her letter: the entire suit of hearts. Unoriginal. Unworthy. I get this a lot.

  I don’t know whether she asked how I’d kill her because she wants me to do it to her, because she wants to touch herself while thinking of me slicing her open, or if she is looking for ideas of how to murder somebody herself. I don’t know because I have seven more letters like this that I must respond to today. These women are everything I despise about humanity.

  I’m allowed to use a pencil now. They tried to give me a crayon in the beginning, patronising me with words like trust and abuse and dangerous. I explained that as long as I have teeth, I can kill someone; I can even kill myself. Putting a pen in my hand does not make a person any more at risk or any safer. The temptation is always there. I choose whether or not to act on it. That is the game, the struggle.

  My next letter contains a topless photo of a pale-skinned redhead. She is slim and beautiful and I do not believe for a second that the person in the picture is the same person that wrote this letter, that posted a king and queen of hearts with the barely legible childlike scrawl, asking me what I would like to do to her. She rants on about Girl 3 and how she wants to put her fingers between her legs then move them to her mouth. That she wants to taste me. She wants to know the sweet flavour of evil on her tongue.

  This is not the letter I have been waiting for. I would prefer another rudimentary dressing-down from The Lord. All of His letters are the same, too, but at least they are real. At least they are honest.

  When a photograph of a woman in a powder-blue bikini drops on to the reception desk of this hospital for people who want to be like me, that woman is not a bored housewife, she is not a successful businessperson searching for a clandestine thrill, she is a recruit, a follower, a pawn to grow my legacy. She is camouflage with her breasts on show. She is subterfuge with one hand in her underwear. She is deception and distraction dressed up as rehabilitation.

  She is nothing that I need but everything I need to use.

  Detective Inspector January David, you still have a little time to chase your ghosts.

  And I will wait patiently for mine.

  Eames

  September 2009

  Crowthorne, Berkshire

  People hear that a child has gone missing and they say, ‘We have to catch this guy.’

  A body is uncovered by a dog-walker on the common and you hear, ‘What kind of a man would do this?’

  It’s rarely a woman that springs to mind. That’s how we got away with it. Nobody would have suspected Audrey, least of all her husband. Even if I came clean now, Detective Inspector January David would not believe me. Even though I am dwarfed by the sterility of this hospital cell, forcing out another fifteen sit-ups, the door locked from the outside, I have won. I’m free. He is the one in a prison.

  And another woman torments the fragile mind of my police adversary. Another killer rips apart the heart of the capital with her threat of more victims. The orderly who feels he has befriended me in some way explains the brazen destruction left by Celeste Varrick. The new star. He says her picture is all over the newspapers. That she kills these people where everyone can see, five victims since Halloween. That they’ll catch her soon now that everyone knows who to look for.

  Think how idiotic my favourite detective will feel when he does find this killer. Imagine his confusion. Watch his
reputation plummet as he makes the same mistakes as before, only this time in the mirror.

  When my body folds in half for the thousandth and final time, my upper abdominal muscles burning and cramping beneath the thin layer of fat on my stomach, I am thankful.

  When I stand on my hands, resting my feet high above me against the walls until my shoulders burn in the same way as my gut, I imagine a time as a young child when I would hang upside down and try to pick up pins with my eyelashes. And I am thankful.

  When I immerse myself in the tepid water of the bathtub and hold my breath for as long as possible, or practise writing and drawing with my other hand, when I fill my time inside with these activities, these acts of deliberate practice, I am thankful. Thankful to Celeste Varrick and those like her who pursue and live out their desires, who are not afraid to stalk that which they hunger for. Because the muggings and the stabbings and the domestic disputes only serve to blur at the edges of memory.

  You have made him forget.

  You have made them all forget.

  And I thank you for that.

  Now, I wait.

  Each morning, as another pillowcase of letters and drawings and poems arrives for me, I read, I peruse, I decipher. Some of the words have fallen to the page from the mouths of wicked tongues, while others ooze on to the paper from a yearning heart. God still pleads for my remorse, offering forgiveness in its place. But I am waiting for something more specific, something familiar.

  I wait for Audrey.

  I know that she has not forgotten me; she’s the only one. She is not allowed. She wouldn’t just leave me here to rot. She knows better than that. She is the one that survived. She may not be so lucky next time.

  I do not see her mark on any of the anonymous scribblings today. I do not detect her scent hidden discreetly beneath the flap of an envelope. I can wait. I still have time. I need time. To hone my thoughts and movements, to strengthen my body and my mind. To get ready.

  I haven’t finished. Not yet.

  I can’t switch this off.

  January

  September 2009

  Hampstead, London

  It’s over. We’ve found Celeste Varrick. Another case closed. Another killer off the streets of London.

  But none of this matters because I am back at my house, standing in the doorway of the lounge. The light is off, there are crime scene photos and musings pinned to the wall.

  And my sister is standing in the corner.

  Cathy is here.

  She is still ten years old.

  I’ve been awake for what feels like days and I’ve only recently been through the final emotional triumphs and failings of completing another high-profile case. I know this isn’t happening. I know she is not real. But I can’t stop looking at her.

  She is facing the wall with her hands over her eyes, but I know it is her. I recognise those curls that she inherited from Mother, that pale blue dress with the white polka dots she loved so much. Her head is bobbing up and down as though she is counting.

  I’ve forgotten my purpose. I am supposed to be finding my sister. Everything I do should lead me closer to her. She is more lost than I am.

  And I know what this will look like later in the debrief. It will look like a breakdown. Like I do not have the capacity to perform my work duties to the appropriate standard. Couple that with the altercation with Murphy that saw me holding him up against a wall by his throat, and the result is inevitable.

  I won’t tell Chief Inspector Markam exactly what I saw, that’s not his business. And I will explain to him that it must show that I am not completely insane to bring it up rationally with him and I know how crazy it sounds but I am dealing with it; I know the things that I did wrong on this last case. None of this will matter.

  They can call it a break, some recovery time, whatever. They can dress it up with their official term of sabbatical and suggest that this was a mutual arrangement, but it is enforced.

  I’m out. For now.

  Whoever it is that wants me out of the way has succeeded, if only for a while.

  Damage has been done.

  Doubt has been cast.

  Now I have time, to regroup, reflect. Unofficially confined to my home. I’m like Eames. A prisoner. Nothing but time. But I am different to him. I have hope and a purpose, a chance. I must find my sister.

  Stupidly, I don’t think about Eames. I haven’t for some time. And that means he has me exactly where he wants me.

  NOW …

  Eames

  November 2009

  Crowthorne, Berkshire

  When Detective Inspector January David spills red wine on the kitchen counter as he pours another large glass for himself, it is a reminder of his wife’s blood dripping into the Perspex coffin I hung her above on that theatre stage.

  When I turned Audrey David into Girl 4.

  He is going to see it all again soon.

  They sent the tall orderly in again to deliver my post and bring me some water. They are trying to create a routine, making sure things happen at the same time each day, and that the people in my life are limited. Perhaps I may offer a glimpse of my humanity to this overgrown guard.

  A male and female doctor watch through the small window as he enters, alert yet casual. They are poised with a pen and clipboard. I force out a smile to the man holding my liquid and letters. The doctors notice and make a note. I smile to myself in my mind. It’s all too easy.

  I expect a minimum of one letter from God. You’d think He had more important things to do. There will be female nudity within this pile of paper, though I have my share of male admirers. I sense the hopelessness and horniness, the hatred and the holiness seeping out of every licked envelope flap.

  I feign more delight at my delivery but there is a tedium to this constant anodyne correspondence that I wish to be free from.

  And then I see it. The long brown envelope with my name written in silver marker pen. It’s here. But I do not draw attention to it. I open a different letter first while the doctors continue their scrutiny in this aquarium of insanity. A polaroid of an American woman, blonde, athletic, wearing just a cowboy hat and denim shorts, falls out of the folded wrapper.

  The guard backs out of the room, never turning himself away from me, and I nod at him in fake thanks. He is nothing to me. He is the damp skirting board. He is a bloated gall bladder. He is half-naked cowgirl.

  And now he is gone. So are the health professionals.

  I open the letter with the silver writing. There is no picture inside, no page of condescending prose, no lock of human hair or promise of forgiveness. But there is enough to tell me this is what I have been waiting for. And it is beautiful.

  Kerry Ross.

  She is my Girl 8.

  January

  November 2009

  Hampstead, London

  The room is dark. Darker than anywhere else. Nothingness for miles. For eternity, it seems. But that doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t need light to move around this place. He knows it. He’s comfortable here.

  He belongs.

  There’s dust. A thick layer below the foreboding lack of air that suffocates the people he brings here. But not him. He’s unaffected. This is where he waits, with his single chair and his blindfold and his off-key music.

  He waits.

  For me.

  I’ve been here before.

  In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of Malbec but pull the bottle away too quickly, dripping a broken claret path between the stem and the label. I lick away the spillage from my forefinger after rubbing it around the glass and up the bottle neck.

  And, still, he waits.

  His large menacing frame floating around the gloaming of his torture room. He dances from left foot to right, shifting the particles beneath him, silently kicking around the deathly powder that coats everything in this place. A room I thought I would never enter again. A box I thought had been locked, in my mind, at least.

  I switch o
ff the kitchen light, plunging me into a near darkness only illuminated by the table lamp in the lounge next to the leather snuggler chair I share with nobody and the tall oak block I add a new wine ring to every night. It’s peaceful in the lounge and safe. Unlike the bedroom upstairs, which smells like Audrey. Still.

  He waits.

  Upstairs where the scent of patchouli and sandalwood reminds me of betrayal. Where one side of the bed is always cold.

  That is where he waits for me. Preparing himself for my entrance. Setting everything up for my capture.

  I take a large gulp of red wine, tilting my head back against the leather sofa cushion, staring at the ceiling, I think about returning to work. I think about that file in the top drawer of my desk that holds all the information on the case of my missing sister. There is a comfortable alcoholic buzz from the wine and I feel more in control, I can focus.

  Meanwhile, a man I have not seen in years, a seven-foot-tall spectre, is straightening that single chair and taking six steps back from it. He stands perfectly still. His head tilted forward so that his chin almost touches his chest. His yellow, protruding eyes gazing down at the dust between his feet.

  The fifth step creaks as I make my way up the stairs. Blue TV screen light pushes out of a neighbour’s window and eases my darkened journey to the bedroom where everything is about to change. Again.

  And he waits. Motionless.

  I forego the ritual of brushing my teeth before bed because the Malbec has laminated the inside of mouth with its blackcurrant and raisin flavour and I don’t want to pollute the taste with mint.

  I strip down completely and wrap the cool covers tightly over my shoulders before closing my eyes.

  He lifts his head now to reveal a grin that seems to take up half of his face. The enamel of his teeth is as tarnished as the whites of his eyes.

  In a few minutes, I will be asleep. That is when The Smiling Man will strike.