Redemption of the Dead

by Luke Delaney

  Now the time for watching was over. It was time for my prize, my release, my relief. All was in place. All was as it needed to be. At last I saw him leaving the club. He was shouting goodbyes, but seemed to be alone. He walked casually under the railway bridge, heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. I moved quickly and silently to the other side of the railway bridge and waited for him. As he neared, I stepped out. He saw me, but didn’t look scared. He returned my smile as I spoke to him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, still smiling, stepping closer to the street light to better see me. ‘Is there something I can do for … you,’ he said, recognition spreading across his face. ‘We really must stop meeting like this.’ Yes, I’d been with him before. A risk, but a calculated one. A little more than a week ago, inside the nightclub, I’d introduced myself without speaking, making sure he saw my smiling face just long enough so he’d recognize it again. Later I met him outside. I paid him what he asked, all in advance, and we went back to his flat where I defiled myself inside him and even allowed him to defile the inside of me. The sex wasn’t important, or even pleasurable – that wasn’t the point of being with him. I wanted to feel him while he was alive, to understand he wasn’t merely an inanimate thing, but a real live person. I couldn’t be with him like that the night I dispatched him in case I left the faintest trace of semen or saliva on his body. Being with him a week or so before would give any such evidence time to degrade and die. And of course we practised safe sex: he to protect himself from the Gay Plague and I to protect myself from detection. I’d shaved away my pubic hair and wore a full-faced rubber mask that also covered my head, stopping any head hairs from being left at the scene, as well as rubber gloves to eliminate the risk of leaving fingerprints – all of which the little queer thought was simply part of the fun. But the fun, the real fun, was yet to come and I had more than a week to fantasise about events that lay ahead.

  The days had passed painfully slowly, testing my patience and control to the limit, but the memories of the night I had been with him and the thought of things to come carried me through and before I knew it he was standing in front of me, his small, straight white teeth glistening in the street lights, his oval-shaped head too large for his scrawny neck, perched on slim, narrow shoulders. His hair was blond and straight, shoulder-length, styled to make him look like a surfer, but his skin was pale and his body weak. The most athletic thing he had ever done was drop to his knees. His T-shirt was too tight and short, revealing his flat stomach, disappearing into hipster designer jeans worn to provoke the sexual urges of his peers.

  I told him I needed to be with him again. I lied that I had been inside the club and had seen him dancing, that I had been too nervous to approach him then, but now I really wanted him. We talked some more crap then he said, ‘You know I’m not cheap. If you want to be with me again it’ll cost.’

  He suggested we go to my place so I told him my boyfriend would be there, but he started rambling on about not taking people back to his flat and how last time had been an exception, until I pulled another two fifties from my wallet and thrust them into his hand. He smiled.

  We went to my car, fixed with false plates, and drove to his shit-hole in south-east London where I was sure not to park too close to his block. Telling him I didn’t want to take the risk of being seen walking to his flat with him, I suggested that he go ahead and leave the door unlocked.

  I waited a couple of minutes, then, as the street was empty, no one staring from windows, I walked to the flat. The block was old, cold and smelled of piss, but he had been a good boy and left the door unlocked. I quietly entered and flicked the lock on. He appeared around the corner at the end of the corridor, from what I knew was the living room. He spoke.

  ‘Was that you locking the door?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’

  ‘Afraid someone’s going to burst in on us and spoil the party?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The excitement was unbearable. My stomach was so cramped with anticipation I could hardly breathe. Inside, my mind was screaming, but I was still wearing my nervous smile as I walked into the living room.

  The whore was crouched by his CD player. I told him I wanted to clean up a little and headed for the bathroom down the hallway.

  I took my bag with me and quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, pulled on the suit, the shower cap, rubber gloves and finally the plastic bags over my shoes. I looked in the mirror, filling my lungs with air drawn in hard through my nose. I was ready.

  Fully prepared, I returned to the living room. He turned and saw me dressed and resplendent. He’d already removed his T-shirt, and he started to giggle, covering his mouth as if to stop himself.

  He spoke to me. ‘Is this how we’re going to get our kicks tonight then?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I replied. ‘Sort of.’

  They were the last words he spoke, although he may have said ‘please’ a little later. By then the blood bubbling up into his mouth made it just a gargle.

  With a smooth, swift, practised hand I grabbed an iron statue of a naked Indian he kept on his side table and I used it to smash his skull, not hitting him hard enough to kill him straight away, merely to render him semi-conscious and virtually paralysed. He had been on his knees when I hit him, which was good – less distance to fall meant less noise when he hit the floor.

  I watched him for a while, standing over him like the victor in a prizefight, watching his chest rise and fall with each painful, strained breath, the blood initially spurting from the wound in his head, then slowing to a steady flow as his heart grew too weak to pump it at the pressure his body required to stay alive. Every few seconds his right leg would twitch like a dying bird.

  It wouldn’t have been as I had dreamed if he hadn’t been at least partly conscious when I went to him with an ice pick I found in his drinks cabinet. I needed him to be alive as I cut him. I needed to see him try to stop me each time I pushed the ice pick into his dying body: not stabbing frenziedly, but placing it deliberately against his pale skin before pushing the point through with a deliciously satisfying popping sound. Now and then he would reach up and pitifully try to defend himself from the torture. I told him not to be a naughty boy and continued with my work. It was a shame his brain haemorrhaging had caused his eyes to turn red, as I had wanted to contrast his blue eyes against the pale bloodied skin. Next time I’d do better.

  His perforated body almost began to disgust me, to make me want to flee from the scene, but I couldn’t stop yet. Not until all was as close as it could be to how I had seen it in my mind the first time I knew I would be visiting him. I would continue with my work, despite the foul stench emanating from the holes in his stomach and intestines, the urine and excreta that were now leaking from his transformed body.

  He held on for forty minutes, his eyes flickering slightly open for a few minutes at a time. When they were open I did my work, stopping whenever he passed out, unable to bear the pain or grasp his situation. I had to punch him in the face every so often to stop him calling out. Not that he could have realistically raised more than a whimper. Still, I had to be sure.

  When he finally died, a slow, quiet hiss of air escaping from his lips and the breaches in his chest wall told me that my fun had come to an end. I put on a clean pair of surgical gloves and took the three hundred pounds cash I had given him earlier from his trouser pocket. I really didn’t want to leave that behind. I carefully and quietly broke apart some furniture and generally arranged the room as if a violent struggle had occurred. Next I used the syringe I’d brought to draw blood from his mouth and sprayed it about the room: on the walls, over the furniture, the carpet, making spray patterns to suggest a violent struggle had taken place. Then I moved to the corner of the room I had left clean. I removed my clothes and put them inside a plastic bag and put that bag inside another plastic bag and repeated this twice more. I ensured each plastic bag was tied securely and
finally put them in my rucksack. I put new plastic bags on my feet, not wanting to take the chance that I might step on a spot of blood – that sort of evidence can be difficult to explain. I put on another clean pair of rubber surgical gloves and left the living room. I would burn the lot in my garden the following evening, the safest way to dispose of such incriminating items. To burn them in a public place risked attracting attention, while burial would leave them at the mercy of inquisitive animals.

  I moved quietly to the front door. I took the plastic bags off my shoes and looked through the spyhole. Nobody about. Just to be sure, I listened at the door, careful not to let my ear press against it and possibly leave a mark like a fingerprint, which I hear can happen.

  When I was totally happy I slipped out of the flat, leaving the front door open so as not to make any more noise than necessary. The statue of the Indian and the ice pick I threw in the Thames as I headed north to my hotel. The thought of the police wasting hours searching for weapons that wouldn’t help their investigation in the slightest pleased me.

  When I reached my hotel I slipped in through the side door next to the bar, only generally used as a fire exit. I knew it could open from the outside and had no CCTV camera trained on it. I already had the key card for my room, having checked in earlier that day. I took a long shower, keeping the water as hot as I could bear, scrubbing skin, nails and hair vigorously with a nail brush until my entire body felt like it had been burned by flames. I had removed the plug cover to allow any items washed from my body to flow easily into London’s sewage system. After the shower I took a long steaming bath and scrubbed myself again. Once dry, I lay naked on the bed and drank two bottles of water, at peace now. Satisfied. Soon sleep came and I dreamed the same beautiful dream over and over.

  2

  Thursday morning

  It was 3 a.m. and Detective Inspector Sean Corrigan drove through the dreary streets of New Cross, south-east London. He had been born and raised in nearby Dulwich, and for as long as he could remember, these streets had been a dangerous place. People could quickly become victims here, regardless of age, sex or colour. Life had little value.

  But these worries were for other people, not Sean. They were for the people who had nine-to-five jobs in shops and offices. Those who arrived bleary-eyed to work each morning, then scuttled home nervously every evening, only feeling safe once they’d bolted themselves behind closed doors.

  Sean didn’t fear the streets, having dealt with the worst they could throw at him. He was a detective inspector in charge of one of South London’s Murder Investigation Teams, dedicated to dealing with violent death. The killers hunted their victims and Sean hunted them. He drove with the window down and doors unlocked.

  Less than an hour earlier he’d been asleep at home when Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly called. There’d been a murder. A bad one. A young man beaten and stabbed to death in his own flat. One minute Sean was lying by his wife’s side, the next he was driving to the place where a young man’s life had been torn away.

  He found the address without difficulty. The streets around the murder scene were eerily quiet. He was pleased to see the uniformed officers had done their job properly and taped off a large cordon around the block the flat was in. He’d been to scenes before where the cordon started and stopped at the front door. How much evidence had been carried away from scenes on the soles of shoes? He didn’t want to think about it.

  There were two marked patrol cars alongside Donnelly’s unmarked Ford. He always laughed at the murder scenes on television, with dozens of police cars parked outside, all with blue lights swirling away. Inside, dozens of detectives and forensic guys would be falling over each other. Reality was different. Entirely different.

  Real crime scenes were all the more disturbing for their quietness – the violent death of the victim would leave the atmosphere shattered and brutalised. Sean could feel the horror closing in around him as he examined a scene. It was his job to discover the details of death and over time he had grown hardened to it, but not immune. He knew that this scene would be no different.

  He parked outside the taped-off cordon and climbed from the isolation of his car into the warm loneliness of the night, the stars of the clear sky and the street lights removing all illusion of darkness. If he had been anyone else, doing any other job, he might have noticed how beautiful it was, but such thoughts had no place here. He flashed his warrant card to the approaching uniformed officer and grunted his name. ‘DI Sean Corrigan, Serious Crime Group South. Where’s this flat?’

  The uniformed officer was young. He seemed afraid of Sean. He must be new if a mere detective inspector scared him. ‘Number sixteen Tabard House, sir. It’s on the second floor, up the stairs and turn right. Or you could take the lift.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sean opened the boot of his car and cast a quick glance over the contents squeezed inside. Two large square plastic bins contained all he would need for an initial scene examination. Paper suits and slippers. Various sizes of plastic exhibit bags, paper bags for clothing, half a dozen boxes of plastic gloves, rolls of sticky labels and of course a sledgehammer, a crowbar and other tools. The boot of Sean’s car would be mirrored by detectives’ cars across the world.

  He pulled on a forensic containment suit and headed towards the stairwell. The block was of a type common to this area of London. Low-rise tenement blocks made from dark, oppressive, brown-grey brick which had been thrown up after the Second World War to house those bombed out of old slum areas. In their time they’d been a revelation – indoor toilets, running water, heating – but now only those trapped in poverty lived in them. They looked like prisons, and in a way that’s what they were.

  The stairwell smelled of urine. The stench of humanity living on top of each other was unmistakable. This was summer and the vents of the flats pumped out the smells from within. Sean almost gagged on it, the sight, sound and smell of the tenement block reminding him all too vividly of his own childhood, living in a three-bedroom, council owned maisonette with his mother, two brothers, two sisters and his father – his father who would lead him away from the others, taking him to the upstairs bedroom where things would happen. His mother too frightened to intervene – thoughts of reaching for a knife in the kitchen drawer swirling in her head, but fading away as her courage deserted her. But the curse of his childhood had left him a rare and dark insightfulness – an ability to understand the motivation of those he hunted.

  All too often the abused become the abusers as the darkness overtakes them, evil begetting evil – a terrible cycle of violence, virtually impossible to break – and so the demons of Sean’s past were too deeply assimilated in his being to ever be rid of. But Sean was different in that he could control his demons and his rage, using his shattered upbringing to allow him insights that other cops could only dream of into the crimes he investigated. He understood the killers, rapists and arsonists – understood why they had to do what they did, could interpret their motivation – see what they had seen, smell what they had smelt, feel what they had felt – their excitement, power, lust, revulsion, guilt, regret, fear. He could make leaps in investigations others struggled to understand, filling in the blanks with his unique imagination. Crime scenes came alive in his mind’s eye, playing in his head like a movie. He was no psychic or clairvoyant, he was just a cop – but a cop with a broken past and dangerous future, his skill at reading the ones he hunted born of his own dark, haunted past. Where better for a failed disciple of true evil to hide than amongst cops? Where better to turn his unique tools to good use than the police? He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and headed for the crime scene – the murder scene.

  Sean stopped briefly to acknowledge another uniformed officer posted at the front door of the flat. The constable lifted the tape across the door and watched him duck inside. He looked down the corridor of the flat. It was bigger than it had seemed from the outside. Detective Sergeant Donnelly waited for him, his large frame
filling the doorway, his moustache all but concealing the movement of his lips as he talked. Dave Donnelly, twenty-year plus veteran of the Metropolitan Police and very much Sean’s old school right-hand man. His anchor to the logical and practical course of an investigation and part-time crutch to lean on. They’d had their run-ins and disagreements, but they understood each other – they trusted each other.

  ‘Morning, guv’nor. Stick to the right of the hallway here. That’s the route I’ve been taking in and out,’ Donnelly growled in his strange accent, a mix of Glaswegian and Cockney, his moustache twitching as he spoke.

  ‘What we got?’ Sean asked matter-of-factly.

  ‘No sign of forced entry. Security is good in the flat, so he probably let the killer in. All the damage to the victim seems to have been done in the living room. A real fucking mess in there. No signs of disturbance anywhere else. The living room is the last door on the right down the corridor. Other than that we’ve got a kitchen, two bedrooms, a separate bathroom and toilet. From what I’ve seen, the victim kept things reasonably clean and tidy. Decent taste in furniture. There’s a few photies of the victim around the place – as best I can tell, anyway. His injuries make it a wee bit difficult to be absolutely sure. There’s plenty of them with him, shall we say, embracing other men.’