by Michael Kerr
His demons were pacified, for now. The gnawing, unrelenting and undeniable need to kill had been placated. For an indeterminate period he would relish this night and not have the urge to take another. But he knew that with time, he would once more experience the growing rage and craving that was always simmering, ready to boil over.
He stopped, went into a phone box and rang the police. Ignored the request for his name. Held the phone well away from his face and let the slight echo from air that stank of stale sweat, tobacco and piss aid his clipped words to relay his latest deed. He hung up and began to giggle. What would they make of a voice that sounded like that of a robot? He had practised talking with no accent and leaving a half second pause between each word.
Back home, he garaged the van, retrieved the carrier bag from the rear and entered the house by the back door. He was up; hyper. Could still hear the plaintive, pleading voice of the whore as she begged him to spare her. They were all so full of crap, luring and using punters to line their purses with dirty money. They thought that they had a power over all men, but he was like no man they had ever met. He was totally repelled by their wanton proclivity to spread their legs for profit.
With a large milky coffee on the table in front of him, he placed the three slightly crumpled folios he had removed from the address book onto the Formica tabletop and smoothed them out with his hand. Studying the entries, he recognised six other names, including that of Villiers. Knowledge was power. He was in a position to cause these sad celebrities, sportsmen, politicians, and even a high-ranking cop to rue keeping their brains in their trousers. He would not attempt to blackmail them, but might contact them and discuss their less than decent behaviour. Let them know that they had been found out, and that their affluent homes, fat-cat lifestyles and position in society were now in danger of being undermined. Scandal involving such notables as these was manna from heaven to the tabloids.
He put the sheets of paper together and folded them in half. As a rule, he did not keep mementoes of his crimes. Overconfidence was the undoing of most repeat offenders. They could not envisage being found out, and so kept something from their victims as a trophy. He needed nothing but his memories. He closed his eyes and went back in his mind to eight p.m. the previous evening, to the point in time when he had taken her from outside the front door of the swish apartment block in Pimlico...
A lot of the pleasure was in the anticipation. Eagerly looking forward to any event was in some ways more rewarding than the actual culmination of the act. He was a watcher, a stalker; the whole package. Preparation was all-important.
Marsha Freeman, a.k.a. Trudi Jameson was an ex-catwalk model who, though still only twenty-eight, had past her shelf life in that profession. The trend-setters wanted anorexic-looking waifs, the younger the better. That was not to say that Marsha was not a looker. She had pulling power. Her background in modelling had given her poise and grace, and her name had been associated with those on the so-called ‘A’ list, and she was au fait with the life that they led and the recreational scene they enjoyed. She was no stranger to places like Cannes, or to polo matches that attracted at least a brace of princes.
Marsha’s second career had been as a ‘meeter and greeter’ at Stringfellows, pumping flesh, flashing her Colgate-white teeth and firm, bronzed thighs, and making sure a good time was had by all. It was not long after that when she realised her charms could be far more profitable. She planned to make enough money to open her own model recruitment agency and secure her future for when the unforgiving ravages of time made her less able to attract the well-heeled punters that were currently lining up to bed her.
The blow to her temple caused her to sag at the knees. She was not aware of what had happened and could not think straight.
He bundled her into the back of the van and pulled the doors shut with the speed of a trapdoor spider snatching its prey and retreating into its lair. It took him only seconds to secure her wrists and ankles and affix a broad strip of silver duct tape tightly around her head, overlaying her mouth. He covered her with a sheet of tarpaulin and drove away into the night. In his rear-view mirror he saw a white limo pull up to the kerb outside the apartment block. But he had not been seen. To all intents and purpose Marsha, in her persona as Trudi, had dropped off the planet and would not survive the fall into personal oblivion.
The subsequent quality time spent in the lockup had been an unmitigated success. He had berated her for the path she had chosen to follow; taught her the error of her ways, punctuating his words by applying the glowing tip of a cigarette to her flawless skin. Even removed the tape from her ankles to spread her legs and burn her most intimate parts. The smell of fear in the air was as tangible as that of the smoking flesh. It was much later that he wrapped the tights around her neck and removed the tape from her mouth, to allow her to beg for life and repent for all she had done to incur his wrath. And then he had slowly...ever so slowly garrotted her, all the while watching the expression on her face and in her coin-round eyes. He was astride her, and stiffened as she bucked and twisted beneath him. He undid the bottom two buttons of the boiler suit to release his throbbing member and roll a condom down its length, before proceeding, though prolonging the act by pausing and even relaxing his latex-gloved hands several times to let her suck in a ragged breath. Eventually, as he came, he simultaneously wrenched the ends of the tights with all his strength. The finale was soon over, and yet he sat there for awhile, emotionally drained and at one with the stillness that followed such frenetic exertion. He wanted to pull back the mask, lean forward and kiss her damp brow. She was now without sin. He refrained. The merest, infinitesimal trace of saliva would result in his DNA being recovered. There could be no intimacy without a barrier.
He sighed and let the events fade. Time to catch a few hours’ sleep. The coffee was now almost cold, but he drank it anyway.
Lying in bed, he dozed and was once more atop Marsha at the climactic moment. As he gazed down into her eyes, she began to smile, and her features metamorphosed into those of his late mother.
“You can’t murder me again, you pathetic little boy,” his mother said. “I’m already dead.”
As the vagary reared up and reached out to him with clawing fingers, he covered his face and screamed out. There would be no sleep. Night terrors waited in the wings of his mind, ready to take centre stage and rekindle past horror he did not want to confront.
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