I AM HERE TO KILL YOU
Page 1
I
AM HERE
TO KILL
YOU
Chris Westlake
Copyright © 2020 by Chris Westlake
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First published in Great Britain in 2020
Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.
A copy of this book is available through the British Library.
Cover design by Elizabeth Ponting, LP Designs & Art
Editorial services provided by Jeff Jones, www.jeffajones.blogspot.co.uk
www.chriswestlakeauthor.co.uk
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Saturday 17th August 2019
Grant
Saturday 25th August 2018
Katherine
Bernard
Ray
Sunday 26th August 2018
Sheena
Bernard
Wednesday 5th September 2018
Sheena
Bernard
Saturday 22nd September 2018
Katherine
Bernard
Rose
Katherine
Thursday 27th September 2018
Bernard
Sheena
Tuesday 9th October 2018
Katherine
Monday 22nd October 2018
Rose
Sheena
Saturday 27th October 2018
Katherine
Sheena
Katherine
Tuesday 30th October 2018
Ray
Wednesday 7th November 2018
Katherine
Friday 9th November 2018
Ray
Sheena
Monday 12th November 2018
Katherine
Thursday 6th June 2019
Katherine
Sheena
Saturday 14th June 2019
Katherine
Saturday 21st June 2019
Bernard
Katherine
Sunday 22nd June 2019
Sheena
Wednesday 3rd July 2019
Bernard
Thursday 4th July 2019
Rose
Tuesday 16th July 2019
Sheena
Katherine
Tuesday 23rd July 2019
Sheena
Katherine
Thursday 25th July 2019
Apinya
Sheena
Monday 29th July 2019
DI Hunter
Sheena
Katherine
Tuesday 30th July 2019
Sheena
Bernard
Wednesday 31 July 2019
Sheena
Tuesday 6th August 2019
Katherine
Sheena
Saturday 10th August 2019
Katherine
Monday 12th August 2019
Ray
Wednesday 14th August 2019
Rose
Saturday 17th August 2019
Bernard
Apinya
Katherine
Sheena
Katherine
Sheena
Rose
Bernard
Daniel
Saturday 17th August 2019
Grant
In the pit of my churning stomach I always knew that, after tonight, nothing would ever be the same between us.
Sucking in the final dregs of warm white wine, I eye Rachel's empty plastic cup, smeared with red lipstick. Oh, the shame of playing catch up to my wife! Whatever would my mates think?
Did we really only put the kids to bed a few hours ago? It felt like a different day, a different world. Although it was only seven on the dot (we'd told Mia and Sophie it was eight), the August sunlight gleaming through the blinds gave the bedrooms a mid-afternoon feel. First came the bedtime story, then a hug, swiftly followed by a kiss and (recently added) a high-five. Mia desperately delayed the inevitable, firing out dialogue on any topic that sprung to mind. Tonight it was the Dumbo film we'd watched in the front-row of the cinema back in spring. He hated those big ears, Daddy, but they were his greatest gift. Seven-year-old Sophie raised disbelieving eyebrows. Just what was her little sister like?
Fresh from the shower, my short-sleeved shirt sticking to my body, I'd tip-toed down the wooden stairs, heart in my mouth, for even the slightest suggestion of noise gave my princesses a reason - an excuse - to call me back, to shout my name. Daddy. Rachel waited for me at the bottom, in the landing. Her nod was a signal, a secret code. Mission accomplished. We'd already briefed the babysitter. We could go.
Outside, holding Rachel's clammy hand, we walked in silence. Finally, we were alone. Big sigh. But it still felt like there were three of us. That nagging voice perched on my shoulder, asking questions. It's all fine and dandy you going out and having a great time, but how are your two darling cherubs going to sleep in this heat? Had a point. The air remained uncomfortably hot. When I'd held my darlings close - kissed them goodnight - their bodies prickled from a day in the sun, a day at the fete.
That was then, of course. This is now.
With the wine swishing around my belly, the alcohol seeping through my pores, I'm a tiger released from the cage, free to roam, eager to make up for lost time. I – we – deserve this. Mummy and Daddy have been replaced by the much more exciting Grant and Rachel. Date night. Okay, so maybe our night had been gate-crashed by a good chunk of the 2,000 residents of the town, huddled together like sheep inside this barn, but - right now - who gives a shit?
God only knows I love you.
Whenever the song comes on, I imagine The Beach Boys riding a wave on a Los Angeles beach; for her it's different. She's always been soppy. Romantic. Call it what you like. Pulling at my hand, her cheeks glow with mischief. My forehead creases in resignation. I can't deny her a dance any longer. This is her song, the opening song at our wedding, in this barn, seven years ago. Her wide, watery eyes tell me she is nostalgic. Standing up, my feet are laden with lead. My black shoes sweep up strands of straw lying on the bumpy concrete floor. This barn must be fifty feet long and twenty feet high, yet it feels like it is shrinking in every direction to the point I duck my chin into my chest to avoid bumping my head. Plenty of these merry, frolicking dancers were at our wedding; they surrounded us in a perfect rectangle as the newly wedded couple took centre stage. I'm being paranoid. I'm exaggerating my self-importance. Glancing around at the shiny, perspiring faces, apart from a few peeking middle-aged ladies, nobody is focussed on us.
My hands graze the smooth of my wife's back. Slanting my forehead, I savour her favourite Acqua di Parma perfume, saved for rare special occasions (so much rarer these days). The tip of her nose massages my cheek.
“God only knows I love you, Mr Grant Edwards,” she whispers.
Squeezing Rachel's hand, I rest my chin on her newly bronzed, freckled shoulder.
“God only know I love you, Mrs Rachel Edwards,” I say.
Our feet stop moving. We'd uttered the same, glorious words in (roughly) the same spot at our wedding. Our hips sway from side to side, a ship riding choppy waters. I hold her tight, enjoying the warmth and glorious radiance of her body.
And then, I look over her shoulder.
At her.
Standing in the shadow of the entrance to the barn with her hands on her hips, a thigh gloriously exposed by the cut in her red
dress, she scans the room. Whilst my chin rests on Rachel's shoulder and my hands cup her waist, my eyes remain glued to another woman.
She is wearing that dress.
The woman's succulent red lips curl at the corners. Her eyes stop scanning. Instead they fixate on me, fixate on the romantic vision of me embracing my wife. She makes a subtle, barely noticeable movement of her head.
Rachel's eyes widen as I pull away from our embrace. I know that look. I know everything about her. It is a look of concern. “Sorry, darling," I say, conscious of my burning, flushed cheeks. "Nature calls. Won't be long. Promise...”
Momentarily, the brightness in her eyes, fades; she reaches out her hand and says something I wish she didn't, something I wish I could erase.
"Remember what I said, sweetheart. God only knows I love you, Grant Edwards."
My eyes focus on the array of polished shoes and heels as I move closer towards the glimmer of light outside. My nostrils fill with the tangled scent of cologne, perspiration and Carling. A few curious eyes follow me - I think - but it is like I am in a tunnel and they peer in from outside. I have sucked in air, but I have not yet blown it out again. This is my most vivid, my most disjointed, dream.
I exit the barn.
The light has begun to fade, and the cool breeze is a splash of cold water against my flushed cheeks. Nothing, I muse, burns hotter than guilt. The deafening noise of innocent pleasure begins to quieten behind me. Finally, there truly is only two of us; only, my wife is not one of them. Out of sight, out of mind, that's what they say. My hand is pulled seductively by another woman now. I need to forget my wife - for now - and focus on the moment. God only knows I don't love this woman. I barely know her. She is older than me, maybe by fifteen years, but that merely adds to the appeal. Was it weeks or months ago she came into my life? Why did I even enter that shop with my wife and kids? And what enticed her about me? Did she recognise that I was craving excitement, a release from my everyday burdens and routines? And to think, even though she invades my mind, is a taunting, seductive obsession, she has only ever uttered seven words to me.
I'll see you at the barn dance.
Skipping along like a couple of giddy school kids, I glance at the seductive crease of her cleavage, at the pale, soft flesh; my eyes move downwards, focus on the inch or two of purple, silk bra. The voice is there again. Look away, you bastard. I do so, but straight into the eyes of a farm cat, stretched out in a yoga pose on all fours in the fading grass. The narrowed piercing green eyes seem to know everything.
Our steps quicken in silence, away from the parked cars and onto grass, spotted with dried cowpat; the flies hover like helicopters. Pausing at a chest-high metal gate, the woman turns to me. Her voice is lighter, less husky, than I remembered. I didn't expect these words.
“You really are a bad boy, aren't you, Grant?” she says, shaking her head, dimples forming in her cheeks. Her twisting, twirling tongue is coated with saliva. How would that metal stud feel in my mouth, on my lap? Seemingly reading my mind, she lowers her hand, widens her smile. "Getting excited, are we?"
The path, sheltered on both sides by hedges, narrows. Stopping, she turns to me and wraps her arms around my neck; her tongue pokes inside my mouth, slithers like a snake. She pulls away, puts a single, upturned finger to my mouth, tells me to be quiet. Oh God. That's what I do when I give the kids a sweet. Don't tell Mummy. We are all conspiring, then and now. Mummy must not know the truth.
“Please don't tell my wife,” I say.
She laughs. She laughs at me. "Don't worry," she says. "I have a husband too, you know. I don't plan on telling anyone what I'm about to do to you..."
My face must soften, the lines must fade, for she kisses the centre of my forehead. This, I muse, is a sensual gesture between lovers. Who seduced who? The lines are blurred. "Come with me," she says, her eyes sparkling. She does not need to ask twice. I scurry behind her, chasing her coat tails.
She pulls open the wooden door and then pushes me inside. It is pitch black. Faint yellow lines seep through the cracks in the roof. The door shuts behind me. She is here with me, somewhere; I can hear her subtle, rhythmic breathing. I just have no idea where. A match strikes and a face lights up - pale, exquisite and alluring in the darkness of the barn.
What the fuck is going on?
She lights a candle, and then another. I look around, and then up. There is a larger gap in the roof, maybe thick enough to push an arm through. The barn is tiny, possibly a perfect square, no more than fifteen feet by fifteen feet, and I could touch the ceiling with outstretched arms. Bales of hay stack high around the edges.
“Oh we really have chosen a bad boy, haven't we? This one's eyes are always wandering...”
I jerk my head, startled. Oh my God. There are two of them. I turn around, looking for answers. I'm reassured by the row of white teeth, by the sparkle in the eyes. Her fingers massage my chest between the gaps in my shirt buttons. "Thought you'd be man enough for two of us..."
I did like it, of course. This was a wonderful fantasy. Part of me wanted to gloat to my friends. If only I could. And this one was a bit different, wasn't she? The final words, though, felt like a challenge, like a threat...
“Just lie back, and imagine what Heaven might look like...”
The floor is hard and bumpy against my back. My outstretched hand massages the hay. It feels oddly damp and clammy considering the blazing sun beating down all day, considering the smouldering heat in this tiny barn.
"Close your eyes. There's a good boy..."
Stretching my arms behind my head, the two women work quickly and methodically - expertly - first on my wrists, then on my ankles. I long to open my eyes, to see for myself, but I know what they're doing; the harshness of the rope grazes my skin.
“My friend is kind of kinky,” the voice soothingly says.
I wait for them to pull at my trousers, tug down my pants, to feel the curve of their bodies against mine, to savour the close intimacy. And yet they seem to be moving away, becoming detached. My heightened senses can't feel them; I'm no longer sure I can hear them, either.
I sniff. What is that? My eyes shoot open. They are close. Four eyes stare down at me, just inches from my face. My body rattles against the concrete floor. The smiles are wide and full of teeth, and yet they are manic. Crazed. A middle finger wags. Just like I do when I put one of the girls on the naughty step. My body clenches as I try to pull my hands apart. Nothing happens.
“You're a dirty little bastard, Grant Edwards. You all are.”
"Who are...?"
"Men are..."
I pull my head from the floor, manage to fix my eyes on the corner. At the bales of hay. An orange flame haunts and spreads. The whole barn is on fire.
"Untie the rope!" I shout. "Let me free! I promise I'll change..."
The giggles are mocking. The door pushes open a few feet. There are voices. One. Two. Three...?
“Forget imagining what Heaven might look like, Grant. Welcome to Hell...”
I know that they have left, that they've left me to burn to death on my own, because the wooden door to the barn shuts, and the glimmer of light from outside fades away to nothing...
One year earlier
Saturday 25th August 2018
Katherine
God, was this really a school? The sloping slate roof and the row of chimneys reminds me more of a derelict mental hospital than a long-forgotten school. I picture bruised and battered residents walking the corridors in grubby blue overalls, their minds frazzled, not so much from illness but from the drugs, from the electric shock treatment.
I know it was a school, though, because my dear, dead brother, Ben, was a short-lived pupil here.
The image invades my mind as I reach the crumbling, chest-high wall, sheltered by majestic oak trees. It isn't a memory (even though I was there) because I was too young to make sense of my surroundings. 1972. His first day of school. My older brother by four years strode across the lawn
in his grey shorts, his socks pulled up to his knees. Mum trailed a few feet behind, her forehead layered with a film of cold, uncomfortable sweat, struggling to push the pram up the torrid slope.
Luckily, I remained the infant in the pram. I never had a first day at the school; they moved the children to a new wooden building with a flat roof the term I enrolled.
I inhale the damp, musty scent as I smile and say hello and shimmy past the rows of chairs. The drab grey curtains are always open and yet, even with the stifling August sun yellowing the grass outside, it remains relatively dark inside the small, square room. My legs feel weak as I take my seat at the back. I glance at my wrist. 11am. Just on time. We always (optimistically) allow a minute for any unexpected late arrivals. I begin my ritual of counting the heads. Twelve. Not bad. Not good, of course - but still. Two less. Hardly an avalanche, is it? Peering between two of the heads, I catch Rose at the front of the room, facing the troops. She is more of an under-twelve's football coach appealing to his team to keep their heads up when they're 5-0 down at half-time than Jesus addressing his disciples.
“We're a few down from last week, ladies.” Rose's voice suggests bronchitis. Her middle finger, bitten to the bone, rubs at her dark, shadowed eyes. Coughing, her eyes flip open. “Which is good when you think about it. Hopefully a few less people in this world need our help.”
Or, maybe, a few more people got bored and couldn't face another dull meeting? I glance at Apinya. Does she read my mind? She turns her slip of a figure around, raises her perfectly sculpted rainbow eyebrows. Apinya, with her long limbs and flat chest, is Laurel to my Hardy. Same words as last week.
Apinya opened her heart (and her mouth) at her very first meeting. Within minutes, the group knew more about her than they ever have about me. Her father from Pattaya (about sixty miles south of Bangkok, apparently) had wanted her to settle down with a local man and look after the home, but Apinya rebelled. She wanted more from her life. She only went and fell in love, didn't she? She escaped the depravity of - what she called - the slums. And this is where she landed. Here. Pontbach. She said she simply couldn't believe how lucky she was to find such a beautiful town inhabited by such wonderful people.