by Conrad Jones
Eventually they separated, and went in different directions, like a herd of bison stampeding away from hunting hyenas. They were powerful and dangerous as a pack, but once they’d dispersed, their leaders gone, they were weak individuals and easy prey. He waited for them to scatter. He was tense and ready to begin the chase. Excitement coursed through his veins. Another one of them would die tonight. Not that anyone would notice. Most of them were pathetic losers looking for something to belong to, something to give purpose to their sad lives. They were loners, social misfits trying to fit in somewhere. He knew some of them were victims of abuse themselves. They bleated all over the Internet, to anyone that would listen, about what a tough time they’d had growing up. One of them claimed to be a victim of Jimmy Savile. Fucking liar. He wasn’t old enough by at least ten years. Some of them wore their troubled upbringing like a badge of honour. Shut up, grow up, and get on with your life, that was his view. Stop whinging about what happened twenty years ago; it isn’t the reason you’re divorced, living in a bedsit and claiming benefits. It’s because you spent your life looking backwards, feeling sorry for yourself, that you didn’t see what was in front of you until it was too late. Joining the predator hunting group was their way of hitting back. Well, two can play that game and there is only one winner. Hunting them was simple enough, and if he picked his targets carefully, suspicion would never be raised. He could go on killing them forever and a day. No one would miss them, or notice they were gone, for months. As the group separated, he identified his target and followed him at a safe distance.
His target looked both ways and crossed the road, heading for the train station at the edge of a sprawling housing estate. He knew he would take that route as it was the same one he had used the last three times the group had been on a hunt. The road leading to Hough Green Station was badly lit, narrow and lined with trees. A small car park was lit by a single streetlight. Its dull yellow glow cast shadows all around. The wind was blowing and a fine rain began to pour, soaking him as he followed the man, closing the distance between them. His footsteps echoed between the dark walls. At one point the target turned around, glancing over his shoulder. They locked eyes for a second but his prey didn’t sense the danger that was approaching. Idiot. He seemed nervous, walking alone in the dark in such an isolated spot, but his camouflage outfit and army boots made him look tough. He wanted to be a soldier, hunting the enemy. His eyes told a different story. Underneath the uniform was a terrified boy, alone and vulnerable. The rest of the pack had gone. He saw the flash of fear in the target’s eyes, but he didn’t run. Some people were stupid. The target walked quicker, widening the gap between them. He slowed, not wanting to spook him. Not yet.
The unmanned station was deserted as he reached the sandstone steps that descended onto the platform. Litter and leaves hurtled past his feet while he looked over the gantry at the westbound platform. There he was, hood up, leaning against the wall. He was sheltering from the elements. A brave crusader returning home alone. He didn’t look like a predator hunter. Sausage roll hunter, maybe. He was a spineless coward hiding behind a group, pretending to be of some benefit to society. It gave him a feeling of worth. He had no idea how much damage the group caused to innocent people when their amateur searches went wrong. They ruined lives. They were keyboard warriors, untrained and unintelligent with no concept of the carnage they left behind when they outed innocent men. Families were torn apart and lives were ruined. Children were parted from their parents and careers ended, all because they got it wrong.
In his case, they had got it right, but that wasn’t the point. He had lost everything because of them. The jail time was hell for him. Four years of his life, mostly spent in solitary because other criminals viewed him as vermin. He had been beaten badly, scalded with tea that had been mixed with so much sugar that the liquid clung to the skin, prison napalm, and slashed with a carpet blade attached to a toothbrush. All of that paled into insignificance in comparison to the months before the trial. His life had disintegrated in front of his eyes. Friends, family and workmates abandoned him. He lost his girlfriend and three stepchildren, his job, his friends, and his house in the space of three months. He’d rebuilt his life and they had demolished it again. That was nearly as bad as suffocating in a dingy cell. He couldn’t blame them for his crimes, but he could blame them for being sent to prison. They had tricked him and set a trap. There was no one else to blame. It was completely their fault. They were bullies and they ganged up on people. They interfered in people’s lives. They were vigilantes who thought there would be no repercussions for them. Well, they were wrong. Very wrong. The ramifications of their interference would echo through their shallow lives and beyond. He would make sure of that.
He watched his target from the footbridge; he glanced up but didn’t register the danger. He walked down the steps and along the platform, stopping beneath an overhanging roof to escape the rain. He waited until he could see the lights of the Liverpool train appearing around a long bend in the distance. It wouldn’t be long now. The target lit a cigarette and sucked deeply on it, releasing the smoke through his nostrils. He was watching the approaching train without a care in the world. It was too good an opportunity to miss; he was going to tail him home, but this was too easy. The platform was deserted. Smoking was the perfect cover to approach him without raising the alarm.
‘Have you got a light, please?’ he asked. The target nodded, and reached into his pocket for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and blew out the smoke. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
‘Shit weather, isn’t it?’
‘Really shit.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘I don’t think so.’ His target looked concerned. There was a twinkle of fear in his eyes. Suspicion made his eyes narrow slightly. Not much, but enough to display that he was spooked. Good.
‘Yes, I do recognise you.’ He smiled and pointed a finger. ‘You’re Dave, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Dave Rutland. I recognise your face.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the target answered, uncertainty in his voice. He looked frightened. Predator hunter? The closest he had been to a predator was Chester Zoo. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘Facebook,’ he answered. ‘You’re friends with some of the same people I am.’
‘Small world, eh?’ Dave Rutland said, relaxing.
‘It’s a small world. Thanks for the light.’ He turned, as if to walk away, and flicked open a telescopic baton. ‘Are you still in the predator group on Facebook?’
‘Yes,’ Dave said, smiling. He looked excited. ‘That’s where I’ve been tonight.’
‘Really,’ he said, smiling coldly.
‘Yes. I’m on my way home from there.’
‘Catch anyone?’
‘No, not tonight,’ Dave said, shaking his head. ‘The dirty paedo didn’t show up. We’ll get him next time.’
‘Unless he gets you first.’ There was a glimmer of confusion in Dave’s eyes. He swung around quickly, striking him across the side of his head with the truncheon. Dave collapsed on the spot. His knees buckled and he crumpled into a rainwater puddle. A second blow sent him further into the darkness. ‘How does that feel?’ He could hear his attackers voice and he knew he was being dragged across the platform. He also knew his jaw was broken. ‘Like a rat in a trap, eh, Dave?’ Rainwater soaked Dave’s clothes but he couldn’t resist. ‘Not nice feeling helpless, is it, Dave?’ One of his boots caught on the concrete. His attacker pulled him clear. ‘You thought you were a tough guy, didn’t you, Dave?’ Dave mumbled but couldn’t speak. Blood dribbled from his mouth. ‘Not so tough now, are you, Dave?’ The platform became darker as he was dragged along. ‘I was going to follow you home and kill you there, but this is too good an opportunity to miss.’ There was pain as his head jerked around. ‘Have you ever wondered what it would be like to see your life coming to an end before your eyes, and not be able to lift a finger, Dave?’
It was pitch black wh
ere the platform turned into a ramp that led onto the tracks. He felt someone lifting him, and then the sensation of falling, floating through the night. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Hitting the rails wasn’t pleasant either. His head cracked against one, fracturing his skull; his knees hit the other, twisting them painfully. He heard himself moaning in agony yet felt detached from it. A bright light pierced his mind and a roaring sound filled his thoughts as the train thundered towards him. His eyes flickered open, sensing danger. He saw the oncoming juggernaut and opened his mouth to scream. The sound of the brakes squealing was painful; there was a catastrophic impact and a second of excruciating pain, and then nothing.
He watched the train trundle over David Rutland. It dragged his body beneath its wheels, dismembering it over two hundred yards, before screeching to a halt further down the platform. He stayed in the shadows and moved towards the steps. He hid in a dark recess to watch the aftermath. Time seemed to stand still. He could see a light in the driver’s cab. The driver was female and she was animated on the emergency phone, no doubt reporting a jumper. She didn’t leave the train and she didn’t open the doors for the passengers to leave. He heard a muffled announcement over the train’s loud speakers but he couldn’t decipher her words. It was twenty minutes before the first ambulance arrived. A second one pulled up fifteen minutes after that. A single fire engine arrived and the firemen searched for body parts. A police car arrived to secure the scene and to guide passengers from the station to where they would have to wait for a replacement bus service. He left his hiding place and mingled with them as they climbed the sandstone steps to the access road and the car park. Some of them were sympathetic to the plight of those who suffered mental illness, while others were not so accommodating. Getting home was far more important than a stranger’s need to end their life beneath a train.
‘Poor soul must have been in a very dark place,’ one voice said.
‘Selfish twat,’ another replied. ‘That driver will never be the same again.’
‘Fuck him. It’s going to cost me a fortune in a cab.’
‘I’ve got work in the morning.’
He listened to the heated debate as they walked through the rain. When they reached the car park, he pulled up his hood and walked towards the main road. Ten minutes later, he was in a black cab on his way home. Job done for tonight.
3
Richard took a deep breath when he had finished his conversation with the imaginary police officer. He went to the fridge and took out a can of sugar-free cola, placing the ice-cold tin against his forehead. It soothed the growing headache for a few seconds. He closed his eyes and wished that he could wake up in bed to find this was all a bad dream. He would swap places in the most frightening nightmare ever if he could; this was worse than any nightmare he had ever experienced. He felt light-headed and anxious, angry and frightened. The sense of wrongdoing was overwhelming, despite being innocent. He felt guilty for being accused, which was madness, but he couldn’t help it. Guilt was seeping through his bones where it had no business being.
‘What did the police say?’ Celia asked. She stared at her iPad, searching for any more posts about it. She had been inundated with messages from her friends. They had all said: private message me if you need to chat, which really meant: what the fuck is going on? Tell me everything. Did he do it?
Most of them were written with fake concern. Sympathetic on the face of it, but just plain nosey beneath the sentiment: I’m so sorry you have to go through this, you seem such a happy couple, which meant: is it true? Is Richard a paedophile? She batted away the enquiries politely, trying to sound positive, and grateful for their interference.
Richard shrugged and looked at her. ‘They said the group hadn’t committed a criminal offence and that it’s a civil matter.’ He opened the tin and drank greedily from it. ‘They said they will look into it, but they didn’t think there was much they could do.’
‘That’s crap,’ Celia snapped.
‘What is?’
‘It’s a criminal offence. I can think of at least three offences. Tomorrow, I’m going to take advice from some of my colleagues and I’m going after them. I’m going to crucify these bastards!’ Celia emptied her wine and walked to the fridge. She opened the door and took out an empty bottle of white wine, tutting angrily. ‘I’ll sue them for defamation.’
‘Who?’ Richard asked.
‘Who what?’
‘Who will you sue?’
‘Whoever is responsible for posting that filth, of course!’
‘It’s a Facebook group.’ Richard shrugged. ‘The best way to get rid of them is to report them to Facebook and say they have been threatening me.’ Celia reached for her iPad to do it. ‘I’ve already done it,’ Richard said, ‘but feel free to report them again. With a bit of luck, they’ll shut down the page and that will be the end of it. They can’t have any evidence to back up their claims because it never happened.’
‘I hope that’s true, because if you’ve cheated on me again…’ Celia said, biting her lip. She shook her head and closed her eyes, already sorry for what she had said. He didn’t deserve that.
‘Cheated on you again?’ Richard challenged her. He’d had enough accusations for one night. ‘There’s no again, Celia. You made an accusation a year before the twins were born. That was fifteen years ago, Celia, and what I really don’t need right now is you turning a drama into a fucking crisis.’ He glared at her. She was usually the dominant personality but Richard had his moments. There were times when it was better to back off than keep prodding him. The look in his eyes told her that this was one of them. ‘I need you to believe me and I need your support right now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ Richard said.
‘I can’t believe they think they can make accusations like that and get away with it,’ Celia said, dropping the bottle noisily into the recycling. ‘You’re a teacher, for Christ’s sake, and they have the gall to post that on the school page. I don’t understand the mentality of someone doing that, unless they think they have evidence.’ She realised it sounded negative, suspicious even. ‘I cannot believe they used the school Facebook page. It’s like trial by Internet.’
‘Well, it isn’t there now,’ Richard said. ‘Hopefully, it’s a storm in a teacup. No one will believe them. No one we care about at least.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Celia said, opening another bottle. She saw Richard watching her, disapproval in his eyes. ‘What?’ she asked, flippantly, filling up her glass. The glass held half the bottle without looking full. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No problem,’ Richard answered, shrugging. It was his turn to feel disappointed.
‘If ever I needed a glass of wine, it’s right now.’
‘I’m going to finish watching the football while you pickle yourself,’ he joked, but Celia’s face said she hadn’t found it funny.
‘You’re accused of being a paedophile online and you’re going to sit and watch the football?’
‘What would you suggest I do, Celia?’ he asked, shrugging. He felt sick with worry, but what could he do about it? Things would play out in the end. He couldn’t predict what would happen next, no one could. All he could do was react to each situation as it arose; dwelling on what a group of strangers might do next was both pointless and depressing. ‘The damage is done and we’ve done what we can. I can’t change anything right now. We’ll have to see what tomorrow brings.’
‘I wish I had your ability to remain calm,’ she said, half-smiling. She meant it too, it was one of his traits that she’d fallen in love with. Nothing rattled him. When her world was being shaken to the core, he was her rock. ‘Tell me this will blow over, Richard.’
‘This will blow over, Celia,’ he said, nodding. ‘There is no truth or substance behind the accusations. We have nothing to worry about.’ He walked to her and took her hands in his. Their eyes locked, both searching for the truth.
Has he done anything
wrong?
Does she think I have done anything wrong?
They kissed briefly and he held her. It was like hugging a distant relative, she was tense and uncomfortable. ‘Someone has messed up. They have the wrong man.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘I overreacted. It was a shock.’
‘That’s an understatement,’ he said, smiling.
‘What, me overreacting or the shock?’
‘Both.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My hands are still shaking,’ Richard said.
‘Mine too.’ He squeezed her again. Her phone rang and she showed him the screen. It was Silvia Booth, member of the school board and self-appointed queen bee. ‘I’ll have to talk to her.’
Richard nodded and walked out of the kitchen into the living room, closing the door. She stared at the door and had a gulp of her wine before answering.
Jake was on his laptop in conversation with his friends, deflecting questions about the accusations. Rumours were spreading like wildfire. Not everyone had seen the posts before they were removed – most had heard them second- or third-hand. They had heard that Mr Vigne was having a relationship with a minor. The name of the alleged minor, Nikki Haley, had been omitted from communications, leaving an opening for speculation about who Richard Vigne had been having an affair with. Jake was frantically trying to firefight the chat. Some people were guessing who the girl was. April Morris had been mentioned a few times because she liked older boys. Older boys? Her boyfriend was seventeen, for fuck’s sake. His dad wasn’t just older, he was actually old. He looked at his dad and shook his head.
