It was settled, she could stay around and he could see how this one was going to pan out.
“Now we’re making progress,” he said to the reporter on the television. There was half an inch of tea left in his mug. He sucked the last of the burning tobacco on his cigarette and then mashed it out in his ashtray. He was about to raise the mug on last time when another question popped up in his mind.
Problem 3
To work, or not to work. That is the question.
He thought about it for about three seconds and then he drained his mug.
“Fuck working,” he told the rambling reporter.
He set his mug down on the table.
Done.
Christ Almighty, he felt better for that. At least there were a few things that had been straightened out. He felt his mind finally coming to a complete rest, at least for now. He checked his phone for the time and saw that it was just after five. The sun was staring to set and the room was growing darker. He had enjoyed his tea so much that he contemplated making another, but a wave of tiredness washed over him. He decided on a nap instead, just for an hour or two, then he would give Jenny a ring, see if she wanted to meet up again. He promised her that he would phone her anyway but now that the problems had been worked out in his head, there was no reason to delay any longer. He reclined his chair, folded his arms and closed his eyes, He listened to the soft mutter of the reporter on television. He was talking about some police guy that had been found dead in his home. He didn’t pay much attention because he was thinking about all the different way that he could take Jenny on a sexual tour of his home. He had counted around twenty or so when his mind drifted away into the darkness.
19.
Mask was growing more and more impatient he wanted, no, he needed to get out of this flat for a while. His God was really beginning to peck at him about Patrick Hurst, the son of the great and wonderful scientist cunt. He wanted to go and track him down and get things moving forwards. But he didn’t want to set off the fireworks too soon because if he did then it would all go fuck up and he wouldn’t have his redemption. His God wouldn’t listen to him. His God wanted him to go and take Patrick out now. He had to do something before his God struck him down and judged him. He figured another sacrifice would keep things quiet for a little while. In fact, he could combine it with a little research. He didn’t have the luxury of a computer, or a mobile phone so he couldn’t look Patrick up. He knew that the library had some computers because he had been there before. The memory of it was hazy, almost like it was a dream. He couldn’t remember why he had gone there or what he had even done whilst he was there. Then another thing occurred to him, tomorrow was Sunday and it would be closed then anyway. Still, it didn’t matter it would keep until Monday morning. But he was going to have to placate his God until then. Perhaps with another kill it would get him through until Monday. Perhaps it would be enough just to let him rest for a while, perhaps even get some sleep. He had been awake for around four days now and his broken mind was beginning to feel even more unstrung than normal. His hands were almost constantly shaking, making it difficult to even do a simple fucking thing like light himself a cigarette. Parts of his skin felt like they were on fire, an almost unbearable combination of itching and pain that wouldn’t let up, no matter how many times he showered. His left hand was particularly bad and the skin had begun to look ashen and grey as if it was dying. All of this had happened since the incident at Layton House. It hadn’t all gone quite to how he had planned it but it was close enough. He had given that scientist cunt a hell of a surprise by knowing how to operate his machine, that abomination that went against all of nature. But Mask was no dummy, he was out of his mind but he was a smart cookie and he had waited for such a long time to go there and take care of business. He had planned it very carefully and done his research. That research had come in the form of Science Cunt’s assistant.
There had been many weeks where he had staked out Layton House, watched all the comings and goings that went on up there. He saw the assistant, a little podgy man with one of the most ridiculous comb overs he had ever seen. He looked almost like a cartoon character. He had seen him drive up to the house in his big silver BMW three days in a row. He had watched from behind a tree which was placed at the top of the large hill which was at the front of the house. There was a small steep path that ran all the way down it and almost right up to the front door. Beyond the trees the land went flat again and led to the main footpath which took you right down to the Layton dam. If you walked five hundred yard beyond the path you made it back a small parking area and then the main road which twisted and snaked into the distance. Eventually you would end up in the city of Hemmington. Mask had been there many times, usually late on a Friday night to catch people coming out of all the night spots. He would always find a straggler, somebody that had been separated from the rest of their group. He would lure them, or drag them into the back of his van and then set off up to the parking spot. If they were inclined to struggle then he would tie them up with the elastic ropes, but most of the time they were too drunk to do anything except fall into a semi doze and ask the occasional incoherent question. One they had arrived at the parking spot he would kill them. He usually dragged them out of the back of the van and take them a short distance into the woods. Sometimes his God would toy with them, sometimes his God would want him to have sex with them and sometimes his God would make it quick and painful. He preferred to strangle, but his knife or his shotgun were good diversions, especially if his God was wanting to get things done quick. He would wrap the bodies in the same black rubber sheet and then dump them. He would take them to the cemetery and root out a freshly dug grave, or he would find a freshly buried and dig down a few feet to put the body in. He had never been seen and he had never been confronted, but he knew that he wouldn’t. His God told him that nobody would catch him and he believed it fully.
He had followed the little tubby assistant home. He lived on the outskirts of Newtown in an area mostly dominated by those that had a healthier income than the rest of the town. His house was the kind of typical middle class home that for some reason made Mask’s blood boil. He had camped outside the house, across the street watching the comings and goings that went on at the assistant’s house. He soon discovered that the tubby assistant had a male friend who lived with him and he had seen them leaving together to go on a night out. It was almost too perfect. He went home to try and get some rest before he came back the next morning to put his plan into operation.
The tubby assistant had left the house early that day, around eight o’clock. There was no sign of the other man going anywhere, so he got out of his van, crossed the street and knocked on the door. As he waited for the man to answer he put on his mask. He immediately felt stronger and more confident, and the voice of his God grew louder in his mind. A moment later the man answered the door. He was in the process of rubbing sleep out of his eye and he didn’t have time to register who was standing there until it was too late.
“What the fu…” was all he had time to get out before Mask punched him in the guts. The man stumbled backwards and doubled over, all of his wind was gone in one long whistling breath. He felt like his lungs were never going to drag another breath in ever again. He could feel his pulse in his ears and he saw black spots pulsing in from of his eyes. Finally, his lungs relaxed their grip and he was able to start gasping in breath after breath. He knew he was in deep shit because the masked man had come into the house and closed the door behind him. He saw that Mask was reaching into his coat for something and then he saw that it was a sawn off shotgun. He felt his bladder twitch, like it was going to give up its contents at any moment. Adrenaline pulsed through his body, making it even more difficult to get his breath back.
“What…..do……you……want,” he asked between gasps of air.
“I just want a little chat with you, that’s all. You play nicely and you won’t get hurt. Simple eh? Now, let’s go make ourselves com
fortable shall we?”
Before he could answer, Mask gripped him by his hair and threw him through the door to the living room. He landed hard on his back and felt his wind go again. The pain had barely registered when Mask had a fist full of his hair again and was lifting him off the floor. His scalp felt like it was on fire and he could feel a dull tearing feeling as his hair was being ripped from its follicles. Mask dumped him on the black leather sofa and then he stood in front of him holding the shotgun in his right hand. He casually walked over to the curtains and pulled them across. The resulting gloom made Mask look even more sinister than he already did. The white on the mask looked like it was glowing in the dark.
“Now then,” said Mask resuming his place in from of him, “questions and answers, very simple. I ask, you tell. Think you can do that?”
He nodded his head frantically. His guts ached like a rotten tooth and his scalp was still burning. Whoever this maniac in a mask was, he was a very powerful man and not to be fucked with.
“O.K. first question, what’s your name and what’s the name of the fat controller that lives here with you?”
“My name is John Taylor, and the other guy is Graham Reedy.”
Mask nodded slowly, “Good. Now who is he to you?”
John looked confused for a moment.
“Is he your Dad, your house guest, your fuck buddy? Who is he to you?”
“Boyfriend,” said John.
Mask began to laugh and sickening wheezing laugh that sounded like it was coming from the bowels of hell itself.
“Your boyfriend eh? Jesus wept. He must be twice your fucking age John-boy.”
“Twenty years older,” said John. His legs were beginning to tremble now with the combination of fear and irritation.
“Twenty years. I wonder how many other dicks he had sucked in those twenty extra years John-boy. I bet it was a lot eh? Do you suck his dick?” said Mask still smiling. Drool was starting to run off the edge of his chin.
“I’m not answering that,” said John and he began to tremble even more. His anger was growing bigger than his fear; he was being humiliated.
Mask stepped forwards and placed the shotgun against John’s forehead. “Answer the fucking question chief, or your brains are going to be coating the wall behind you.”
John squeezed his eyes closed. “Fuck you,” he said through gritted teeth.
Mask roared laughter. John felt the shotgun move away from his head and he opened his eyes. Mask was almost bent over double, bellowing his laughter. Just for a moment his eyes locked on Johns. John felt a chill go down his back. He was certain that he was looking into the eyes of the devil himself, and there was one other thing, his eyes were changing colour, even as he looked at them, for those few seconds he could see them turning from light blue to dark brown.
Abruptly, Mask stopped laughing. “I see, you still got some fight in you, I like that John-boy, I really do. You see most people beg for their lives, or tell me that I can have their money, or that I can fuck them as long as I let them live. But they don’t seem to realise that they have nothing to bargain with. I take what I need and then they die anyway.”
“How many have you killed?” said John.
“I’m asking the fucking questions here John-boy, you got that?” Mask screamed at him. John recoiled slightly and nodded his head.
“Now then, where was I? Oh, yes begging for your life. You see John, you won’t beg for your life, at least not yet and you might not even have to, because it’s not really you that I want. I want the little tubby guy, your ball licker Graham. He needs to do a little job for me.”
The thought of this psychopath getting hold of Graham killed John’s anger and brought his fear right up to the surface.
“I’ll do it, just don’t hurt Graham, he’s done nothing wrong.”
Mask frowned at him he had struck a nerve now and that was good. His little tubby friend was his weak point, that was excellent. He was going to put the screws to both of them.
“Really? Well, that is a very tempting offer John-boy, but you can’t do it, you don’t work for that scientist cunt up at Layton House do you.”
“You mean Richard Hurst? What does he have to do with any of this?”
Mask smiled. “Now, that’s between me and him. You could say that it is personal between us, deeply personal.”
“What do you want with Graham?”
Mask was pretty sure that he had already established that he was asking the fucking questions. He couldn’t do any more here, he needed to get things moving along. He needed to shut John up. He turned his gun round and jammed the handle right under John’s chin, knocking him right out. He slumped down in the corner of the sofa and a trail of blood oozed from his mouth along with two of his teeth.
Mask shrugged and then he made preparations to take John home.
Once had managed to get John back into his home, he tied him to his usual chair for his victims, then he grabbed his ancient polaroid camera and took a snap of John hanging listlessly in the chair ready for later when he went to see Graham. He was momentarily amazed again that he hadn’t been challenged about the large package he was carrying into the lift. People had seen him, but without his mask he looked like a normal person. He had wrapped John in a large piece of tarpaulin. He had begun to snore like a dragon after he had lifted him and slung him easily over his shoulder. He was unnaturally strong and carrying John’s dead weight had not even brought a sweat out on his brow. His God had given him his power, and he had given him the ability not to be caught or challenged by anyone. He could still hear the voice of his God muttering away in his head even though he had removed the mask. Now that he had taken the photograph he fished the mask out of his pocket and put it on again. The voice of his God became clearer again and it began to tell him what to do. He had to make John pay for telling him to fuck himself. He wanted him to be humbled before he sent him to his God for judgement. He took off his coat and walked into the kitchen, a moment later he came back to the living room with a glass of water. He sipped a little of the water and then he flung it into John’s face. John grumbled and then his eyes snapped open. It took a moment for him to get his vision back into focus and to realise that he had been moved from him home and into the lair of the mask. He saw Mask standing in front of him and he tried to stand up. He only managed to get half an inch off the chair before he realised that he was tied to it. He sat back down hard and began to feel the first twinges of panic in his system. He was caught and there was no way out of this that was going to be good. Mask smiled his sickening smile and drool began to run down his chin again. John tried to tell him to leave Graham alone and to just take him instead, but his jaw wouldn’t move properly. It felt like it had been locked into place. There was a sweet coppery taste in his mouth that he recognised as his own blood. Then there was the pain running from the tip of his chin all the way up the front of his face. He was pretty sure that his jaw was dislocated at the very least, probably broken by the shot from the barrel of Mask’s gun. Mask chuckled. The sound of it made John’s blood run cold. Mask turned away from him for a moment and then turned back brandishing the biggest knife that John had ever seen in his life. This time, he felt his bladder let go.
“Remember when you said ‘Fuck you’ to me?” said Mask.
“Uuuhhh, uuuuhhhh,” said john from his ruined mouth.
“Now I’m going to fuck you Johnny boy, I’m going to fuck you good.”
He stepped forwards and began to cut at John’s neck. John pulled away from the blade and caused his chair to overturn. The pain from the cut was white and sizzling. He could feel a steady stream of wet running across his neck and onto the floor. Then Mask was upon him again. The blade started cutting deeper and John drew in a breath to scream, but it was at that point that the blade popped his jugular vein and cut the blood supply from his brain. For John, the world began to mercifully fade away. The last thing he heard before he died was that sickening chuckling coming from the t
hroat of the masked man. His last thought as the darkness took him was:
I will see you in hell you motherfucker…..
When the torrent of blood had slowed Mask decided to stop cutting. He had shit to do and people to see and he didn’t have time for the tubby Graham’s queer boyfriend. He would clean up his mess later once he had taken care of his business. He covered the body with plastic bags and then went in the shower to wash the blood from his skin and out of his hair. He did it quickly, he needed to get back to tubby Graham’s house before he returned home.
He got back to Graham’s place just after four in the afternoon. He had left the front door unlocked so he didn’t have to fuck around with the keys. He went into the almost perfectly kept house and made his way upstairs and into the master bedroom. He sat on the edge of the huge king sized bed and waited for Graham to come home. It was only ten minutes later that he heard the front door bang shut and the porky little bastard shouting for his gayboy lover. Mask got up off the bed and placed the picture he had taken of John on the bed ready for Graham to see. He pulled his mask out of his pocket and slipped it over his face. He almost reached for one of his weapons but he decided that he wasn’t going to get much of a fight from this little shit burglar and he lowered his hand again. He could hear Graham coming up the stairs now, still calling his lover’s name.
Duet Page 26
