Serial Killers Incorporated

by Andy Remic

Callaghan gripped his Maglite tight. Bastard, he thought. What do you want from me?

  Carefully, he traversed the joist, one foot easing in front of the other, jarring against sprouted nails, trying not to slip on slimy crumbled wood. Jimmy slapped him on the back as he stepped onto the bottom stair and the treacherous platform made a loud cracking sound.

  ‘Good lad!’

  ‘Let’s get going, Jim. I’m fast losing my sense of humour.’

  ‘Lost mine decades ago,’ said Jim. They moved up the final set of stairs. Jimmy pulled free his gun and his face was deadly serious – and set in a harsh Glasgow scowl.

  I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of that, thought Callaghan. Even if I was a tooled–up killer... Because, in this place, in this time, in this atmosphere – with an ambience of atrophy floating around our heads, with an ever–present stench of putrefaction, of condemnation, of death... well, it was a certainty there was more than one tooled–up killer wandering the darkness.

  They reached the top, which panned onto a rotten, peeling landing stretching off to a set of small offices at the far end, buckled and warped and clinging to the leaning wall in an act of basic survival. The decrepit remains of these offices were propped from beneath by beams and triangle sections of supporting timber – much of which had fallen away, leaving a barren, toothless frame.

  Halfway down the landing, tied to a huge iron ring bolted to the floor, was a young woman of about nineteen years. She was dressed in a slime–smeared dress, torn in several places. Her hair was lank, rat–tails of oil and mud scampering down her shivering back. Tears mingled with rain against a blotched red face that had probably once been pretty; she was sobbing, the kind of weeping that comes long after genuine tears had fallen. It was the sound of the hopeless. The despair of the lost.

  She sat, unaware of the two men creeping towards her through the gloom, bodies hunched over in a kind of crouched walk; as if reducing their height would halve their weight against a groaning, straining, unsupported floor. It was a maniac shuffle of optimism.

  More thunder rumbled. Sleet–rain howled from angry skies. From bruised clouds. From an abused Heaven.

  Above, jagged splinters of joist and slate did little to keep the rain out. The wind shrieked, a mocking sound, weaving between the abused brickwork of the mill’s derelict and terminally crumbling shell.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jimmy had reached the woman, who jumped as he knelt and touched her shoulder. Callaghan stared suspiciously at the darkened offices beyond. He tried to calm his breathing. He could feel his hands shake.

  Something’s not right, screamed his brain.

  Something’s out of kilter...

  Out of phase with the world...

  Trap, hissed his inner demon. You’ve been set–up. The killer is waiting for you. The woman is bait. Like a fish you’ve latched to the wriggling maggot – put the bait in your mouth like a good ‘ol boy, and now you’re being reeled in and he’s waiting with a club to give you a thump over the head to end your slip–slop splashing wriggling. You dickhead.

  Callaghan squinted. His Maglite beam wavered, failing to lock–on to anything significant. And yet he could see something, just inside the first crumbling office, hidden behind a half–closed door hanging loose on twisted hinges. What is it? Just what the fuck is it?

  The mass was dark, bulky, patches appearing gloss under Cal’s intrusive light. And he could smell it. Hackles raised – on his arms, and across the back of his neck. He could smell blood.

  ‘Jimmy.’ His voice was low. No more than a gravel whisper.

  ‘I’ll cut this rope,’ Jimmy was saying, oblivious to the danger ahead. ‘Just let me find my knife, we’ll have you out of here in no time, my love...’

  ‘JIMMY!’

  ‘What?’ The Scotsman glanced up. Paused. His eyes narrowed.

  Cal pointed, his own eyes wide, mouth forming the words, ‘Over there.’ Jimmy turned his gun on the dark office.

  The something had started to move in the dusk of the buckled room. It had no definition, half–seen through a disconcerting doorway, and concealed by the battered, mashed timbers of the door. There came a bubbling, crooning sound. A slow, rhythmical creaking. Like something straining.

  ‘What is it?’ spat Jimmy, head snapping back to Callaghan. He fumbled in his pack, took out a long black knife, but instead of cutting the woman free he handed the weapon to Callaghan.

  Cal took the blade. It was cold. He shook his head, as if in denial. Weapons were not his thing. He forced himself forward, boards flexing under his boots. He passed the frightened girl, ignoring her pleading eyes and outstretched hand. Another few steps. And another...

  The doorway was close now. But still darkness conspired to hide the quivering contents. Fear etched a script against Cal’s brain.

  Jimmy touched Cal’s shoulder. He was right behind; close. Friendly backup. An ally...

  Cal’s torch was slick in sweating hands. Mouth as dry as the desert. Bladder full. Eyes itchy. Breath trapped and locked in uncooperative chastity lungs. Ahead, the object moved in the gloom; suddenly squirming, writhing, black and glossy with trapped pools of fluid. Cal squinted again. What is it? Just what in the name of God is it?

  Killer or killed?

  Hunter or hunted?

  Slayer or slain?

  ‘Are...’ the young woman suddenly coughed, her voice low and terribly weary. ‘Are you... Callaghan?’ Cal’s head lurched back to the girl, mouth open in an O of silent shock, confusion and incredulity. He nodded, a single downward spastic jerk.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He... he gave me a message. For you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Cal’s voice was barely more than a croak, drowned by the sounds of the storm raging outside and inside, masked by the rumbling thunder and the torrential downpour of smashing water pouring fury into the dark maw of the mill’s interior.

  The young woman did not answer.

  Cal was just about to repeat himself, when her head lifted, eyes locking on his. Cal had never seen such an expression of rictus horror on a human face. The image slammed him like a hammer. It wormed into his soul; into that primeval place where nightmares are born.

  ‘He had... razor teeth. He was...’ she shuddered, rope tugging against her restraining ring, ‘… just horrible. Fucking horrible. He said to tell you he was going to kill them. He was going to kill them all. He was going to kill the killers. Murder the murderers. Butcher the butchers.’ She leant forward and retched against the rotting boards, body heaving and straining; but nothing came out.

  ‘Why me?’ hissed Callaghan from behind a cage of clenched teeth. His voice rose to a scream. ‘WHY ME?’

  But the woman was staring past him. Into the darkened rectangle of the rotten, skewed doorway. ‘He’s in there,’ she whispered.

  Callaghan went cold; colder than he could ever, ever remember. His jaw clamped. His knees trembled – actually vibrated; shivering and wobbling and making him feel foolishly weak. He felt the urgent need to shit. His bowel spasmed. He turned back towards the doorway. His eyes narrowed. He could not speak.

  Callaghan took several jittery steps forward.

  ‘No,’ said Jimmy, putting out his hand. ‘Don’t go in there.’ His eyes were scared. Wide. Edged with a rime of primal terror.

  Callaghan brushed past the restraint like the wind brushes past tree–leaves – with the whole of Nature’s might. And, with a conviction of truth, and need, and strength, and honour; with a disjointed belief supporting him he knew he had to see this thing done. See it through. To the end...

  Or be haunted for an eternity.

  Face set in a pagan mask, Cal clenched the gleaming blade tight in his fist. He held it to his chest – like a totem. A talisman. A ward against Evil. His eyes glowed momentarily under a spear of lightning far above. Rain pounded, and drowned out all sounds of reality.

  And Callaghan advanced on the dead room...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ACCELERATION />
  I STAND BY the roadside in the pouring rain. It runs in dark rivulets down my leather coat – like blood. Distant lights glint from my skinning razor, and I turn it, just so, to catch the starlight from a billion mile distant fire.

  Thunder rumbles.

  I love storms. Love the rawness, the primal anger as the sky growls and lightning spears the earth or buildings or cars or flesh. I get high on the sheer exhilaration of the storm; I soak in the elements, imbibe the pure fierce violence of the sheer fucking planet. We are one, the storm and I. We are brothers. We are lovers...

  Joined.

  My focus shifts. To: Callaghan. Ahh, yes. Mr Callaghan.

  I think it is time we met. Volos, and Callaghan.

  Face to face.

  It was late.

  Smoke hung heavy, a cancer fallout. Mia spun around the pole, her mostly naked, olive–skinned body beaded in sweat. She dropped to a crouch, g–string crotch in the face of an expensively dressed punter whose full–fat complexion and dead–fish eyes watched with shiver–inducing intensity. He reached up, slick shaking fingers sliding a fifty pound note behind the narrow stretch of lace which could almost be described as panties. His skin was clammy, a sweating contact of peeled fish–flesh; and then Mia was up, away, free, gyrating well–shaped hips, swaying, fingers gliding up and down the slick chrome pole with the caress of the professional...

  Wonderland was one of Soho’s more exotic dance bars. Only a select clientele were allowed through the doors; select, in that they were selected by wealth, not morals or social etiquette. Mia danced three nights a week, and made a lot of money. She was a good dancer; beautiful, sultry, creative, adventurous. And she genuinely enjoyed her work – OK, some of the punters were slime on a stick, the sort of primeval slop better off in pieces in a bucket than wearing Armani. But some of the punters were gentlemen. Gentlemen who wanted to ogle naked, oiled breasts, yes, but gentlemen all the same.

  The music died, closely followed by the lights. Low–level lighting guided Mia across the catwalk to her dressing room. She closed the door and pulled on a thin silk gown.

  She stood for a moment, gazing into the mirror. At twenty–four, she had a firm and well–sprung body, the lightly tanned, spicy skin of full Mexican–blood, pouting lips, brown oval eyes with a permanent, wounded, puppy–dog expression guaranteed to have men (and women!) lapping from her palm, and a mane of oiled and coconut–scented curls which fell down her back like a crushed–satin waterfall. She smiled, her face softening into genuine beauty; stunning beauty.

  There came a knock.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Paulo.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Paulo opened the door, squeezed his rotund frame through the portal, and closed the door behind him. He was smiling, fat, mid–forties, body like a punch–bag and face like a football. Well–kicked. Paulo owned Wonderland, and whilst many considered him a monopolising, well–connected, exploitative fat–cat son–of–a–bitch, Mia kind of liked him. He was fair. And he didn’t try and take liberties with the girls. Well, not often.

  ‘Mia! Mama Mia!’ He took her face between his podgy, gold–sovereign–bedecked hands and stared into her eyes. ‘Ahhh, as usual, your performance was sublime. Exquisite.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘The safe is overflowing!’

  ‘So it’s time for a pay rise, hey Paulo?’

  ‘Ha ha, she jokes, no? She is a kidder, my little Mia.’ He took a huge puff on a cigar that was fatter than him. ‘Listen, I have favour to ask my financially astute protégé.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Mia had moved to the mirror and was using PH–neutral wipes to remove make–up. She half–turned, hair a cascade, and asked suspiciously, ‘What kind of favour?’

  ‘You have a fan. Wants to come backstage and meet you.’

  ‘Just me?’

  ‘Yes, little Mia. He said he was enamoured.’

  ‘You know I don’t meet punters, Paulo. Rule numero uno. You should know better than to come back here and even ask; because the answer is always the same. A big fat NO.’

  ‘This man, though. He special.’

  Mia looked at Paulo, then. There was something in his eyes. An edge. A glint. Something. He was behaving bubbly and happy, but beneath the surface glided a well–camouflaged shark. Paulo was rattled. He was a man held tight on a leash.

  ‘In what way special?’

  ‘He Big Player, Mia. Said he just wants to talk. He not a creep, I promise you that!’ Paulo spread his hands, cigar smoke spiralling. ‘You know me, Mia! I would never bring you schmuck.’

  Mia sighed. ‘OK. Go on then. Just for you. But warn him, I’m very tired and he can only stay a few minutes.’

  Paulo nodded, squeezed his bulk from the dressing room. Mia swiftly pulled on a jumper and jeans, leather ankle–boots, and continued to remove her make–up with swift downward strokes.

  A gentle knock made her turn. ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and a large, handsome man stepped forward. He had shoulder–length black hair slicked back with BRYLCREEM, a neatly trimmed moustache and eyes so dark they were almost black. He was broad–chested, wide shoulders tapering to narrow hips like an athlete. His attire was Italian, a fine cut of cloth; black suit, white silk shirt, red tie a stunning splash of colour. His scent was muted and exotic, not some run–of–the–mill Boot’s catalogue Christmas Special. Mia’s eyes dropped to well polished shoes, then lifted again in appraisal. He carried a bottle of Moët & Chandon beneath a smile which appeared open and genuine.

  ‘Don’t worry, this is not a proposition. Just a mark of gratitude. For the delights of your incredible entertainment.’

  ‘Champagne! Why, thank you.’ Mia, never one to turn down a decent gift, accepted the bottle with grace, studied it for a few moments, then placed it behind her. She smiled politely.

  ‘I don’t remember seeing you. Out front?’

  ‘No. I keep a discrete distance. I am not the sort of man who openly mauls a woman. Not unless she asks.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Paulo is an old... business acquaintance. We go back a long way. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Mia moved back a step, leant against her dressing table as the large and, some would say, stunningly handsome man pulled free a packet of cigarettes and tapped free a smoke.

  He lit the cigarette, then toyed with his Zippo for a moment, turning the small metal object round and round between strong fingers. Then his eyes fixed on her and she felt herself smile, openly admiring him. His curious scent teased her. And yes, she felt very tired after such a long performance, but suddenly her tiredness began to evaporate and she licked salted lips. She tilted her head a little, eyes tracing the contours of his face, and he laughed at her obvious approval.

  Hmm, she thought. Yes. Stunningly handsome...

  ‘Paulo said you wanted to talk with me? Well, I’m here and it’s late... so what would you like to talk about?’ She gave him her most sultry and brooding smile. The one she knew always made her look exotic and mysterious – a Persian Princess in need of rescue. It was an expression all men stumbled over just to get within basic primal sniffing distance...

  Yeah. The more she thought about it, the more the idea of a lonely night drifted further away from her future agenda. She had been toying with calling Callaghan, or at the very least showing up at his Penthouse and jumping him for some wild safe sex. After all, Callaghan was a guaranteed performer. A good bet. Energetic, powerful, strong. And he always had an ample stash of quality Charlie. But...

  Hmm, she thought. But.

  Things were looking up, she mused. But don’t blow it! You have to play hard to get. Best way, especially with supposed Big Players who enter like one of the Three Kings bearing fucking Moët. Don’t make it too easy. Be calm, charming, fluid. Let him come to you... Always let them come to you...

  ‘I have a couple of simple questions for you,’ said the man, dark eyes flashing as he turned, flicking cigarette ash behind him
– and away from his perfection of a suit. He turned back to face her. His movements were powerful and restrained. His eyes glittered.

  Mia nodded, nostrils piqued by the scent of the cigarette.

  ‘May I?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ He handed her the smoke.

  She closed her eyes and savoured. ‘Strange flavour,’ she muttered, words exhaling on a stream of blue. ‘Never had one like that before. What make are they?’

  ‘Sobranie Blacks,’ smiled the man.

  Mia took another drag and cursed. She wished for something stronger. Speed or Charlie. Even a little of the finest Ganja to aid with mellowing her untamed spirit. Something to ease her into a better mood for the act of hardcore sex.

  ‘Go on then.’ Her voice dropped. Husky. ‘Only a couple of questions? Shoot.’

  ‘Please excuse me,’ said the man, accepting back his Russian cigarette and placing it between his lips. It was only then Mia noticed the criss–cross of scars on his hands – and for a moment, she shivered. ‘I have been most rude. I failed to introduce myself.’ His eyes met hers. His head tilted a fraction, as if savouring some majestic, internal comedy.

  ‘My name is Vladimir,’ he said, and smiled, leaning back against the doorway with a sense of ease. The ease of someone who knew he wouldn’t be interrupted. ‘I have several probing questions about your lover. A certain Mr Callaghan.’

  Thunder grumbled. Rain pounded. Callaghan’s world descended into nothing more than the simple portal ahead. Nothing else existed. Not Jimmy, not the woman tied to the floor, not the crumbling mill decadent and stinking and dying around him; not his past, his present, his future; not even his life...

  His boots crackled crushed glass.

  He stopped at the doorway, with its disjointed frame and twisted, half–closed door. His hand, the one holding the knife, reached out guided by nothing more than unbidden kinetic energy – there was no will, no consent, and he pushed the door open to grate against rubble. Within, something large seemed to pulse.

  Callaghan stepped inside.

  Was swallowed by the hole...