Crime After Crime

by Crime After Crime (v5. 0) (mobi)

  Of course, Mum had to go next. She had become a little tiresome. At first, she was angry with my father for clearing off and leaving me alone for days in the woods. A police officer, who had also been one of Dad’s customers, found me wandering about covered in dirt and soaking wet. They dragged the lake looking for Dad’s body or even any sign of him. They questioned me, but I had learnt to be a bit vague and once again that paid off. Soon he was forgotten, and it wasn’t as though Mum had many friends asking her unanswered questions about Dad’s disappearance, and as for me, I never had any friends.

  Now there was the two of us.

  Somehow, my happy home had lost its sparkle. Mum locked herself away in her bedroom for days on end, leaving me to look after myself. This was the first time I was able to explore the house on my own. I couldn’t begin to tell you how exciting it was to come across the cellar. It was large and spacious. Single light bulbs dotted about giving off ghostly shadows among the discarded broken furniture and boxes. Shining my torch about, I made my way between them. Deep within the cellar, I found a small, windowless room. Turning off my torch, I stood in the darkness and inhaled deeply. I was twelve now, and feared nothing and no one, not even the darkness. Over the last two years, I had shot up in height and put on weight, I had even taken up running to build up my stamina.

  Switching my torch back on, I stood casting the beam around as I tried to think of a way to get Mum to come down here. I knew one thing for sure; she had a fear of the darkness. Getting my mother to enter the cellar of her own freewill wouldn’t be easy. If I had learnt one thing in my short life, fear and darkness are a deadly combination to most people; to me it was a thing of fascination.

  Call it fate, or the luck of the Gods, but the problem was taken out of my hands. If there was one thing my mother feared more than the darkness, it was having no power in the house. Having no television, papers or radio, we had no idea about the storm which was about to hit the country. The first we knew was when the wind brought down a tree and the lights began to flicker. I was in my bedroom reading when a light knock came at my door.

  “Come in.”

  “Aaron, what’s wrong with the lights.”

  “It’s probably just the storm, Mum, nothing to worry about. It will soon pass,” I said casually, showing no interest in her.

  She stepped away from the door, coming further into my room. “I wish your father was here.” Her voice shook as she spoke.

  I looked up. For the first time in years, she spoke about Dad. There she sat at the end of my bed with her hands covering her ears and rocking backwards and forwards. Outside, the wind and rain gave forth a torrent of wailing and pounding against the house. Inside, the flickering lights danced in time with the wind and rain.

  She turned her ashen face to me, “Isn’t there anything we can do to stop the lights from flickering. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “We could check the fuses,” I said, closing my book.

  “Oh, yes, of course, the fuses. I’m not sure where the fuse box is?”

  Laying my book on the bed, I said, “In the cellar, I suppose.”

  How sweet was that? I smiled into the beautiful darkness as the lights flickered again.

  Now dressed in her jeans and a large fluffy jumper, Mum hesitated at the top of the cellar stairs. Below her, the low wattage light bulbs danced in time with the raging storm.

  “Do we have to go down there?” her voice questioning, like a frightened child.

  “Yes, but it’ll be all right, you have me. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  She patted my hand. “I know, I was so lucky with you. You’ve always been so strong, so self-contained, and seemed to know what you wanted.”

  For a moment her comment puzzled me, but the smile on her face softened the lines around her mouth and I dismissed it. Picking up my torch, I shone it into the darkness as Mum followed behind. Carefully, I helped her pick her way between the broken chairs and discarded rubbish boxes.

  “I should’ve got your father to clear this place out years ago,” Mum said as we went deeper into the darkness. Behind us, the sound of the storm faded. Reaching out, she stopped and peered into one of the boxes. “I wonder…” she said, her voice steady as though she had forgotten about our reason for being down here.

  “It’s not far now,” I said, my excitement growing. I stepped behind her, smelling her fear. Had it really been so long since my last kill? I could feel my hands shaking.

  “I don’t think we need to be down here,” she said her voice surprisingly steady.

  “What?” Shocked, I caught her in the torchlight she turned to face me.

  Her face marked by age and uncertainty, seemed to take on a look of reverence. “I remember now, the fuse box isn’t down here.”

  “It is here,” I said sharply and pointed the torchlight in front of me. “It’s just a bit further on.” The darkness sucked at us as the next light bulb swung slightly in a ring of dust particles.

  “No!” Mum snapped. The single word held all her lost strength and self-belief, “it’s in the kitchen.”

  As she pushed past me, I slid the knife between her ribs.

  She stopped. Her hand dropped to her side. I smiled into her puzzled face.

  “Why?” Her voice trembled and seemed to reflect the puzzlement on her face as though some long forgotten memory had returned in that fleeting moment.

  I thought she was asking about the knife, but then I realised she wasn’t.

  “How did you know?”

  She looked down at her hands now covered in blood. “I saw you enter his room, Aaron. He was so small, so vulnerable…” Her voice trailed off. “Why? I had enough love for both of you.” Her breath weakened.

  “Love?” I laughed. “It has nothing to do with loving me. I did it because I could, and because no one stopped me.”

  She slipped down the side of the box. I leaned over her. “Why didn’t you say something while you had the chance, Mother?”

  But she was gone.

  * * *

  Most people blame their mother for their own failings, not me. For me, it was the stupid rat! After all this time, it was most annoying. I’ve always been careful, never staying too long in one place, especially after a kill. I carefully selected vulnerable people, who were in a desperate need of a friend, or someone who cared enough to listen to them. I learnt that from my good friend, Jesus, you know. Only I didn’t bother with the ‘do unto others as you wish done unto you’ crap. You’ll be surprised just how many sad, lonely people there are around you in your everyday life. You pass them in the street; you may even work with them. They are grey nondescript sort of people who show no emotion or enthusiasm for life until unexpectedly it is about to be taken from them. Then, wow, you’ll be amazed about how much they want to live, suddenly life takes on a new meaning and they come alive.

  You want to know why I kill them. It’s because it’s the reason for my existence and I don’t see why I should forget all about my pleasure, and my enjoyment because they’ve suddenly, after a few days with me, experiencing my world, and my game, have found a reason to continue living their sad, little lives.

  No, I’ve a lot to thank my parents for, if it wasn’t for them I wouldn’t have found my true path in life. Take my looks, a picture of innocence. It’s helped me in my chosen career, you might say. Women adored me and men trusted me. With my soft boyish looks, fair hair and skin, with sparkling blue eyes I make them feel especially loved. There’s been too many now and every one of them, I’ve given all they’ve desired: love and understanding. In return they give me life.

  It took me weeks, months or even a year of careful planning, to set the scene for my game of make-believe. With an added new dimension to my game, I take photographs. In the past, my only way of reliving it, was in dreams, but now I can replay it as many times as I want to. The pictures tell their own stories of our fun days out, in the park, on beaches, and at the funfair, not forgetting their smiling, happy f
aces alive with life itself.

  The rooms I rented, I set the scenes to show off my photographs of a happier time of just the three of us, Mum, Dad, and me. When they tell me how wonderful their life has become, and they trust me. Just like God, I snatch their perfect life away. The first they know of it, is an unexpected blow to the side of the neck. Thank God, I gave up the axe, it’s far too messy.

  Then deep, within the dark basement, among the discarded rubbish, my sleeping beauty awakes to find she’s locked away in a new world of shadows. After weeks of indulging her, it’s time for her to play my game. I understand her confusion, like all the rest before her. What I long to see is the fear within their eyes. It heightens my excitement as they give me back the pleasure I’ve given to them. It’s that ‘do unto others’ scenario.

  I make them suffer, watching as the little light of their life goes out slowly, and desperation takes over. It’s like finding the trapped rat of my childhood again. In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.

  They gnawed at the ropes that bind their wrists, in the same way you’re doing now, Doctor. It’s funny, that it’s tonight of all nights, you should have come to me with your questions.

  My mind races when I think about my last and final pleasure as I called her, though, I didn’t know it at the time. If it hadn’t been for that bloody rat appearing like magic, from under an old, Gothic wardrobe, I could’ve continued my game. It stood facing me, sniffing the air as though it could already smell blood, before disappearing back from whence it came.

  The strongest of them all, she hadn’t begged for mercy, like the rest. Just lying there, she watched me with large, blue, knowing eyes. She fascinated me with her endurance. My mistake was forgetting about the game. I even wondered if I was losing my touch, becoming too cocky in my old age, twenty-six, and still enjoying my childhood games.

  Like the rat, she was far cleverer than I had realised, bided her time and mine too. Had she known the old wardrobe hid a doorway? The bloody rat brought her, her freedom and the police to my door after a pest-controller broke through from the neighbour’s cellar and found her locked in mine.

  Now it’s your turn, Doctor Newton. You came to me, with questions about my game. So why not experience the pleasure here within my dull, clinical, white room. I’m sorry I hope the strips of sheets aren’t too tight. How I wish there was more time to make you comfortable, but at least, we can have some fun.

  * * *

  She stares up at me with wide, green eyes as I slip the first needle in under her fingernail. For a moment, I wonder just how long it would take her to start begging me for mercy as I slip in the second.

  ~~~~~~~~

  About the author

  Paula R. C. Readman lives in a small Essex village, with her husband, Russell and son, Stewart . Rat Trap is her third published short story. English Heritage published her first in 2010: Whitby Abbey-Pure Inspiration. In 2011, she was the overall winner in the World Book Day short story competition, run by Austin and Macauley Publishers, and was the overall winner in the Writing Magazine Harrogate Crime Competition 2012 when the best-selling crime writer Mark Billingham picked her short dark crime story Roofscapes. In addition, Paula has had several nonfiction articles published. With special thanks to Russell and Stewart as well as all her family and friends for their kind words encouragement especially, Joan , Bex, Ana , Linda and author Elizabeth ( Ivy ) Lord.

  Catch up with Paula on facebook and her blog at http://darkfantasy13writer.blogspot.co.uk

  The Courgette House

  Stephen Puleston

  “I’ve never begged for mercy and never will.”

  Frankie Long tipped a water bottle to his lips and swallowed hard. He brushed away the perspiration gathering on his forehead as three pairs of eyes stared at him, waiting. He shifted his position on a small wooden box, trying to make himself comfortable

  By his side Mickey French stifled a yawn tugging at his jaw; he’d heard it all before. Terry Welsh and Stan Haddock exchanged nervous glances and in the few days since starting in the courgette house had learned never to interrupt Frankie.

  “The trouble with the criminal justice system is that the true criminals never get their just deserts,” Frankie continued.

  “Yes, of course, Boss,” Mickey said.

  Welsh and Haddock sipped on their water bottles.

  They sat listening to Frankie’s justification for the assault that led to his conviction, agreeing when appropriate and occasionally nodding encouragement. Behind them boxes full of courgettes were piled on trolleys along the concrete path that dissected the two acre greenhouse filled with flowering green plants. Some were young with flowers still clinging to the fruit, others over-ripe, the size of marrows.

  Then Frankie told them about Locatelli.

  “I hate Italians.”

  More nodding.

  “You’re not Italian are you?”

  Headshaking.

  “He thought he was the Mafia. Moving in on my patch.”

  Mickey’s voice broke in, “But you’ll show him won’t you, Boss?”

  “Only a matter of time. And when he begs for mercy. Well…”

  Mickey snorted, Welsh and Haddock grunted an encouraging response.

  Then they heard footsteps approaching and two prison officers appeared in the doorway.

  “Busy I see lads,” the taller said.

  The shorter officer, with no neck and hands like shovels, looked at Frankie. “Probation wants to see you.”

  Frankie nodded and retrieving his prison-issue striped shirt headed towards the main administration block. He was pleased to be leaving the stifling heat of the courgette house and for a break from the monotony of the prison regime. The screws strode out in front until they reached the administration wing and left Frankie pushing open the double-doors.

  A prisoner mopping the floors nodded an acknowledgment of respect to Frankie as he made his way through the corridors. He reached a door that had a narrow metal sign with the name of the duty officer in plastic letters. There was a muffled response when he knocked and he pushed open the door. The atmosphere was stifling and the air second-hand – he wondered how anyone could work in there. The probation officer was a short woman with a severe haircut and a silver nose ring. A small fan that sat alongside the telephone on her desk turned intermittently sending a weak blast of air that moved a couple of hairs hanging over her ears.

  “Prisoner Long, sit down.”

  She was formal, no first names, no eye contact. A green coloured folder was open on her desk, a pile of buff and red folders piled untidily in a corner. Frankie had sat in the same seat a dozen times when she’d been preparing her report for the parole board and he’d barely given a second thought to the platitudes that had fallen from his lips.

  “I’ve got the parole board’s decision.”

  Frankie wasn’t expecting the decision for another week. He clasped the fingers of both hands into a fist and felt his lips drying.

  “Good news,” she lifted her eyes.

  Slowly, he unclasped his fists and smiled at her.

  * * *

  Outside Frankie stood in the summer sunshine. The sky was cloudless and a brilliant blue colour. He could smell the cut grass and the flowers in the borders. He was going to be free of this place. He was going to be able to walk into his home and kiss his wife and hug his grandchildren.

  The news travelled quickly. Screws nodded at him and their eyes told him they knew. Frankie tried a smile when one told him not to come back. He walked round the open prison with more confidence, more of a jaunt. After lock-up he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Thinking.

  * * *

  Within an hour of Frankie Long opening his fists and smiling at the probation officer a fax landed on the desk of Detective Inspector Jamie McPherson. He read it twice, made three telephone calls, sat back in his chair before deciding that he had to have a cigarette.

  He walked through th
e musty corridors of the police station turning over in his mind the snippets from informants. The cash and carry robbery was still unsolved and establishing Locatelli’s guilt had been impossible, but the whispers told him Frankie had been double-crossed. McPherson stood outside a rear door and took a cigarette from the crumpled packet in his jacket. He dragged long and hard, letting the smoke fill his lungs. It had been three years ago since he had sat in court and watched Frankie’s face as the judge sentenced him – not a flicker of remorse, no emotion, just that look of a professional facing the consequences.

  McPherson couldn’t shake off the feeling gnawing at his mind that Frankie’s reputation meant a score had to be settled.

  * * *

  On the morning of his release Frankie ignored the apprehension that crept into his mind. Mickey French gave him a man hug as he left the billet that had been his home and Frankie promised to keep in touch.

  The formalities of checking belongings, signing declarations and counting the discharge grant dragged. He got up and walked round the room to curb his irritation at the banter from the young prisoners, excited at the prospect of release.

  Once the processing was over Frankie stepped out into the summer sunshine, the warmth massaging his face. He closed his eyes and tilted his head skywards. Fresh air and sunshine tasted different for a free man.

  “Frankieee…” the voice got louder and he saw Madge her arms in the air running towards him

  She threw herself at him and he felt the warmth of her body against his. Frankie curled his hand round Madge’s waist and squeezed. The flesh was soft but more expansive then he remembered. He squeezed her hand as they walked to the car. On the journey home the traffic seemed heavier and faster than he remembered. They stopped at a services and Frankie stared at the choice of food available until a girl behind the counter with a sullen stare said, “Well do you want anything?”