Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists

by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  Copyright © 2017 by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  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, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For Luka

  FACE BOOK

  A SERIAL KILLER THRILLER

  Standing in front of the mirror above the sink, he stared at himself. Under the harsh glow from the ceramic ceiling globe, his complexion looked even more hideous than before, despite the healing. He traced the raised contours of the scars on his face with his fingertips and let out a low moan. Some were bigger than others. A long one ran the length of his cheek, from eye to jaw.

  His heart quickened, blood throbbing in his temples.

  He clawed at his face. Slowly, at first. Then faster and faster, until he drew blood.

  PROLOGUE

  Thursday, 10th June 2009

  James Ward was a popular guy. He had a lot of friends. One thousand two hundred and twenty-three, to be precise. Most of them he’d never met and the ones he had were dead. Many who visit social networking sites are keen to impress by how many “friends” they have. Not Ward; for him it was a tool, a means by which he could meet girls.

  He wasn’t fussy. Blondes, brunettes, red heads. He didn’t care what colour hair colour they had. Orientals, blacks, whites, Asians. Race wasn’t an issue. As long as they were attractive, easy on the eye, he wasn’t bothered. Any shape or size would do (within reason). He did have a preference for young ones, though. The younger the better, as far as he was concerned. After all, jailbait was fresh.

  He was forty-two years old. Time had not been kind to him. The few strands of grey hair on his head were swept over, held down with gel. His complexion was leathery, lined and well worn. The droopy skin beneath his eyes gave him the sad look of a Bassett Hound. His hairy body was decorated with tattoos.

  After setting himself up on Facebook with a false identity, Ward had googled pictures of handsome men and selected one that would give him the boy next door appeal. Dark, thick hair. Chiselled features. Cool blue eyes. How could the lay-deez resist? Ward had been surprised how easy it was to create a bogus on-line persona. Using a fake name and address, he had created an email account so he could register with the site.

  All the relevant sections had been filled in. His alias was Raphael Martin. Under education, he was listed as having studied at Cambridge University. Not only did he appear highly intelligent with his first class honours degree in business studies, he was also well-read. Dickens, Faulkner, Keats, Trollope, Joyce: he had read them all and more, had Raphael. He was a fitness freak, too. A five-times-a-week down the gym sort of bloke. Plus, he played squash. The essential sport for that hard-hitting, no nonsense business type.

  Friend requests went out and came in. Meetings were arranged. He always suggested somewhere quiet. If they didn’t agree to this, he didn’t bother. Clicked un-friend. Focused on his next victim. Most girls insisted on a public place where there were lots of people (the local pub, usually). This was shrewd and sensible, but no good for Ward. He couldn’t strangle someone in the Dog and Duck, now, could he? (Although he would have loved to.)

  He was always eager to see the shock on their faces when they clapped eyes on him. After weeks of chatting on-line, getting to know each other, the time would come. They saw him for what he really was. It never went well. The initial look of disgust was replaced by one of panic. Especially when I’m choking them to death, he thought, reminiscing about his last date. Oh yes, she didn’t look so snotty with her eyes bulging out of her fucking head.

  Slouching on the settee with his netbook on his lap, Ward logged into Facebook and scanned the day’s posts. Most of them were boring. Typical entries you would see on anyone’s page. Some chick was declaring her political views. One girl had found a Youtube clip of a dog that could stand on its head. Another was telling everyone what she’d had for breakfast. Ward wanted to poke her in the eye with a sharp stick (after he had fucked her, of course).

  ‘Sad,’ Ward said. ‘Just … pathetic.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Haven’t these bitches got anything better to do? They should find themselves something more constructive to work on. Like I have.’

  There was a can of lager by his feet. Chuckling, he picked it up and took a swig. He smacked his chops appreciably, then belched.

  A new post came up. Jess Wallis: Back from shopping and got a lovely red dress, a sleek and sexy number to go out in tonight. Ward clicked the Like button. He asked her to put up a picture of herself in the dress. Ten minutes later, she did. He told her how beautiful she looked, how amazed he was that she was single. He had been speaking to her for some time now. Was close to suggesting they go out on a date. Slowly, he was gaining her trust. Always sending her supportive messages when she felt down. When her granddad died, Ward had been there with soothing comments. I’m your shoulder to cry on, you can tell me anything. I’m here whenever you want to talk, babe. I’m your rock when you need me. That sort of shit.

  A private message popped up:

  Jess: You’re so lovely, why can’t I meet a man like you?

  Raphael: You can meet a man like me – if you want to. :)

  A pause, then – Jess: Are you offering me out on a date, hun?

  Raphael: Yup. I guess I must be.

  Another pause. Longer this time. Then – Jess: Wow! I’m really flattered but I don’t think that’d be a good idea.

  Raphael: Why?

  Jess: I don’t really know you.

  Raphael: :)

  Jess: Aww, don’t be like that.

  Raphael: After all those hours we’ve spent chatting on here, I feel as though I’ve met a soul mate. I bet I know more about you than most of your friends. Am I right or am I right?’

  Jess: You know you are. :p

  Raphael: We should arrange a date then, yes? You wouldn’t believe how much I want to meet you, to talk to you in person, to look into your blue eyes and run my fingers through your long, blonde hair. Ooops, sorry, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here, aren’t I?’

  Jess: Not at all. As I said before, I’m flattered. Where would we meet?

  Raphael: We could picnic this Saturday at Westmoore Lake. The weather forecast is good and it’s not too far from you. The scenery is beautiful. I love going there. Ever been?’

  Jess: A couple of times. It is lovely, most definitely.

  Raphael: So … is it a date, then?

  Another pause, then – Jess: Oh what the hell, why not!

  Raphael: I wish you could see the grin on my face.

  Jess: I wish you could see the smile on mine.

  ‘I’ll see your face soon enough,’ Ward said. ‘But you won’t be smiling, I guarantee it.’

  The PM session continued. They arranged to meet at 7pm, giving him a couple of days to relish what lay ahead. She asked if he could make it earlier – 12pm or 1pm would be better, so they could lunch together. He said no, because he wanted her to see the sunset and the way the light played on the water, glinting off the ripples. It’s very romantic, he said. Oh, she replied, okay, if you insist. Ward’s eyes narrowed mischievously.

&
nbsp; He knew Westmoore Lake very well. There was a nice spot by the water, sheltered by trees, where he’d had a date before. Fond memories came back to him, filling him with inner warmth. Memories of a bloated, pallid face with bloodshot, lifeless eyes.

  Ward heard groaning and looked down. Isabella was stirring, her eyes slowly opening. She was on the floor, on her side, tied up near his feet. Her wrists and ankles were secured with rope. He had thought she was dead. He’d strangled her for long enough. His red finger marks were visible on her neck. She was bruised black and blue. One of her eyes was nearly shut due to the swollen pillow of meat beneath it. Blood oozed from her nose, her mouth.

  ‘Wakey, wakey!’ Ward said, kicking her. ‘Rise and shine, you bitch!’

  She looked up at him, the realisation of where she was dawning across her battered face. ‘P-please,’ she stammered. ‘Please … let me g-go.’

  ‘Now I think we both know that’s not going to happen, don’t we?’

  A bleep from Ward’s netbook turned his attention back to the screen. Another bitch wanting to chat. Some chick named Anne. Had an impressive rack, from the look of things. He hoped she wasn’t wearing a padded bra. He decided that, should they meet, he would beat her double if she was. He hated dick-teases. She was a brunette, like Isabella.

  ‘Why?’ she managed to ask. ‘Why are you d-doing this to m-m-me?’

  A tear trickled down her cheek.

  She wanted to know why, so Ward decided to show her. He took another swig of lager. Set the can aside. Standing up, he pulled his jeans over his flabby fish-white belly. He gave Isabella another kick in the stomach, just for the hell of it. Curling into a ball, she clutched her knees to her chest. She let out a pained gasp, like a punctured tyre.

  In his bedroom, Ward knelt down and opened his bedside cupboard. Reaching over the back, he pulled out a large book. He ran his fingers over the weighty tome’s leather cover. This was his pride and joy, the reason he lived now. He was determined to fill the book. Taking it back to Isabella, he showed it to her.

  She had pulled herself up to a sitting position.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said. ‘Why are y-you showing me th-that?’

  Ward opened the book on page 1. Held it up.

  Isabella recoiled back. Let out a shrill scream.

  ‘Oh my God, you psycho!’ she said. ‘You utter psycho!’

  Glancing around frantically, she tried to crawl away, but Ward pulled her back. Punched her in the face.

  ‘You wanted to know why,’ he said, opening the book again, ‘so here you go.’

  Isabella screamed once more.

  She held her hands up to blot out the hideous Face Book that was staring back at her. Ward batted her arms aside.

  ‘Her name was Rose,’ he said, pointing to page 1. ‘She was the first. You’ll be the forth.’

  Rose’s skin was like parchment, stretched taut over the page and held in place with stitches of thread around the edge. Ward still thought she was beautiful, though. He had used a syringe to suck out the gelatinous fluid from her eyeballs so he could flatten them down.

  Every night he admired his small but growing collection. No need to stink up the joint with bodies in the cellar. With his book he could look upon his lady friends’ faces at his convenience. Page 1: Rose, a red head. Page 2: a blonde. Page 3: an Asian girl who’d had the longest, silkiest black hair Ward had ever seen. He had scalped her. Page 4 …

  With all her might, Isabella yelled for help.

  Fearful someone might hear, Ward put his prized possession aside and went back to the bedside cupboard. He reached over the back. Retrieved a long, sharp knife. The blade’s serrated edge glinted in the early morning sunlight that was spearing though a gap in the curtains.

  This was the bit he enjoyed the most.

  Saturday

  Westmoore Lake

  Pulling into the car park in his rusty blue Mondeo, Ward circled around giving the area a quick once-over. This was not what he had expected. Normally, by 7pm, the place was deserted. Most folk had walked their dogs or had their scenic strolls and were curled up on the settee at home or getting ready to go out. Not today. Ward counted four cars and a white van. As he parked up, he focused his attention on a black Corsa, which is what Jess had said she would arrive in. She had reversed into her space, under some trees, right near the path where Ward had suggested she park. He had a good view of her. He saw movement inside, a head turning. The bitch was still in the car. Good.

  As the weatherman had promised, it was a glorious day. The sun was low in the sky, dipping below the trees that lined the lake. Other than a few wispy clouds, a blanket of deep blue stretched into the distance, fading to white on the horizon. Twenty-two degrees in the shade. Unseasonably warm for the time of year. A splendid day for a date. For a kill.

  Judas Priest was playing on the stereo. Ward liked to listen to heavy rock before taking care of business. It got him in the mood. Made adrenalin flow. Blood pump.

  He scanned the area, looking for anything suspicious. Other than Jess, he couldn’t see anybody. He briefly considered driving away and leaving. Too many cars, the owners of which could come back any time. Then he changed his mind. Decided to just get on with it. If he was vigilant and quick, there would be no problems. Have at it, then. Do something.

  Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  His heart thumped against the inside of his ribcage in anticipation.

  Ward’s knife was on the passenger seat. He picked it up. Slipped it into the inside pocket of his faded denim jacket. It was the same one he had used to cut off Isabella’s face, to remove her eyes. She now took pride of place on page 4. He couldn’t wait to fill page 5. Jess was easily the hottest girl he had lured. A welcome addition.

  Checking himself out in the rear-view mirror, Ward noticed a few strands of comb-over sticking up, so he wet his fingers and plastered them back down. He smiled at his reflection, revealing crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. He winked.

  ‘Looking good.’

  Wasting no more time, he switched the CD player off. Got out of the car. Made his way towards the trees, towards the path. There was still no one around that he could see.

  He had told Jess to look out for a red BMW. He guessed that, by now, she would be worried she had been stood up. That she’d be wondering how long to give it before going home.

  He took a wide birth so he could approach from the rear. Slipping around the back of the van so he could use it for cover, Ward walked along the path until he reached her car. He went to grab the driver’s door handle, then heard a noise behind him. He stopped. Glanced around. Couldn’t see anything. Just his imagination, he figured. Bad case of the jitters. Then he heard it again.

  The van was rocking from side to side, its suspension creaking like an old hinge in need of WD40.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Jess asked. She had wound her window down and was looking back at him, smiling. ‘Are you okay? You seem kind of troubled.’

  ‘Somebody’s about to look troubled,’ Ward said, ‘but it’s not me, love.’

  He lunged for the driver’s door. Yanked it open. Pulled out his knife. But …

  With blurring speed and liquid motion, Jess produced a handgun from her lap. She put the barrel to Ward’s forehead. It felt like ice against his sweaty temple. His mouth sunk open in shock. Eyes widened in disbelief.

  ####

  ‘You’re under arrest!’ Detective Inspector Dawn Shelsher said. ‘Now put the knife down … love!’ Her finger was tight over the trigger, ready to pull if Ward made any sudden movements.

  Before he could act on her order, however, he was grabbed from behind. Relieved of his weapon. Policemen wrestled him face-down to the ground. One of them placed a knee in the small of his back whilst others held his arms so he could be cuffed.

  ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ an officer said, clicking the cuffs locked. ‘You have right to a solicitor. You have the right to rot in hell …’

  ‘Now, n
ow,’ another one said, ‘you’ve gotta read him his rights properly, Jenkins; he’s entitled to at least that much.’

  Dawn got out of the Corsa. She holstered her gun inside her black leather jacket.

  ‘I thought I was going to pass out ‘cause of his bad breath,’ she said, retching.

  Ward was hauled up off the floor. He snarled at Dawn.

  ‘You bitch!’ he said, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You set me up!’

  ‘Get this piece of shit out of my face,’ Dawn said. ‘Not only does he have bad breath, he’s got a world class case of BO. Get him away from me before I do something I won’t regret.’

  Ward was led to an unmarked police car. Given his proper rights. As he was being bundled into the rear, he shouted back, ‘I’ll getchoo for this, you bitch! No matter how long I have to wait, I’ll getchoo for this! You’ll be the next one in my book! I’ll make you suffer …’

  An officer “accidentally” banged Ward’s head against the car’s frame whilst pushing him into the vehicle, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve made an enemy for life,’ Jenkins said to Dawn as he adjusted his spectacles on his long, narrow nose.

  ‘Samuel,’ she responded, 'do I look like I care?'

  ‘What do you think he meant by “You’ll be the next one in my book”?’

  Dawn shrugged. ‘God knows. The guy’s obviously a whacko.’

  The white van’s side door slid open. A skinny lad peered out. He was semi-naked, his pigeon bare chest showing. His mouth formed an O of surprise and bewilderment. A girl cowered behind him, trying to cover her modesty with her clothes.

  ‘Looks like we’ve interrupted some jiggy-jiggy time,’ an officer said, then burst out laughing. His comrades followed suit.

  The boy pulled the door shut. A few seconds later, the van’s engine gunned to life and the young lovers made for the exit.