by Chris Parker
8
Peter Jones’s eyes opened abruptly.
The clock by his side of the bed showed it was 6.50am, ten minutes before the alarm was due to go off. He had suffered another fitful night’s sleep.
Peter looked instinctively at his partner, Nic, who lay unmoving with his back turned to him from the far side of their king-size. He saw the now familiar lines of tension in his shoulders. He got the unmistakeable impression again that Nic was feigning sleep. Peter eased out of the bed, complicit in the lie, choosing as he had the day before and the day before that to act as if he had not seen the truth.
He padded out of the room, taking care to close the door quietly behind him.
For as long as he and Nic had been together, Peter had always been the first to rise. He was used to being the person who brought movement into the house each morning, who breathed life into each room.
He had believed for longer than he could remember that for a house to become a home it had to be reinvigorated with the energy of every new day. So each morning as he went from room to room, when he opened the curtains, whilst he waited for the kettle to boil, Peter thought of all the great memories associated with the time he had spent living here with Nic.
Only now the feeling inside him was changing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on reinvigorating the house when he knew their relationship was damaged, possibly fatally so. Now, if there were any obvious threads holding them together they were few and far between.
‘Hanging on,’ he mused, shivering slightly in the early morning chill of the kitchen. ‘That’s the best we are doing right now. That’s the damage it causes.’
It was the job. It wanted more than just your time. It wanted your energy, your commitment, your willingness to sacrifice. And in return it didn’t care if it destroyed you and those closest to you. It was a selfish bastard. It took everything you had day after day and fucked you in return.
It was irresistible.
That was the bottom line.
Peter had been hooked from the very first moment. An immediate addiction. More powerful than any drug. More hypnotic even than the smell of a lover’s skin.
Complete.
Pressing you always to let it into your home. To reveal to your family just who you become when you are in its embrace. Pressing always for the opportunity to suffocate everyone else you held dear, to ruin the hearts of those who trusted you with their love.
Peter knew it was only a matter of time before things came to a head between himself and Nic. Whilst this was not his first serious romance it was by far the most meaningful, the closest he had ever been to experiencing what he guessed people meant when they talked of true love.
It was.
Already he was thinking of their connection in the past tense. Not because he had lost his love for Nic. Far from it. It was because the great destructive affair had thrust its way into their home, forcing Peter to show what it did to him.
The night that Ethan Hall had been caught Nic had seen the other side of Peter’s character for the very first time. He had seen the Detective Chief Inspector, the emotionless, implacable hunter, the man who played the most dangerous of professional games against the most dangerous of opponents. The man who always won.
Nic had seen him, the man who could not escape the harsh embrace of the job.
‘I don’t want to escape it.’ Peter’s words came out unplanned.
He heard them in the way he heard a suspect’s statement. Cold. Clinical. His mind racing behind an emotionless face to identify all possible connections and implications, going from individual details to big picture and back again in fractions of a second. Hearing what wasn’t said as clearly as what was. Knowing that the trick was to keep the suspect talking, to keep asking questions.
‘Why don’t you quit?’ He whispered. ‘When you know it’s so destructive?’
‘Because it’s what I do.’
‘Is it?’
The answer came quickly. He’d thought it would. Some suspects are desperate to tell the truth. Even if it guarantees a guilty verdict.
‘No. It’s not what I do. That’s the excuse. The lie. It’s not what I do. It’s what I am. That’s why I can’t end it yet. I still need to hunt.’
‘No matter what the cost?’
‘I don’t mean to hurt those who love me. That’s not my motive.’
‘That doesn’t absolve you of your guilt.’
‘I’m not looking for absolution.’
‘Of course you are not. That’s how you cope with the damage you cause. You believe it’s acceptable as long as you suffer too.’
‘There’s still a chance for Nic and me. We’re still hanging on.’
‘We both know you are kidding yourself.’
‘No! He’s special! Our relationship is not like any of the others!’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘It isn’t over yet!’ Peter heard his voice, angry and fearful, as if it wasn’t his own. He then realised the kettle had boiled unnoticed and that the mobile phone was buzzing on the worktop like an angry wasp. He put it to his ear.
The news stabbed into his brain and then down through his entire system. His blood automatically pulled away from the extremities of his body and pooled in his core, protecting and supporting his vital organs. His brain fired jolts of adrenaline and cortisol.
Just a few short sentences, just the relaying of one simple fact, and the flight-fight-or freeze state was automatically created, his partner Nic forgotten.
Detective Chief Inspector Jones ended the call without saying a word. He left the kitchen without pouring himself a drink. He walked out of the house in silence. He had to go to work.
Ethan Hall had escaped from the hospital.
9
It had been as easy as Peter feared; as easy as Ethan Hall had known it would be.
The synesthete had lain awake for most of the night. It was hard to sleep when the vivid, multi-coloured future you were about to create was only hours away.
Anticipation had its own distinct colour and shape. It fizzed and flashed like miniature lightning bolts. It brought the taste of copper, the taste of blood, to his mouth. This was especially strong when it merged as it did now with its ideal emotional partner: Certainty.
Anticipation mixed with hope was exciting but, if not managed carefully, it risked tipping into the dull stench of desperation. Anticipation mixed with certainty was something else altogether. Its power made even more so by its rarity. Few were the people who ever genuinely felt the two combine.
From Ethan’s perspective anticipation mixed with certainty was more than a human cocktail. It was the power that religious fools gave to their gods. It was Supreme Knowledge. It was control of the future. It was his. He had shared the night with it.
Then he had simply slipped out of the bed, crossed the room, and opened the door.
The police constable had turned abruptly. Ethan placed his right hand high against the doorframe. The constable took a half-pace backwards. Ethan smiled. The constable stopped retreating and returned the smile. ‘My name is Patrick,’ he said.
The next thing he knew a nurse was easing him back into consciousness. He was laying, almost naked, on the prisoner’s bed. Although his mind seemed to be working as normal, his face and body felt distant and uncooperative.
‘My name is Doreen,’ the nurse said, leaning over him and mouthing the words explicitly. ‘Nod if you understand me.’ She was a robust, Afro-Caribbean woman who gave the impression she had been through far too much in her life to let panic take an easy hold.
Patrick nodded.
‘I’ve already called for assistance,’ she said. ‘I’ve already told them that Ethan has gone. We think he must have walked out of the hospital wearing your police uniform.’
Jesus Christ! I’m responsible for a serial killer escaping! Patrick’s thoughts were in sharp, hurtful contrast to the numb disconnect everywhere else.
‘How did he do this to
you?’ Doreen asked. ‘Did he inject you with something?’
Patrick shook his head. How did he do this to me? His mind raced, crashing almost immediately into a single memory that blocked the rest of his encounter with Ethan. ‘Introduth mythelf,’ he mumbled.
Doreen straightened and looked down at him. ‘Well, this is a new one on me,’ she said. ‘Your pulse is really strong and, if anything, it indicates that you are in a very relaxed state. It’s as if you are just taking your time coming out of a very deep sleep. The question is, what made you go to sleep in the first place?’
Patrick forced his right hand to twitch. Doreen paid it no attention. Instead she checked her watch.
‘The cavalry is on its way,’ she said with what was meant to be a supportive, understanding smile.
Patrick closed his eyes. Detective Chief Inspector Peter Jones would be leading the cavalry and Patrick was absolutely sure he wasn’t coming to his rescue. He feared it would be quite the opposite. He was certain that things would deteriorate even further if he were unable to explain to the DCI just how Ethan Hall had got passed him.
Patrick shook his head from side to side, trying desperately to dislodge his mental roadblock.
Just what the hell had happened?
10
They had shaken hands.
That was what happened just a few seconds after Patrick introduced himself.
Ethan Hall had moved his hand from the doorframe and offered it, open, in time-honoured fashion.
Patrick, still struggling to make sense of why he had felt compelled to introduce himself, had been unable to resist the invitation. His right hand had reached out and, just a split second before it touched Ethan’s, the synesthete made his move. His own hand rolled beneath Patrick’s, catching the wrist between his thumb and his forefinger, turning the palm in, raising Patrick’s hand upwards until it was level with his eyes.
The constable blinked involuntarily. Ethan moved forwards, his left hand reaching out to rest on Patrick’s right shoulder. At the same time he moved the captured hand towards Patrick’s face.
‘Just go all the way down,’ he whispered.
Patrick’s eyes fluttered and closed, incapable of focussing on the lines of his palm as they rapidly filled his vision. He lost conscious awareness before his hand touched his face.
Now, as Ethan walked calmly along Derby Road towards the city centre, he took a moment to relive his first, truly influential interaction with another human being since the coma caught his fall.
And what an interaction it had been! For the first time in his life, he had wiped another person’s short-term memory clear! Now he could influence someone’s ability to remember as well as he could their current experience. He could change their perspective and their past, albeit temporarily. Maybe one day, he considered, he would be able to remove someone’s memory permanently. It would be a great example of a punishment worse than death. And he already had several such punishments planned. The constable, Ethan told himself, would never know just how significant he was; what a great turning point he represented.
Ethan allowed himself a smile as he strolled past Canning Street police station. Then he allowed himself to remember something else, something altogether different. The thought of Patrick lying helpless on the bed had stirred a distant memory, one he had left untouched for a very long time.
Before he had killed his first human being he had paid a woman to have sex with him.
Sort of.
He had actually wanted to see what it looked like, what it really looked like, when a woman had an orgasm. He had watched pornography; seen the boredom and fakery of the woman in the film, watched her thinking of other things, mundane everyday things, as she let half a dozen men do everything they wanted with her body. He had watched her pretend.
So he had paid a woman to go back to the flat that he had shared with Darren, his very limited drug-dealing, so-called friend. He had told her to make herself come. That was all. She didn’t need to do anything to him. She didn’t even need to strip if she didn’t have to. She just had to lie on his bed and orgasm. Just once. Honestly.
He had even warned her not to fake it. He had stressed to her it would be a grave error to think she could trick him.
‘We have a deal,’ he said. ‘I have given you money to do what I want. I expect you to show me what I’ve paid for.’
And still the stupid bitch thought he was just like everyone else. She undid her jeans, slipped her right hand inside the black cotton of her panties, closed her eyes and pretended. He watched in silence.
Five minutes.
A pathetic, pathetic, show.
When she stopped moaning and opened her eyes he breathed his anger onto her. He saw the first flicker of doubt cross her face. He fanned it with his next breath. Watched it grow and spread. She gasped. It was genuine this time. She could feel his anger – her doubt – holding her, weighing her down. It took only seconds for her to realise she couldn’t move, that she was his prisoner. There were tears in her eyes when he spoke next.
‘You agreed to come for me,’ he said. ‘You promised. I didn’t challenge you when you lied about your name. Or when you pretended you’d never had sex for money. I didn’t challenge you about those things because I don’t care about them, I didn’t need you to be honest about them. I only needed you to be honest with your cunt.’
He used the last words like a knife, stabbing them into her. Her pain was exaggerated because she had no way of preparing for it. She writhed in agony, her stomach twisting, whilst her chest, arms and lower legs were pinned to the bed.
He waited until the pain had subsided before he said, ‘You’re about to tell me I can have my money back if I just let you go. Save your breath. You are going to keep the money and I am going to see what I paid for.’
‘No ... No. I can’t. Not for real.’ She panted the words. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let you down. I just can’t do it for you. I’ll do anything else! Honestly! Anything. Just not that. Please! I only do that with my boyfriend.’
He nodded. He understood. He really did. Only it made no difference. She should have said, ‘No’. Only she hadn’t. They had a deal. She had taken his money. Now she was going to deliver her side of the bargain. She was going to come. Even though he wasn’t her boyfriend.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
She did. She had no choice. She didn’t know why. She just had to.
‘Just remember what he does to you. How he does it. He knows what to do. Right? He knows precisely how to make you come. So, remember now how it feels when he does. Remember the feeling. Feel it start. Inside. Feel the first sensation in your stomach. Hear the first thoughts. You know the thoughts. You know how they just seem to start unbidden. You know how they grow. They grow just like the feeling grows. You know how the feeling grows. How it builds. How it swells and draws you down and makes you forget everything else. How it becomes the only thing you need. Right. Now. Feel it grow. Feel it grow now. You know how. Remember the movements, the breathing, the anticipation...That’s right. Good girl.’
It took him only three minutes.
She cried as she came. The tears lasted longest. He didn’t wait for them to stop.
After the second time he told her if she had honoured the deal, once would have been enough. Only now it wasn’t.
It wasn’t nearly enough.
He kept her pinned to the bed for two days. He made her orgasm time after time. Relentlessly. Remorselessly. He watched the colours firing from her body and her mouth as she climaxed. He watched pleasure and embarrassment and shame turn into pain and then agony. He watched fear turn into terror as she realised he could kill her this way.
He watched her body lose control. He watched her lose the fight to control her bladder and her bowels. He watched the storm of emotions on her face as he made her come continually despite her mess. He watched her lose track of time, lose awareness of everything else.
Even when she passed out,
her subconscious heard his words and her body responded. He watched how her orgasm dissipated and how its colours changed as she neared death.
For two days he did something to her that her boyfriend never would.
He ruined her.
She was not the first person he killed. Not quite.
He never wondered if she would have preferred to die.
11
Peter Jones strode through the hospital Ethan Hall had walked out of dressed as a policeman trying desperately to focus only on the problem at hand. Trying with every fibre of his being to stop the thoughts of what this might mean to him and Nic, to Marcus and Anne-Marie or anyone else unfortunate enough to be targeted by Ethan Hall.
Peter’s face was grim when he stepped into the private room that had once housed a killer. The young constable was still in bed, on doctor’s orders. He looked terrified.
I should have insisted they keep two officers on the door.
‘Patrick it wasn’t your fault.’ Peter meant to sound reassuring, but they both heard the criticism in his voice. Only he knew it was directed inwards.
‘I’m really sorry, sir.’ The confusion in the officer’s face was tangible. So was the fear. His eyes were inappropriately wide as if straining to catch a glimpse of something that had vanished mysteriously.
‘There’s no need to be sorry.’ You didn’t stand a chance. ‘You did everything we could have asked of you. And at least it seems your voice is back to normal. I heard you’d been struggling with it.’
‘When I first woke up, yes. Then it suddenly came back.’
‘Well, that’s good. I’m sure everything else will over time. Right now I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The eyes widened even more. ‘It’s just that I don’t think there’s any point in you asking. You see, when I try to think about what happened it’s like I keep falling into a hole in my mind. I can remember seeing him standing there. And his smile. And his hand. And then it just stops. There’s nothing. Nothing until I saw the nurse. And then my entire body felt the way your mouth does when you’re at the dentist. Do you know what I mean, sir?’
