by Zoe Caldwell
We arranged to meet in Darren’s hometown of Hull. I suggested a park, the kind of place an eleven-year-old like Emily would want to meet. Darren seemed keen on that idea. I went up to Hull a few days earlier to scout out the parks, found one with an alleyway, no CCTV. I suggested we meet there and asked Darren to bring me pink roses – my favourite – so I’d know for sure it was him. I saw him standing at the end of the alleyway on the day we were meant to meet, greasy-haired and pale, wearing a childlike T-shirt with a pattern of dinosaurs under a black fleece jacket. He was holding the roses. He looked shifty. His eyes slid towards me, slid away. He coughed. I walked down the alleyway, purposefully, casually, like I was going somewhere, then I reached into my bag for the knife.
‘Fucking nonce,’ I growled as I spun round and slashed him. The look in his eyes was priceless.
I stood, watching, as he dropped to the tarmac, blood oozing out of him, glistening red, staining his pathetic T-shirt. The roses fell from his grip. I pulled out a stem and fled.
I disappeared. The police thought a bloke killed @justaguy78, real name Alfie Morgan. Tripped them up with the size ten footprints in the mud. I wore men’s clothes that day; I looked like any other grainy hooded criminal in the CCTV images that caught me fleeing the scene a few streets away. The cops never saw through it. As if anyone would suspect Camilla Black, editor of Couture. Ha.
There’s a Casio watch from a rapist in my box too. A condom from another paedophile. A wedding ring from an abuser. The list goes on, but I can’t sit here reminiscing all night. Julian’s waiting for me. We’re late for our sex party.
I grab a duffel bag from a hook on the wall and fill it with the things I’ll need for his kill: rope, duct tape, cable ties, a spanner, a crowbar, a few other bits and pieces. Then I pick up my pièce de résistance – the one item I’ve been waiting to use for months: my crossbow. An Excalibur Crossbow Matrix Mega 405. Sharp arrows. Fast speed. Silent release. Maximum penetration. I’ve been gagging to use it and I feel a thrill of anticipation as I sling the case onto my back, before reaching down to turn off the lamp.
Julian lies drooping against the wall of my garage, eyes shut, mouth hanging open. I pull him out onto the tarmac outside.
‘Come on you, we’ve got a sex party to get to,’ I tell him as I pull down the garage door. It rattles into place.
Julian doesn’t stir. I lock the door, checking a few times to make sure it’s definitely locked. I always get a bit paranoid about that.
‘Earth to Julian!’ I trill, giving him a kick. ‘Wakey-wakey!’
He doesn’t move a muscle.
For a terrible moment, I fear he might be dead. What if he’s choked on his own vomit or something and I didn’t notice? I’m meant to kill him. He’s my kill. That would be such a fucking drag.
I crouch down to his level. ‘Oi! Julian!’ I poke his chest. ‘You fucking asshole, wake up!’
I poke him again, harder, harder, until finally he stirs, blinking groggily, mumbling something.
‘Get up!’ I order him, tugging his arm.
It’s not easy pulling a thirteen-stone man up from the ground, especially not while carrying a crossbow but eventually I manage it.
‘We need to get to the party. It’s in full swing. We’re late.’
Julian stands, swaying a little, leaning against me for support.
‘Okay, okay,’ he mumbles.
We stagger along. Arms linked, we’re like a Victorian gentleman and lady having a promenade in a garden. Kind of. Okay not quite. Julian keeps falling and I have to haul him up every five steps. We pass the garages and walk down the street towards the building where I’m taking him. Council flats in dark brick practically blend into the night sky. A few shoddy, crumbling terraced houses sit behind overflowing bins. The slabs of the pavement are cracked, uneven. We pass a wall that caved in during a car crash a few months ago. It still hasn’t been repaired. Bricks have tumbled onto the street. No one’s bothered to remove them. A man in an imitation Adidas tracksuit walks past us. He reeks of fags. He glances our way, but it doesn’t bother me. Julian and I just look wasted. And for that reason, we fit in around here. Everyone looks a bit odd in this part of London; it’s the bin of the city, full of lost souls – addicts, criminals, the homeless, waifs and strays. Julian and I blend in perfectly.
I wait until the man’s out of sight, then steer Julian down a narrow path towards an old council block. I noticed it one day when I was on my way to Poundland to replenish my duct tape supply. All the tenants had been evicted, the block was empty, boarded up. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I thought it might come in handy later.
‘Here we are!’ I declare, once we reach the block.
The windows and doors are covered in plywood. The walls have been spray-painted with nonsensical graffiti. I look up and take in the building’s tall twelve-storey expanse. It doesn’t exactly look like an ideal venue for a saucy sex party but Julian’s too out of it to care at this point. I let go of his arm. He hobbles forward a few steps before slumping to the ground. I walk to the entrance and set to work removing the plywood boarding so I can jimmy the door open. This is the part of the night I’ve been the most worried about. It’s fairly quiet around here, but the last thing I need is someone spotting me breaking in, catching me, and pissing all over my parade before I’ve had a chance to have any fun. Fortunately, the plywood boarding has been shoddily installed and I manage to wrench it off fairly easily with my crowbar. I glance over my shoulder at Julian. He’s staring at the ground; he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. Right, now I have to pick the lock. I check no one’s around and get to work. I reach into my bag for my tension wrench and slide it into the keyhole, before retrieving a paperclip from my bra. I twist the tension wrench before inserting the paperclip, feeling for the pins in the lock. It takes all of my concentration and co-ordination to pick it and I’m regretting the wine and tequila. I twist the tension wrench again, feeling around with the paperclip but the lock’s not budging. My heart hammers in my chest and I’m starting to sweat. What if I can’t get the damn thing open? What if all this is for nothing? Just as I’m beginning to lose it and panic, my tension wrench glides clockwise, the door clicking open. Beautiful. I’m in.
I push the door open and gaze into the darkness inside: cobwebs, damp-stained walls, graffiti, dust, dereliction. I smile, before turning to drag Julian off the floor.
‘Come on you,’ I say as I pull him inside.
I deposit him on the dirty linoleum, littered with sharps, bailiff letters, flyers, rubbish. A mouse darts across the corridor, making me jump. Julian doesn’t react.
I close the door behind us and fasten it shut, slipping my crowbar between the two pull handles. I don’t want to be disturbed.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I breathe in the dank, pungent air, feeling the emptiness of the building sink into me. The silence.
I turn to Julian, prostrate on the floor. ‘Get up.’
He doesn’t respond. I grab him and pull him to his feet.
‘Get up!’ I spit.
He hobbles up, confused, compliant.
‘This way.’ I lead him towards the staircase.
I scoped this building out a few weeks ago, prized off one of the boards from a window, smashed it and snuck through.
The site was empty. I was surprised no one had moved in: no scagheads, no drunks, no homeless people, but when I thought about it, it made perfect sense. There aren’t many homeless people in this part of town since they know they won’t get a penny begging anyone. And every third person is a scaghead around here; they’re already settled. They don’t need to take refuge in an abandoned council block.
I wandered through the dirty corridors, checking the building out. Drifting through its ghostly empty flats, littered with the debris of past tenants: discarded kids’ toys, crack pipes, newspapers, broken electricals, ratty old unwanted clothes. I walked up to the very top of the building and had a poke around. Th
at’s when I discovered a door that opened onto a narrow external staircase leading to an asphalt roof. I climbed up and looked around, stunned. The roof was the best part of the whole place. I was towering over everything. It felt calm, peaceful, serene. I was out of sight. Above everyone else. Away from prying eyes. Away from CCTV. Invisible. Invincible.
That was when the seed was planted. This roof could be my playground, but how would I like to play? It wasn’t long before an idea took hold. A certain painting had been stuck in my mind for a long time: Saint Sebastian by Andrea Mantegna. I first saw the small, narrow painting on a trip to Vienna for my friend Priya’s thirtieth birthday. In between sipping champagne in Café Central and enjoying our hotel’s five-star spa facilities, we took a trip to the Kunsthistorisches Museum to take in the Klimts, the Caravaggios, the Rembrants, but it was Mantegna’s work that caught my eye. I felt my heart swell when I saw the picture. Saint Sebastian’s muscular body had been bound with rope to a marble pillar, amidst Roman ruins. Arrows littered his flesh, piercing his chest, ribs, stomach, waist, thighs. A giant one had impaled his head, slicing through his chin and emerging from his forehead. Blood seeped from his wounds. His dark eyes gazed towards heaven, pleadingly, full of pain.
I knew I had to bring it to life.
I bought my crossbow when I got home: a modern-day archer. And then I waited for my victim.
‘Keep walking,’ I urge Julian.
He’s clutching the stairway bannister, staggering, heavy-footed, but he does what I say. He keeps walking up the stairs, floor after floor. Maybe he thinks the sex party’s taking place at the top. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what the hell’s going on. The latter’s more likely.
Finally, we reach the top floor. I steer Julian down the corridor towards the roof door. I yank it open and push him onto the stone steps outside that lead up to the asphalt expanse. Julian spills onto the roof, collapsing on the ground. Dragging his drugged feet up twelve flights of stairs has clearly taken it out of him. I lower my crossbow, drop my duffel bag and stand back, hands on my hips, catching my breath. I look out over the city, at the smog, the glimmering lights scattered over the darkness, the moon, round and full, stars obscured by clouds. I look down at Julian, lying on the asphalt. His eyes are wide open with the empty, unseeing stare of a date rape victim.
‘Oh Julian…’ I say, crouching down next to him.
I place my hand on his cheek, my fingers cold against his warm skin. His mouth is agape, but I can’t help admiring his perfect, strong-boned features; such symmetry, such fine proportions, with that beauty spot setting the whole thing off, like the final expert stroke of an artist’s brush that brings the painting together. He’s so gorgeous. Why did he have to be so rotten?
I straddle him and begin unbuttoning his shirt. Even though I know he’s a rapist piece of shit, I still find myself getting turned on as I expose his body button by button. His chest is stunning, his muscles sculpted and strong. He’s a wonder. I reach up and touch my breasts through my top, my nipples are hard. Urghh. If only he hadn’t been such a creep. I’d have fucked his brains out if he’d only been normal.
I reach down to Julian’s jeans. Black skinnies. High street. I unzip his fly and peel them off. He really does have a great body: lean, muscular legs. I tug his jeans free from his ankles and toss them to the side, where I chucked his shirt. His boxers leave a lot to be desired: bobbling cotton with a scrolling Next logo. Eww. Why on earth would you want that logo on show? I peel them off, revealing his flaccid cock. I shudder as I think about where it’s been, as the images of what he did to those girls flash through my mind. I toss his boxers aside and climb off his body.
Right, now for the tricky bit: binding Julian to the steel phone mast in the middle of the roof. I rummage in my bag for my rope. I hook my arms under his and pull him over to the post. I can’t be bothered to try to get him to walk. I’m pretty sure he’s past walking at this point. He’s barely conscious, dead weight. It takes all of my strength and co-ordination to pull him up and wrap the rope around his arms, shoulders, hands and feet, binding him to the mast.
I breathe a sigh of relief once I’m done and stand back to admire him. His head lolls against his chest. I take in his body. Those muscles. His slumped, defeated frame. I expected this to be good, but Julian’s everything I could have wanted and more. My very own Saint Sebastian from Mantegna’s painting. Saint Sebastian 2.0.
Saint Sebastian was sentenced to death by the Roman emperor Diocletian when it was discovered he was Christian. But despite being shot with arrows, he was nursed back to health by Saint Irene of Rome. Diocletian got him in the end though. He was clubbed to death eventually, and subsequently venerated throughout history as a Christian martyr. Unlike Diocletian, I’m going to get Julian the first time round. No one will be coming to save him. And he won’t be martyred. Julian’s death will be no great loss to the world. There’s nothing holy about this cunt.
I unzip my crossbow bag and take it out, reverentially, stroking its strings like a harp. I load an arrow and stand back. I peer through the viewfinder, tracing it over Julian’s body, as I decide where to fire my first shot. I linger over his heart, but I don’t want his death to be quick and easy, so I lower the viewfinder down towards his thigh and pull the trigger. The arrow releases from the bow with a soft satisfying click. It glides through the night sky and thuds into Julian’s thigh. He gasps, suddenly springing to life, sucking in air. He looks down at his thigh, sees the arrow piercing his flesh, the blood trickling down his leg and he starts to whimper in fear. He begins to writhe, wrestling against his rope bindings. He looks up at me and for a few seconds, it’s like he hasn’t been drugged at all. Adrenaline cuts through his stupor. His eyes are sharp and alert, full of pure, unadulterated terror. I smile. A delicious smile. One that spreads slowly over my face.
‘W-w-wha’ ya doin’? Sto’. Le’ m’ go!’ Julian pleads, his speech slurred.
I laugh as I load another arrow into my bow. I lift it up and peer through the viewfinder.
‘Nice six-pack,’ I say, taking aim at one of his abs. I pull the trigger. The arrow releases: click, thud. Into his flesh.
Julian cries out and starts screaming. It’s annoying. I load another arrow.
‘Oh, shut up!’ I hiss, heaving the crossbow up and peering through the viewfinder.
‘Sto– St–’ Julian attempts to plead.
‘Do you mean “stop”?’ I ask. ‘Hmmm…’ I peer over the top of the crossbow and do a thoughtful face. ‘Let me think about that for a second… Nope!’
I lower my crossbow and take aim at his neck.
‘Le’ m’ go! Lemmo!’ Julian begs.
I aim at his vocal cords and pull the trigger. Click. Thud.
He starts crying. His eyes are wide, stunned, leaking with tears. Blood pours from his neck. A thick stream cascades down his body.
Now that I’ve shut him up, it’s time to really get going.
I load another arrow and shoot, piercing his other leg. Thud. Blood flows from his wound. I load, I shoot. Load, shoot. Load, shoot. Click, thud. Click, thud. I’m getting into the swing of things now. Hopping around the roof like Pocahontas. Loading my crossbow, firing my crossbow, shoot, shoot, shoot, click, click, click, thud, thud, thud, the moon glowing as I rain arrows into Julian’s broken body.
With no arrows left, I drop my crossbow and stand in front of him like I stood in front of Mantegna’s painting, yet this time, I’m admiring my handiwork. I watch the blood leaking from Julian’s wounds, his neck decimated, his head hanging low like the bud of a wilted flower. I drink it all in. The black sky behind him, his blood shining in the moonlight, the arrows casting criss-cross shadows over his body, his skin almost translucent as the blood stills in his veins. Tears leak from my eyes, my soul overcome. My skin is covered in goosebumps. Julian looks so beautiful, I want to cry, I want to take a picture, I don’t know what to do, I just stare, stare, stare. Walking around him, taking him in from all angles, tak
ing a step closer, a step back. Observing, as his blood drips in the moonlight and he withers before my eyes. Something rotten turned pure. Something vile turned beautiful. Something evil turned sacrificial. I gaze, I look, I marvel, I take it all in until my heart can’t take any more. Until I’ve memorised as much of it as I can, and then finally, knowing I’ll remember this forever, I gather my stuff, tamper with the crime scene, wrench an arrow from Julian’s corpse as a trophy, and leave, my heart bursting, my eyes full of tears, my soul ablaze.
3
I gaze at my reflection in the mirror of my face powder compact and top up my lipstick. I threw out Dangerous Liaison when I got home last night. I knew I’d never be able to wear it again without thinking of Julian trying to drug me. Today’s shade is a playful pink called Pretty Persuasive by Tom Ford. I press my lips together, admiring my pout, before clicking the lipstick closed and popping it in my desk drawer. I preen my hair, ruffle my fingers through it, and once satisfied, I snap my mirror shut, slip it into my drawer too, and pick up my phone.
‘Hi, Jess. You can send Rayna up now,’ I tell my assistant.
‘Sure. I’ll go and get her,’ Jess replies.
‘Thanks.’ I hang up.
Jess is my sidekick. The yin to my yang. The good cop to my bad cop. She’s everything I’m not: bubbly, sweet, warm. I’m known at work for being formal, analytical and decisive. I keep my cards close to my chest, only speaking up when I have something to say, whereas Jess is just chatty. I think my colleagues assume my aloofness is a seniority thing, a work persona, but it’s just the way I am. I can turn on the charm if I have to, but I’d rather not. I hired Jess because she takes the edge off. She makes up for the things I lack. And I like her. Despite us being polar opposites, I genuinely like her. I wish I could be more like her, but you can’t force a square peg into a round hole.
