Predator: an absolutely gripping psychological serial killer thriller

by Zoe Caldwell

  Clouds pass over the sky. I force myself to take a deep breath. I’ll probably be okay. This will blow over, but for now, I need to get the fuck out of London.

  I find my phone and cancel the appointment I had at a hotel around the corner for a massage, facial, manicure and pedicure. I’d been looking forward to it, but I can’t face being in a gossipy spa right now. I can’t handle having a beautician literally staring at my face, focusing on every part of it. I’m meant to be meeting the girls for brunch tomorrow, but I’ll have to cancel that too. I need to lay low, or better still, get out of town. I know! I’ll go home. I’ll make up some shit about how my mum’s sick and say I have to go back to Suffolk. Perfect. Serial killers don’t go home to tend to their sick mothers at the weekend. I’ll head up to Somerleyton, take a ton of pictures, update my social media. I’ll cancel work on Monday, citing a family emergency and work from home. I’ll stay out of London until these pictures are old news. Hopefully a new story will come along soon and Julian will finally be history.

  I click onto the Airbnb app and see if the house I usually stay in is available tonight. It’s a bit short notice, but it is out of season. I enter my dates and I’m in luck! The place is free. I make the booking and message the host, telling him I’ll be there by this evening. Then I get packing.

  I know I should probably just lay low in Somerleyton, but I’m surprisingly sociable for a serial killer.

  I wanted company, so I invited Vanessa. She was fretting about her dissertation, but I managed to convince her that the peace and quiet would be great for her work. I told her about the private study in the cottage overlooking the windswept fields and messaged her a picture of the desk, set within a little nook, surrounded by wooden beams. She took the bait and I picked her up from her place in my SUV. She loaded the boot with books – an optimistic amount for such a short trip, especially with someone as distracting as me, but I didn’t say anything. We just drove out of London, catching up, listening to songs on the radio, singing along. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy Vanessa’s company. Joining in as she belted out the lyrics to ‘Shake It Off’ by Taylor Swift, I really did feel like I was managing to shake off the whole photo thing.

  Vanessa is the last person who’s ever going to recognise me from the pictures. She barely goes online, let alone browses Twitter. I think she likes to feel somewhat above all that, as though engaging with Twitter is incompatible with being intellectual. Tweeting and reading dusty old library books on Aristotle don’t really go hand in hand in her world. The girl’s living in another century. There’s no way she’s going to realise she’s having a weekend away with a serial killer.

  We pull up outside the cottage. It does feel weirdly like coming home. The last time I was here was only a few weeks ago, when I came to ‘visit the family for Christmas’. I spent a week alone, reading crime novels, working, swiping on Tinder. The place has become so familiar to me now, with its black-latticed windows, wooden doors and brass knockers, its green picket fence. The trees in the front garden that are so verdant and green in the summer are dark and gnarled now. The sun is setting in the distance and the sky has a rosy pink, fading blue hue.

  I place my bag down on the porch and reach under the plant pot where the owner always leaves a key for me. I unlock the door.

  ‘Wow, this place is amazing,’ Vanessa says, walking through the hallway.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I reply. As far as Vanessa is concerned, this house is a holiday rental I stay in from time to time. She knows nothing about my pretend family. We’ve never really talked about our families and it’s nice to be here and to not have to lie. For once, I can experience Suffolk with another person, and I won’t have to constantly pretend my personal life is something that it’s not.

  ‘This place is gorgeous,’ Vanessa says, dumping her bag by the front door and wandering through the living room.

  The guy who owns it – a wealthy but kind, old, Etonian country boy called Harry – has decorated the house to be completely in-fitting with what you’d imagine an English country estate to look like. It’s almost like a film set with its quintessential features: its old, careworn rugs across the wooden floorboards; the wicker basket containing logs of wood by the fireplace; old, creased leather sofas and antique plates on display on the mantlepiece. The beds upstairs are rickety and a bit cheap and the oak desk that Vanessa wants to study at later is a bit flimsy. Sometimes the furniture reminds me of the kind of thing you’d find in a doll’s house. The whole place never quite feels real. It always feels like make-believe.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ I comment, as Vanessa moves from the living room to the kitchen, which is even more twee with its copper saucepans dangling from a rack, its clay pots full of utensils and jugs of dried flowers on the windowsill. It even has a string of garlic dangling down from a shelf laden with cookbooks. There’s Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course, a battered old tome on Mastering the Art of French Cooking and even an ancient copy of Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book and Household Guide. It wouldn’t surprise me if Harry went down to his local charity shop, scooped a load of cookbooks up in his arms and bought them all for a fiver.

  ‘It’s so cosy, Camilla, I love it!’ Vanessa says, stroking some dried thistle on the windowsill. ‘It’s so different from your London place. I didn’t think this kind of place would be you!’

  I shrug. ‘I like a change as much as the next person.’

  Vanessa smiles and looks out at the view. The sun has set more now, turning the sky a highlighter pink. I watch the fading sun fall on her face, the warm hue making her features soft and hazy, seductive like mood lighting. Unlike me, Vanessa doesn’t wear much makeup. A bit of BB cream and a slick of mascara is all she bothers with.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ I say, the words tumbling out of me.

  I have genuinely missed her. I’ve missed her bad fashion sense, her cluelessness, her otherworldliness. I’ve missed her wild hair, her fine-featured face, her beautiful, soft femininity.

  ‘I’ve missed you too,’ Vanessa insists, looking away from the sunset and meeting my gaze.

  Her eyes are so pretty. Chocolate-brown, lined with naturally curly lashes. They’re kind, honest. I wonder what she sees in mine. If she can see all the secrets and pain and hate, or if she just sees the desire.

  I take a step closer and place my hand on her hip. Vanessa holds my gaze and tilts her head towards me. Her lips are soft and smooth, her kisses are so gentle and slow. Tender. Unlike Abay or Mr USA. We kiss slowly, reacquainting with each other, exploring each other, until desire truly takes hold and our kisses grow in intensity, becoming rougher, hungrier. My hands roam over Vanessa’s body, feeling her curves through her cotton top. She’s touching me too now, her hands moving erratically over my back, pulling me into her. Vanessa always comments on how she loves my little body. She likes to make cute jokes about how I’m ‘pocket-sized’. We like to marvel over each other, enjoying the novelty of each other’s forms.

  Vanessa runs her hands over my back and squeezes my ass. I let out a moan. She pushes me back towards the sofa, pressing me into it, until I’m lying on my back and she’s crawling over me. She plants kisses on my neck and pulls off my top. I’m not wearing a bra. She reaches down between my legs. I’m already hot and wet and I moan, relishing her touch as her long, bony fingers press through the fabric of my trousers. I sigh with pleasure and reach for the hem of her baggy jumper. I want to see the beauty beneath. Vanessa has the most incredible breasts. She stops rubbing me for a second and crouches between my legs, helping me remove her top by pulling it over her head. She’s wearing a purple bra with luminous blue-embroidered stitching. The colours resemble an oil spill. I don’t know where Vanessa gets her underwear from, but it’s godawful. She does complain that it’s hard to find nice underwear for bigger breasts, but I know at least a dozen labels that do better designs than some of the stuff she wears. But still, I don’t complain. I’ve almost grown fond of Vanessa’s hideous underwear, i
t’s like a surprisingly good present wrapped in cheap brown paper.

  I reach around her back and unclip her bra, pulling it free from her shoulders and chucking it aside. Her breasts are large but shapely, gravity-defyingly pert. She has the kind of breasts that belong on a catalogue model and yet she keeps them hidden underneath her baggy clothes. I reach down between my legs, unbuttoning my trousers, wriggling free of them. I keep my Simone Pérèle knickers on. I want Vanessa to remove them. I watch Vanessa touching her breasts, massaging them, squeezing her nipples. She knows I like it when she does that. I reach inside my knickers and touch myself. Vanessa’s eyes mist over as she watches me. Within seconds she’s tearing off my knickers. She lowers her head to my pussy. I lose my fingers in her flowing brown hair and concentrate on the sensuous strokes of her tongue. It feels amazing, but it’s not enough.

  ‘Get on top,’ I gasp.

  Vanessa looks up from between my legs. She gets up and wrestles off her jeans and knickers inelegantly, her movements clumsy and eager. I smile, watching her indelicate enthusiasm as she frees herself from her clothes. She gets on top of me. I run my fingers down the curve of her slightly rounded stomach, across her crotch and between her legs. She’s already warm and slick. I dip my fingers inside her. Her eyes widen as she grinds against my hand, but that’s not enough. I pull my fingers out of her and place my wet hand on her hip. She presses her groin against mine, straddling me, our thighs interlocking. She thrusts against me. I sigh as I grind back, drinking in the sight of her. Her breasts rock with each movement. The way they move is spectacular. I reach out to touch her breasts, squeezing them, tweaking her nipples. She moans with pleasure. I feel myself getting close, light-headed. Her breasts sway in my hands, her nipples hard. The pressure builds, the ecstasy overwhelming. I come hard, my pussy spasming, in freefall. I cry out as the orgasm tears through me. I feel incredible.

  Vanessa doesn’t come with me, but once I’ve caught my breath, we swap places, with her lying on the sofa and me between her legs. I suck her clit, fingering her hard. Her salty, familiar taste is as much of a homecoming as being back in this house. Vanessa grabs my head and pushes me into her as she cries out. I love it when she does that. I feel myself getting wet again and reach back between my legs, rubbing my clit. The sound of Vanessa moaning, the feel of her hand gripping my head, the taste and the warmth of her makes me come again. My orgasm is even more intense than the last – sharper, more insistent. I groan into Vanessa’s pussy, sliding three, four fingers into her. She gasps and cries out, pulling my hair, bucking against my hand, coming hard. Her dark pussy wet and quaking.

  We pull apart, our bodies sweaty, clammy against the leather.

  ‘Harry would hate me if he knew what I’d done on this couch,’ I joke, lying back against the cushions.

  ‘We’re probably not the first!’ Vanessa says, breathily, still recovering from her orgasm.

  ‘Eww, don’t say that!’ I comment.

  ‘It’s true though!’ Vanessa laughs.

  I roll my head lazily towards the window. It’s dark outside now, the sky having turned an inky blue. I get up and close the curtains.

  ‘Just getting some drinks,’ I say, before wandering into the kitchen.

  I retrieve two bottles of local ale, Brewer’s Gold, from the fridge. I don’t usually drink this sort of thing, except when in Suffolk. Harry knows I like it and he always leaves a few bottles for me. I thought he might not bother this time seeing as my booking was so last minute, but he’s gone to the effort regardless. So sweet of him.

  I uncap the bottles and carry them back to Vanessa. I flick on the lights. She’s lying on the couch, still naked, looking like something from a daydream. I hand her a bottle.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, drawing her legs up so I can sit down.

  I take a sip of the ale, relishing its rich, hoppy taste. I like to drink it directly from the bottle, feeling the cool glass against my lips.

  ‘This is delicious,’ Vanessa says, wiping foam off her lips with the back of her hand, while inspecting the label.

  ‘It’s my favourite,’ I reply.

  We sit there on the sofa, legs intertwined, chatting shit and drinking Brewer’s Gold for the rest of the evening. London feels a million miles away, along with Julian, my picture, that green-haired, eagle-eyed Twitter boy and everything else.

  Vanessa and I stay at the cottage until Tuesday. I tell Jess that my mum really needs me. I post sombre pictures of the wintry Suffolk landscape to my social media accounts saying how good it is to be back, furnishing each post with quotes like, ‘Having somewhere to go is home. Having someone to love is family. And having both is a blessing’ and ‘Family – where life begins and where love never ends’. I know, I hate myself too.

  Fuck family, I’ve had the time of my life here with Vanessa. We’ve had sex in practically every room. Even the utility room. But it hasn’t been all about that. It’s been quite romantic too. I took Vanessa to the Somerleyton Estate pleasure gardens – a seventeenth-century manor with beautiful manicured grounds. It’s one of my favourite spots. We ambled through the arched paths, which look spectacular in summer when draped with wisteria, but have a desolate quality to them at this time of year. We devoured cream teas in the quaint little café with its aproned waitresses and wrought-iron chairs and got so hyper from caffeine and sugary jam that we giggled like schoolgirls through the yew-hedge maze. We visited Fritton Lake too – a secluded spot surrounded by willow trees and reeds. Vanessa and I managed to persuade the man who looks after the site to let us take a rowing boat out even though it’s off season. We rowed as swans glided past us. The water reflected the sky like glass and rippled as we pulled our paddles through it. We kissed in the middle of the lake, snuggling close for warmth, fending off the cool breeze that rustled through the reeds.

  On Monday, we went for a pub lunch in the village and sat in a quiet corner eating casserole with mashed potatoes – the most carb-rich meal I’d had in weeks. Retired locals reading the papers glanced over at us curiously, intrigued by this pair of city lesbians.

  We came home and feeling guilty for all her time off, Vanessa went up to the study to put in a few hours’ work on her dissertation, while I sat on the sofa downstairs and replied to emails, made a few work calls and checked the news. The story with my picture has been covered by all the nationals, but none of them have followed up on @adrianclark’s suggestion of a serial killer, which is a major relief. I suppose until the police have confirmed it’s an official line of enquiry, anything the papers say is just conjecture. I checked Twitter. People are still talking about Julian’s ‘deadly date’, but the line-up for a new celebrity reality show has been announced, an earthquake has hit California and #MondayMotivation is trending. The news cycle is moving on. People are forgetting about Julian. The whole thing is blowing over, like the winds that sweep through the fields outside.

  A few times during this trip, I’ve found myself daydreaming about a different kind of life. Of living out here with Vanessa. We could create our own little paradise in a world that’s hell. I’ve realised this weekend that I like her more than I thought I did. She’s a genuinely good person. I think she’s finally achieved eudemonia. Being around her, I feel safe, soothed, unthreatened. I picture us lying in each other’s arms in the mornings. Watching the sun rise over the verdant fields. Drinking fresh coffee. I could go freelance and write articles from home from time to time, rather than running around in London, editing. Not that I’d need to work. If I sold my Mayfair flat, we’d be set up over here for life. If Vanessa wanted to, she could do her thing upstairs in the study, writing papers on Aristotle. We could go for long country walks every day. Abandon fashion. Live in cardigans and leggings and wellington boots. Hold hands while walking through the wheat fields like we’re in an LGBT-friendly Boden ad. We could even bake our own bread. Okay, maybe I’m taking it too far. But it could be heavenly.

  But my fantasies have been repeatedly interrupted by real-l
ife intrusions like my phone buzzing with alerts from the Met Police’s Twitter account. The last one was some self-congratulatory update about the good work of their staff. Sure. So good that they’ve let a serial killer like me get away with it for years. Keep up the good work, lads! But the tweets bring me back to reality. Life here with Vanessa would be amazing, for about two weeks, but I’d soon be craving the grit and grime of the city – the drama, the fumes, the chaos, the competition, the glamour, the power, the clothes, the chase. How long would I last before I’d be racing back with an axe slung over my shoulder, itching to chop Miles Brady’s head off? Until I’d be running home begging Abay to throw me onto a bed and fuck me? Until I’d be splashing five grand on a handbag and wanting to show it off down the King’s Road? I can go away for the weekend, but I can’t escape myself.

  Vanessa and I head back to London. I can’t put it off any longer without getting into serious trouble at work. Weirdly, I’ve never felt sadder to leave Somerleyton. Vanessa is the first person I’ve ever brought here, the first person I’ve ever shared this place with. I’ve tried to tell myself so many times that I’m content in my own company, but this place has been so much more enjoyable shared. The local pub, the pleasure gardens, Fritton Lake – they were nice alone, but they’ve actually been fun with Vanessa. I feel a weight settling around my shoulders as we drive back. Neither of us speak. We’re both pensive and resigned. As we pelt down the motorway, the sky fades like an old photograph, sepia to grey, before dissolving to black. We stop at a service station and eat sandwiches that are as stale and depressing as our mood.