Predator: an absolutely gripping psychological serial killer thriller

by Zoe Caldwell

  I head over to the office window and wrench it open. It’s clearly been a long time since someone opened it, the windowpane thick with dust and the hinges stiff. I get it open though, pushing it wide, imagining the room gasping for air. I reach into my bag and take out a cigarette, leaning out of the window as I light up.

  The warehouse is by far the tallest building in this industrial estate and being on the fifth floor, I have a broad, expansive view of the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Most look fairly new, office blocks and warehouses, with cars parked outside. I spot a couple of workers coming and going. But there are a few buildings that appear old and dilapidated, abandoned like this one. The area is an odd combination of old and new, maintained and neglected. I wonder if it makes the current workers here feel on edge, seeing the relics of businesses having gone bust so close by every day, or if they’re pragmatic about it, seeing it as just business. Just life.

  I inhale, exhale. My mind’s blank. I take another drag of my cigarette and think about Miles Brady. The shoot temporarily distracted me from him, but I haven’t forgotten. Late last night, I joined echatgroup.com and set up a profile. I used a cartoon character avatar and called myself Robbie, claiming I’m a ten-year-old boy whose interests include football, video games, skateboarding and music, adding that I’m learning the guitar and piano – perfect bait for Miles, or @tomhughes as he likes to be known. I posted a message in the chat room –‘Bored lol. Anyone wanna chat?’ and then left it and went to sleep. I figured I’d give Miles time to reply.

  I take my phone out of my bag and log on to the chat room, wondering if Miles has got back to me. I suck on my cigarette as I scroll through the creepy messages, which I bet are almost all from old men, and there it is: a notification from Miles.

  @tomhughes: hi robbie. sucks that ur bored!! I get bored 2. What u up to?

  I smirk, laughing out loud at his attempt to sound like any other young kid, the manipulative shit. But the important thing is, he took the bait.

  He’s mine now and I’m going to reel him in.

  I suck the last few drags of my cigarette, before stubbing it out on the grubby windowsill.

  14

  @robbie2010: hey, just got back from school. Boring day lol! How r u?

  I press send on the message on the way home. I have the same driver as this morning, who came to pick me up at the end of the shoot. It went on almost all day, but I feigned a migraine mid-afternoon, telling Jess I’d spend the rest of the day working from home. Really, I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be alone so I could message Miles.

  He appears online immediately. He must have been gagging for the notification. I picture him sitting in bed in his lovely Belgravia home, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. Dots ebb and retreat on my screen as he types.

  @tomhughes: haha. Im good. Why woz it boring?

  Woz? I scoff. Who says ‘woz’? I bet even ten-year-olds don’t say that.

  I feel my driver’s eyes on me and catch him looking at me in the rear-view mirror. We exchange a polite smile and then I return my attention to my phone.

  @robbie2010: jus teachers doin my head in. and my team lost at five a side.

  I hit send. We pull off the dual carriageway, heading back into central London. Miles types a response.

  @tomhughes: damn. Hate losing. What u doing now?

  @robbie2010: just at home. Playing PlayStation

  My driver jerks away from a passing speeding car, honks his horn. My phone buzzes.

  @tomhughes: u home alone?

  I shake my head. Dirty bastard. Three or four messages in and he’s already trying to establish how vulnerable little Robbie is.

  @robbie2010: yeah are u?

  @tomhughes: yeah my parents are out 2…

  Ha. The creep’s leaving the ellipsis to see if Robbie elaborates on his living situation. I’ll give him what he wants.

  @robbie2010: live with my dad but he’s always at work. He drives lorries. Long hours. He’s out a lot. It’s alright tho. I can watch as much TV as I want and stay up late lol!

  I press send and gaze out of the window, picturing Miles salivating at that response. A ten-year-old boy with a dad who’s a long-haul lorry driver. Could that be any more perfect for him?

  @tomhughes: wow sounds cool!! Can see why ur bored lol!

  I message a few more times, chatting about normal ten-year-old boy stuff: TV, football, friends. Miles plays along patiently, enduring all the tedious chit-chat, waiting for the moment he can step things up a notch. He starts asking about music, piano, as my driver pulls on to my road.

  @robbie2010: gotta go. Sorry. Chat later!

  I send the message and log out of the chat. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.

  My driver draws to a halt outside my building. I thank him, hoping he hasn’t found it weird how much I’ve probably been sighing and shaking my head and tutting at the manipulativeness of Miles’s messages. He probably thinks I’m emailing a difficult work colleague or having an argument with my boyfriend.

  I get out of the cab, shutting the door behind me, before crossing the pavement towards my flat. A pigeon pecking scraps of a discarded sandwich clocks me with its beady eyes as I approach, before launching off, flapping its wings and darting away. I step forward, dodging the crusts, and spot Abay, loitering by the entrance to my building, hunched, wearing a hoodie. His hands are buried in his pockets and he eyes me coolly.

  My gaze snags on his hoodie. It’s an unusual design – dark with a white stripe at the back. Where do I know that from? Suddenly it hits me. I recall approaching my building with Julian the night I killed him, spotting a man along the road, wearing the exact same design. So, it was Abay who saw me that night. I was right, Abay was the witness who tipped off the police. A jittery wave of panic floods through me. My stomach lurches. Why’s he here now? What does he want from me? It’s not like he’s here to hook up. Who wants to fuck a serial killer?

  ‘You okay?’ I grumble, eyeing him warily as I reach into my bag for my keys.

  I step closer to the door and try to unlock it, but Abay stops me, gripping my wrist.

  ‘Get off,’ I hiss, twisting, trying to wrench my arm free. My heart pounds in my chest. ‘What do you want?’

  I look at him searchingly. His eyes are black.

  ‘You mad bitch,’ he spits, slowly shaking his head, wearing a disgusted scowl.

  ‘What?’ I try to pull his hand off me, but his hold is tight, vice-like.

  I look searchingly around, but none of the passers-by – office workers eager to get home, are looking in our direction. I could scream for help, but provoking Abay right now probably isn’t the best idea.

  ‘What are you doing? Let me go,’ I implore him.

  I yank my arm but it’s no use. I feel like a puppet in the grip of a giant. He pulls me close, his face inches from mine. I smell his familiar smell: sweat, rubber. He’s holding me so tightly that it’s almost like a lover’s embrace. So many of our encounters have started in similar ways to this – the mixture of strength and closeness, the menace, the tremor of fear. But the menace has never been real, it’s never been truly vicious, it’s never not been tempered by lust.

  ‘You killed him,’ Abay spits into my ear.

  I can feel his warm breath, his palm beading with sweat, slimy on my wrist. I can feel the rage in his eyes. A chill sweeps along my spine, but I keep my face impassive. I act like nothing’s happened. He’s the crazy one. Not me.

  ‘You killed that guy – Julian Taylor. You shot him with a crossbow, you fucking psycho,’ Abay rages.

  He’s so close that I can see myself reflected back in his eyes. It’s the first time anyone has ever properly seen me, apart from my victims. Abay’s repulsed. Repelled. Livid. And beneath the shock of being seen for who I really am is a small triumphant part of me, a twisted part that’s perversely thrilled and excited. Part of me is enjoying the thrill of being able to appal and enrage. I’m a bitch. I’m a lunatic. I’m a fighter. I�
�m me. I feel like laughing in Abay’s face. I feel powerful. I’ve reduced a man as strong and confident and controlled as him to a manic, raging mess.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, not letting on.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Abay laughs, tightening his grip on my wrist.

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t. You must be high or something. Leave me alone.’

  I try again to pull my arm free, but Abay is so much stronger than me and even though his palm is slick with sweat, his grip is firm. He knows, though, that all I’d need to do is raise my voice, cry out for help, and a passer-by would step in at any moment. He’d look like the bad guy – he’d look like an abuser and I’d be the innocent, vulnerable woman.

  I could scream out, but I’m enjoying this exchange.

  I gaze into Abay’s revolted eyes. He looks harder now than ever. Even the chip in his tooth looks uglier than usual – tough. I’ve always found his hardness sexy, but it’s thrilling on a psychological level now too. I allow a small smile to creep onto my face and watch as his eyes darken even more. I know I disgust him, but I know I could push him to the very brink and he still wouldn’t have it in him to hurt me. Abay puts on a front of being a hard man, but that’s all it is – a front. He’s had to act like that to survive, growing up on an estate in Canning Town. Unlike a lot of his peers, who got into gangs and are running from the police or caged in a cell, Abay’s a good guy. He turned to personal training to make a decent life for himself and he genuinely cares about it. He’s not like a lot of the other personal trainers at the gym, who aren’t particularly discreet when chatting about their questionable side hustles while bench pressing. Abay works hard, never misses a session with clients, takes what he does seriously. He still remembers his life back in Nigeria. He talks about it sometimes. A lot of the other guys at the gym came here when they were too young to have made any real memories of life back home, but Abay was twelve; he remembers. He’s grateful to be in the UK. He wants to make the most of it. Do himself proud. Do his mum proud. That’s why he keeps his head straight – not drinking, avoiding drugs, watching what he eats, rather than loading up on steroids like so many others. He goes to bed early. He even believes in God. His only vice is sex, and that’s not even really a vice. It’s just another form of cardio.

  Abay may glare at me. He may hate me, truly hate me. I can believe that, but he wouldn’t hurt me. He loves his mum and his sister; he could never hurt a woman. It’s one of his rules. No wonder he’s so disgusted with me. I’m a violent woman. If I were a man, he’d probably have shoved me up against the wall at this point. He’d be spitting in my face, fists raised, but I’m a psychopath he can’t hit. I’m a woman capable of things he’s not.

  ‘Let go of me, Abay,’ I insist, trying to yank my arm free once more.

  He’s rock solid, muscles tensed. He feels even bigger than he was last time we saw each other, as though he’s been working out even more.

  ‘You’re something else,’ Abay sneers as he looms over me, his grip still tight.

  Despite my panic, it occurs to me that this will be the last time Abay touches me. The thought is a little sad, but there’s no point dwelling on it.

  ‘Fuck off. I need to get home.’

  ‘You know…’ Abay chews his lip. ‘There was always something not right about you.’

  He’s right. Of course, he’s right. But it’s not like it’s news to me. Does he think I’m not aware of the hollowness? Does he think it’s not a daily struggle to hide it? To erect my mask? To try to invent substance where there’s nothing?

  I pretend every fucking day and it’s not like I’m going to stop now.

  ‘Look, it’s not my problem you’ve been hanging around my flat, wanting to see me. I’m sorry you’ve developed feelings, but I can’t force myself to feel the same way,’ I state, trying to keep a straight face.

  Abay laughs, a high-pitched crazy laugh that spills from his lips.

  ‘Feel the same way! Ha!’ He shakes his head.

  I stick to my story, getting into my stride. I suspect in a way, it’s true. Before Abay saw me with Julian, he was into me. He was getting feelings, entertaining the idea that we could be something more. I could tell. Why else was he even hanging around outside my flat that night? He wanted to be around me. Get close. In spite of himself, he’d started to fall for the girl with the empty heart. Maybe thought he could change me, save me.

  ‘Whatever. I know you wanted more. Wanting to see me all the time, trying to hold me tight. Well sorry, but I’m not interested.’

  Abay laughs louder, his laugh even more high-pitched and crazy-sounding. A man and woman, both in suits, glance curiously in his direction as they walk past, but they say nothing, do nothing. We must look like some couple having a domestic; they don’t want to get involved.

  They pass, retreating down the street. I make another effort to wrench my arm free, but Abay steps closer, his huge imposing body casting a shadow around me, surrounding me. The body that’s turned me on so many times, that still turns me on a bit even in this fucked-up situation. My senses are hardwired to want him.

  ‘You killed that guy, admit it,’ Abay insists, his voice low now.

  I search his cold eyes. I know we’ll never see each other again. He’s dead to me already. I’m dead to him. I disgust him. Abay’s the first man who’s ever seen me for what I truly am, and I feel small, rotten, tainted under his cutting gaze, and yet I also feel sharp, sly, smug. I have a nihilistic urge to admit it, to tell him that I killed Julian, just to see the shock blaze through his eyes. I want to do it just for the thrill of it, and I would, to see his reaction, his impotent rage, but I’m not stupid. Abay could easily be recording this conversation on his phone. I know he wants me banged up or he wouldn’t have reported me to the police in the first place. He’s probably downloaded a recording app, it’s probably flashing away in his pocket as we speak.

  ‘Let me go, Abay, or I’ll cause a scene and the concierge will come and escort you off the premises.’ My threat sounds stupid even to me.

  Abay laughs again. That crazy laugh.

  ‘I mean it,’ I insist, reaching for the intercom.

  ‘Do what you want. You think I’m scared of your concierge?’ Abay chuckles.

  He’s got a point. My pleasant and efficient five-foot, six-inch concierge is hardly a match for him.

  ‘You know, I should never have fucked you,’ Abay muses.

  ‘Here we go,’ I groan. ‘Going to try and bring me down now, are you? Is your ego feeling a little raw? A little bruised?’

  I give him a mock sympathetic look.

  ‘No, you’re hot, all right.’ Abay looks me up and down, part lascivious, part disgusted. He kisses his teeth.

  ‘You look hot, but it’s like fucking a ghost. There’s nothing there,’ he spits, jabbing his finger at my chest, stabbing at my heart.

  I gasp.

  I shrink away, startled, my gaze scattering over at the pavement. It stings where he jabbed me and I shield my chest with my hand.

  When I look back up, Abay’s gone. He’s walking away, not looking back.

  15

  I close my front door and let out a sigh of relief.

  My chest still stings slightly where Abay stabbed at it. I dump my bags at the door, peel off my coat and wander over to my kitchen. I drape my coat over a seat by the breakfast bar. I open a cupboard and retrieve the half-drunk bottle of Tignanello Antinori Toscana, the wine I drank with Julian before I killed him. A great wine.

  I take down a glass and think about Abay as I pour the wine.

  He knows. There are no two ways about it. Not only did he see me with Julian, but he could see it in my eyes. He recognised that I’m a monster.

  I place the bottle down and take a sip, wandering over to my sofa. I sit down and gaze out of the plate glass windows, the sky darkening, the city glimmering. Abay may know what I am, but he doesn’t have evidence, nothing concrete. A feeling and a sigh
ting doesn’t amount to much. He can’t do anything. He can’t run back to Detective Wheelan claiming I’m a killer. They’ve already questioned me. All Abay has left is a hunch. If Wheelan bothered digging and found out how Abay knows me, it would make the whole thing look even more ridiculous. He’d look like a spurned lover, some poor rejected fool with a grudge. Abay knows better than to become the laughing stock of the station. I know he’s livid though. He wants to expose me, but he needs something harder and he knows it. He doesn’t have a single thing. Julian went missing weeks ago. All fingerprints will have been analysed, all elements of the crime scene tested and assessed and there’s no one knocking on my door. Abay’s right. I am a ghost.

  I laugh to myself and take another sip of wine, before reaching for my iPad and tucking my legs up on the sofa.

  I log onto echatgroup.com and check out the last message from Miles, sent before Abay confronted me.

  @tomhughes: Awesome. Chat l8r.

  L8r. What an absolute loser. Who even says that? Where does Miles even get this lingo? He probably googles ‘kid slang’ and makes notes like the twisted creep he is. Fucking prick. He makes my skin crawl.

  I log out of the chat room, not wanting him to see that I’m online. He’s probably sitting at home right now, staring at the screen, willing Robbie’s avatar to come back on. I’d bet my life that if I stay online a minute or two longer, there’ll be a message pinging through. Nope. I don’t have time for that now. I’ll reel him in later, once I have a plan.

  I need to figure out how exactly I’m going to go about killing Miles and I need to make sure I do it subtly. I can’t just let it go, not after what he did to that boy. I stayed up late, really late, the night I went to Miles’ place, trawling endlessly through missing persons reports about young boys. Scrolling through news articles, clicking through Google search results, browsing social media posts from distraught relatives, for hours and hours, looking for a picture or a description that might match the photo on my phone. I scrolled and scrolled and was beginning to think the search was futile. After all, Miles Brady could have killed that boy years ago, decades ago, and only just decided to develop the film. I was about to give up when on page sixty-seven of a Google search for ‘missing boy, London’, I finally found a picture that matched: the same boy. Samuel Clarke, seven years old, from Harrow. He’d gone missing on the way home from school, six months ago. Not long after Miles Brady was released from prison. The sick bastard. Clearly couldn’t wait to get his hands on another kid.