by Zoe Caldwell
I googled the boy’s name. Found a couple of dozen news articles, replete with imploring, pleading quotes from his parents, begging the public to get in touch with any scrap of information that might bring their son home.
Miles is sick and he needs to die, but I need to be careful about it. I don’t trust Abay not to be hovering about, loitering around my development, trying to catch another sighting of me with another victim. And I’m not killing Miles near Hayes, the last thing I need to do is go anywhere near my garage. Anywhere near the block where I killed Julian.
I take another sip of wine. No. I need somewhere quiet, peaceful, derelict. I’m not going to get fancy with Miles’s death. No St Sebastian shit. I got too carried away last time. It was a daydream that went too far and look where it got me. No, I need to be clinical, efficient. I need to stop showing off. There’s no need for stunts or spectacles, I simply need to get rid of him. As long as Miles is dead, the rest is immaterial; it’s just details.
I’ll kill him Dexter-style. Line a room with yards of plastic sheeting, sedate him, stab him, cut him into pieces and dispose of his body. That’s the crucial bit. As long as there’s no body, Miles will be just another missing person, like the little boy he took from the world. He lives alone. He has no spouse, no family, no one’s likely to kick up a fuss that he’s gone. His alcoholic mates will probably shrug it off. They’ll probably assume he’s been charged with more sick shit and been banged up again and he’s too embarrassed to let them know. The only thing I need to worry about is how to get rid of Miles’s body, but I’ll find a way. I know where I’m going to kill him, I probably knew deep down when I leaned out of the window earlier on today and lit up my cigarette, gazing out over the rooftops of the abandoned buildings, the office blocks, the sleepy industrial site. I knew deep down that I’d probably kill him there, maybe even in the warehouse itself. The universe put that creep in my path the night I saw him when I was out with the girls, just like the universe presented me with that advert for his piano lessons when I flicked through the local paper in my office. The universe wants Miles dead and has even presented me with a kill room. It’s all aligning too perfectly. I can’t ignore the signs.
I log back onto the chat room, take a sip of wine, and set about reeling Miles in. We chat about TV shows, football, favourite bands. I refill my glass of wine. Miles tries to get a conversation going about piano, but I feel it would be going too far if Robbie happened to be a piano enthusiast. I drop in that he has lessons at school, but his musical tastes are more Drake than Debussy. Miles went a bit quiet during that part of the conversation and I could practically feel him going onto YouTube, ears bleeding at the sound of hip hop.
Things haven’t got dirty yet, but I didn’t expect they would. Miles isn’t a fool. He doesn’t want a bit of flirty chat, he wants the real deal. He has to build up trust, get Robbie to believe he’s the same as him, and then pounce. That kind of groundwork takes time.
@tomhughes: do u have a gf?
Finally. I take a sip of my wine. I knew he’d get to this question eventually.
@robbie2010: kinda. There’s a girl I like. It’s kind of like an on off thing.
@tomhughes: lol cool. U on atm?
@robbie2010: yeh kinda. We get off with each other sometimes u know.
@tomhughes: yeh mate.
Mate? I snort. What a dork.
@robbie2010: wbu?
@tomhughes: kind of the same. Theres a girl I know. Send pics to her. Stuff like that.
Here he goes.
@robbie2010: yeah me n my girl do that too.
@tomhughes: cool right?
@robbie2010: yeah deffo.
@tomhughes: do u send them?
I knew he’d ask this. I take a sip of wine.
@robbie2010: yeah sometimes.
@tomhughes: me too. I sent one last night. Wanna see?
Urghh.
@robbie2010: of u or her?
@tomhughes: me.
@robbie2010: I dunno, dude. I thought u ment her.
@tomhughes: no. she’d kill me if I sent pics of her lol.
@robbie2010: haha same.
I expect him to reply with some other lame comment, but he’s gone quiet. I head back over to the kitchen and grab the bottle of wine, root around in one of the cupboards and find a pack of wasabi peas, which I pour into a bowl. I carry the bowl and the bottle back over to the coffee table and top up my glass. I’m about to take a sip when a message comes through. A picture. Ha! I sit tighter, bracing myself. I’m pretty sure this isn’t going to be a picture of Miles’s dashing smile. Or a cat pic. I open it, squinting at my screen as an engorged cock appears. Rank. I close the picture immediately.
@robbie2010: woah ok!
He types a reply. I picture him smiling to himself, sitting in his Belgravia townhouse, feeling smug.
@tomhughes: what do u think?
I pause, trying to put myself in Robbie’s shoes. A real kid would be horrified right now. They’d be shocked, unsure what to say. I grab a handful of wasabi peas, crunching as I look out over the city. It’s raining now. Swathes of shining raindrops sweep down.
@robbie2010: dunno man…, I type.
@tomhughes: do u think it’s big?
Yuck. Sick cunt.
@robbie2010: I guess.
@tomhughes: show me urs then. Let’s compare.
Asshole.
@robbie2010: no man, that’s weird!
He’s typing. I wait, wondering what justification this creep’s going to come up with for getting a kid to share a picture of his penis.
@tomhughes: me n my mates show each other all the time. Don’t u?
I roll my eyes. Not only does Miles want a dick pic but he also wants some kind of creepy locker room fantasy or something to jerk off to. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction and yet I need to keep him interested, hooked. I need to reel him in.
@robbie2010: seen a few when staying at friends n stuff.
@tomhughes: ha yeh I get u. and u show ur girl?
@robbie2010: yeah sometimes.
@tomhughes: then jus send me one of the pics u send her lol. Wanna see now lol.
Lol. It’s funny how whacking an ‘lol’ onto the end of a repulsive statement makes paedophiles somehow think they’re not coming across as perverted creeps.
I toss back another handful of wasabi peas. Keep him waiting for a moment. Get him worried he’s maybe gone too far.
Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.
My phone rings. I glance at the screen: Jess. What does she want? I let the call go to answerphone. I’m too involved with Miles right now to face talking to her.
@robbie2010: I dunno about sending that online. If we ever hang out, I’ll show u.
Take the bait, Miles. Take the bait, I urge him. This is the jackpot. Surely, he must be punching the air right now?
@tomhughes: haha ok cool. Wen were u thinking?
I smirk. Even in the midst of Miles’s excitement, he hasn’t dropped his fifteen-year-old boy misspellings. What a pro.
Good question though. When am I thinking? It’ll take me a few days to prepare. I need to go back to the industrial estate, find the right spot. Then I need to pick up some supplies – plastic sheeting, knives, saws, bags. There’s quite a lot to do, but I’m also raring to go. It’s Friday night. I can probably be ready by next weekend. I’m quick when I’m pumped.
I message back, suggesting we meet next Saturday. I tell Miles my dad will be away all weekend. I mention how I live in south London. I give the area of the industrial estate and tell him that I’ll text him my address on the day. He’s probably wondering why I’m being a bit vague, but he’s clearly too delighted with his luck to question it too much. I message him the number of one of my burner phones.
I pull open the coffee table drawer, retrieving the phone. I turn it on, and there’s a message there already.
Miles: Hey, it’s Tom. Will be cool to meet. See u l8r.
I write a quick reply.
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See you later!
I log out of the chat room, place the phone aside. It’s done. He’s mine now. And I only have a week to wait.
My own phone flashes. Jess has sent a text. I open it.
Jess: Check your emails!!!
I raise an eyebrow. My emails? Jess usually filters my emails before they get to me, dealing with the simple queries and deleting anything irrelevant. Clearly there’s something important I need to see. I click into my inbox. There are several messages, from colleagues, PRs, but the one that catches my eye is an email with the subject line: ‘Woman of the Year Awards Shortlist Announced!’
No way. My heart flips in nervous anticipation as I open the email. It’s from the founder of the awards, a media mogul with a global empire of lifestyle magazines and newspapers. I scan the email, my eyes landing on a sentence I can barely believe is real.
I’m delighted to let you know that you have been shortlisted in the Media category of this year’s awards.
Oh my God. Oh my God! I let out a squeal, unable to contain myself. I jump up, pace around the room, buzzing, grinning, disbelieving. Then I grab my phone to call Jess.
I shake my head, delighted, shocked, as the phone rings. The Woman of the Year Awards. Unbelievable.
16
I’ve showered, blow-dried my hair and meticulously applied a subtle but flattering amount of makeup.
Vanessa’s on her way over in an Uber. After I got off the phone from Jess, I realised I wanted to do something to celebrate. I wanted to be with someone, and the only person I really wanted to see was Vanessa. I drift through my flat, lighting candles. I think about the long brambles of Vanessa’s hair, her curves, her warm body, as the flames flicker, the mood of my sitting room growing sexy, romantic. I think of her smile. Her eyes.
I perch on the edge of the sofa and send her a text.
Can’t wait to see you xxx
I press send. I lie back and let my hand trail across my stomach, pull up the hem of my dress. I look at my phone, but nothing’s happening. She’s not coming online. I sit up. I need to distract myself. There’s no point getting too excited before Vanessa even gets here. I could go onto the chat room and wind up Miles a bit more, but that’s far too much of a mood killer. I could reread the email about the Woman of the Year Awards, but I’ve already read it about fifty times, to make sure it’s real. I go onto Twitter instead, click on a link to a news story about a young family who have died in a horrific car crash in the Highlands. The Yorkshire Dales has been hit by flooding. A grooming gang found guilty of raping a fourteen-year-old. I scroll through until another article catches my attention.
Hayes hunting enthusiast arrested over the murder of Julian Taylor
No fucking way. I open the article, which is accompanied by a photo of a hard-looking, bulky guy in his thirties. Just the kind of person you’d suspect of a brutal slaying like Julian’s death.
A 33-year-old man from Hayes has been arrested over the murder of crossbow attack victim, Julian Taylor.
The body of 28-year-old Julian Taylor, from Dulwich, London, was discovered by police on Monday.
The victim had suffered multiple crossbow wounds.
Police have now arrested Howard Warner, unemployed, from Harlington, Hayes, in connection with the murder. Warner ran a blog on hunting, where he shared pictures of weapons, kill shots and dead animals.
Witnesses reported seeing police seize a crossbow from Mr Warner’s home at the time of the arrest, with one neighbour sharing pictures on social media.
My intercom sounds. Vanessa’s here.
I scan the rest of the article, which includes a few quotes from neighbours affirming Warner’s interest in hunting, as well as a few grisly shots from Warner’s blog of him posing with knives.
I get up and glance at my reflection in the mirror above my mantlepiece. I look good. Pretty. Young. Sexy. Innocent. I smile. I’m free.
I walk over to the intercom and buzz Vanessa up, before heading to the kitchen and pouring us glasses of wine. A moment later, there’s a knock at my front door.
I place the bottle on the counter and go to answer it.
I pull it open to see Vanessa standing there, in her usual, laid-back student get-up. Black skinny jeans, chunky lace-up boots, an old jumper, bobbling at the sleeves. And yet, despite her casual clothes, she looks beautiful. Her cheeks have a rosy glow. Her eyes are bright. Tendrils of hair fall around her face.
‘Hey,’ I say, smiling, feeling genuinely happy to see her.
‘Hey,’ she replies, looking pleased to see me too.
I step back to allow her into the flat. She leans close, planting a kiss on my lips as she enters.
‘I brought this,’ she says, handing me a blue plastic corner-shop bag containing a bottle of something.
I pull the plastic back, scan the bottle. Cheap champagne.
‘Oh, thanks!’ I gush, and even though I know I’ll probably find it undrinkable, I feel touched nonetheless.
‘I just poured us some wine!’ I say, wandering over to the kitchen, grateful that we can drink my stuff.
‘Cool.’ Vanessa follows me through.
I pluck a glass from the counter.
‘You look great,’ she comments, as I turn around, handing it to her.
Her gaze wanders from my legs back up to my eyeline.
‘Thanks. So do you.’ I hold her gaze as she takes the glass.
She perches on a seat by the breakfast bar and looks around my flat.
‘Love the candles!’ She laughs. ‘Very romantic.’
‘I try!’ I joke.
‘I can never get over your flat. It’s crazy,’ Vanessa comments, eyeing the vast expanse, the expensive furnishings, my grand piano. Her expression is a little sad, a note of frustration and resignation in her voice.
I know how she feels. I know that feeling of denial, of being on the outside, looking in, feeling broke, stuck. That was my life for years. Half the time, I still feel like that person in spite of all my wealth.
I don’t know how to reply in a way that isn’t patronising so I sit down on the seat opposite her and ask about her day. She tells me about a meeting with her supervisor, a lecture she gave, some issue with a proctor. It’s kind of dull, but I nod anyway, making the right noises, admiring the way she looks in the candlelight.
‘So, what are we celebrating?’ she says, eventually.
I told Vanessa I had some ‘good news’. I think of the Woman of the Year Awards and Howard Warner. Which one is more of a win? I can’t tell Vanessa about either. Although, if I triumph at the Woman of the Year Awards, she might see my face in the Evening Standard, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it passes her by.
‘Just a work thing,’ I tell her, tracing my fingers around the rim of my wine glass. ‘I got some recognition at work. It feels good.’ I smile, taking a sip.
Vanessa frowns slightly, questioningly, and I wonder if she’s going to pry.
‘Well, cheers to that!’ she says, her face relaxing as she leans across the breakfast bar and clinks her glass against mine.
There are reasons I like Vanessa, and one of those reasons is that she lets me have space. She’s not a snoop. She knows the right times to ask questions and when to leave something alone.
‘Cheers!’ I reply, grinning, clinking my glass against hers, taking a sip, holding eye contact.
She smiles, taking a sip too. She places her glass on the counter.
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask, feeling conscious of my hosting skills.
Vanessa has come all this way. She’s not Abay. He never expected anything from me other than sex. Vanessa’s a bit more grounded than that, it’s not all about sex with her. And after the weekend we shared together in Suffolk, it feels wrong to simply jump into bed. That weekend wasn’t just sexual, it was romantic too. I’ve thought about it far more than I expected I would. I’ve reflected on the way Vanessa laughed in the rowing boat in the middle of Fritton Park Lake, surrounded by swans. She j
oked that it was like something from The Notebook, while I smirked, stroking her hair away from her face, kissing her. I’ve thought about how it felt to sleep at night with her body next to mine and the cute, soft whimpers she makes while she’s sleeping. I’ve thought about the frankincense-scented moisturiser she uses and the way it smells on her skin. I didn’t think my mind would dwell on such things. I thought my heart was insulated to thoughts like that, but the memories, the feelings, have cropped up, uninvited, but not unwelcome. While I’m falling asleep, taking a bath, walking home from work, my mind has wandered to her.
