The only thing left to do was write a first-hand account of a killer at work. And in order to do that, you had to become one.
Obviously, there were myriad issues with this.
Most of Joe's issues were creative, rather than moral. He wanted this work, his tour de force, to be as authentic as possible. But you had to be insane to do that stuff, right? Killing a bunch of people isn't normal behaviour. They say that the truly insane don't know they are insane. That they are oblivious. That's what made them mad.
So if Joe knew he wasn't mad, that his killings were merely a way of getting his work noticed, surely that made him a fraud. And that undermined his work. It was a paradox. His plan was fundamentally flawed. That was the part that called for all the writing skills he had, and more. He had to make the reader believe what they were reading was the real deal. And to achieve that, he had to know what it felt like to kill.
The first person, actually, the only person he had killed so far, had been a student in Liverpool who may or may not have been a part-time prostitute. Joe liked to think she had been, as if that made her less human than if she had been a receptionist or a travel agent. Of course one random slaying didn't constitute serial killer status, but it was a start. Killing a prostitute, if that was what she was, wasn't exactly original either, but they were easy targets. And there were other advantages. Despite assurances to the contrary, the police didn't generally invest as much time and resources into bringing prostitute killers to justice.
He didn't actually find out she had been a student until after the fact. Funny, really. Because prostitutes and students are two groups statistically most at risk from crime, it couldn't have been more contrived if he'd tried. With prostitutes it was an occupational hazard, with students it was usually because they were so fucking naïve. Most of them were away from home and living independently for the first time, and they lacked the necessary life experience to keep themselves out of trouble. A lot of them came from privileged backgrounds, university education wasn't cheap, and that meant they were often spoiled and lacked street smarts.
He could remember it as if it were yesterday. He'd been in Liverpool on one of his writer's retreats, doing a piece about disaffected youth. He wanted to be in the heart of one of the most economically deprived areas of the UK, to get a little taste of what it must feel like. The frustration, the resentment, the longing, the apathy.
By that point, he had already started working on his Special Project, but the early stages had just been research. Lots and lots of research. It was whilst in Liverpool, in the midst of all that lawlessness and social decay, that he first realized what he had to do.
It was an epiphany of sorts.
He was out walking one night, along a tow-path on the bank of the canal, when he first saw her. She was alone, wearing an evening dress and stiletto heels, which was why he thought she may have been a hooker. Joe followed her for a while, wondering what to do, and playing out various scenarios in his head.
His first instinct was to attack her.
Just to see what it felt like.
If the worst came to the worst, if he lost his nerve, he would just run. It wouldn't matter too much if someone saw him. Seeing people run wasn't exactly unusual for the area. Nobody knew him here, so they wouldn't be able to put a name to the face. As long as he didn't get caught, it would be fine. He could be on a train within hours, and hundreds of miles away by morning.
She was a fascinating specimen. Short and slightly chunky, yet she walked with an elegant, practised grace. Joe yearned to know more about her. Her name, where she was from, where she was going, her first memory, her favourite colour.
Anything and everything.
At the time, he didn't understand why knowing her on a personal level was so important. Only later did he come to realize that knowing the girl intimately would enhance the experience, make it more real.
However, after a while he gave up on the idea. If he got to know her, he might actually start to like her, and that would truly scupper his plans.
The knife was in his pocket. A very sharp, spring-loaded switchblade he had bought online and had shipped from China.
Carrying a weapon was a strange thing. It offered protection and a degree of security. But there was also a high risk. Being caught in possession of a knife was a serious crime. However, he thought he would be safe from the clutches of the police. The only way they could know about the knife would be if they stopped and searched him, and why would they do that? He didn't look like a teenage thug, gang member, or career criminal. He looked like a jaded hack, which was exactly what he was. The Liverpool police would concern themselves with more immediate threats to the fabric of society.
It was chilly and still. The girl's heels made a clip-clop sound on the tow-path running alongside the water, and a black handbag bounced daintily against an ample hip.
Joe felt in his pocket, and was reassured by the chunk of cold steel he found there.
She hadn't turned around. Not once.
He quickened his stride until he was so close, he could reach out and touch her.
That was the closest he came to backing out. He knew what he was about to do was a selfish act after which his own life would never be the same again. Everything would change.
But at least he would have the knowledge.
He would know how it felt to take a life.
Besides, he thought, art may be a flimsy excuse for murder, but at least it was an excuse. People committed the ultimate sin for much less; a few coins to feed a drug habit, a mobile phone, love, jealousy, or just because they wanted to. Which was worse?
Murder is murder.
Dead is dead.
They were in a wooded area now. The kind of place parents told their kids to avoid at night.
Perfect.
After a final look around, Joe pulled out the knife and pressed the button that released the blade. Suddenly, in the palm of his hand, he held the power to give life or take it away.
It was a powerful feeling. Enrapturing.
He felt like God.
At least, this nameless girl's God.
At the sound of the knife springing open, she stopped in her tracks.
Finally, some recognition!
After that, everything happened quickly. The girl whirled around. Now, he could see her face.
She was plain-looking, in her early twenties. Despite her tender years, and although her complexion was softened by the moonlight, Joe could see the beginnings of wrinkles had pursed her mouth and narrowed her eyes. Disconcertingly, the eyes held no fear. They widened, and darted down toward the knife.
She opened her mouth, either to challenge him or to scream. Nobody would ever know which. Because he chose that moment to step forward and lunge, thrusting the knife into her throat as hard as he could.
The blade must have severed her windpipe or something, because instead of shouts and screams the only sounds the girl made were gasps and gurgles, accompanied by a strange hissing sound like air escaping from a punctured tire. Eyes widening in terror and disbelief, the tiny crow's feet etched into the corners disappearing, her hands went to her throat as the blood began to seep through her fingers.
Momentarily, Joe was immobilized by a sense of wonder. This was a sight he had never seen before. Someone being mortally wounded right there in front of him. More to the point, he had done it. He should drink it in. Make notes.
But then, a creeping panic began to spread through him. He knew he had crossed the line. He was past the point of no return. If the girl got away, he would be a wanted man. Can't have that. Nothing to lose now.
In a murderous frenzy, he lashed out with the knife again, slashing at the girl's face and arms as she tried desperately to defend herself. Disorientated, she turned to run, but succeeded only in tripping over her own feet and pitching herself head-first into the still, black water of the canal.
Joe stood on the bank, heart pounding in his chest, waiting for her to surface. He had wanted to take
a trophy from her, do something unique that would set the slaying apart from every other knife murder in the city. But the girl plunging into the canal had deprived him of the opportunity.
He cursed his luck. Now it would be harder to create a media buzz, which was essential if his Special Project was going to be successful.
She eventually resurfaced a few yards downstream, face-down and arms outstretched as if attempting a post-mortem swan dive. There was no movement.
Just like that, Joe was a murderer.
Realizing that he still held the bloody knife in his hand, he hurriedly threw in the water where it landed with a soft plop.
Later, he thought that may have been a mistake. Surely, when the girl was found the canal would be dredged.
But the body had already began to drift. By the time it was discovered, it could be miles away. Nobody would be able to pinpoint where the crime had actually taken place. Even if there was a search, looking for a murder weapon (or the right murder weapon) in a canal that size would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
He hurried back to the guesthouse where he was staying and washed the blood off his hands. By some miracle, he had managed to avoid being drenched with the stuff. There were only a few smears on his hands and cheek, and a few drops had found their way onto his jeans. He had already decided to burn all the clothes he was wearing as a precaution.
In hindsight it actually helped his cause that the girl had fallen into the canal. He had never been arrested before, so his DNA wasn't stored on the national database. But hopefully, the water would wash away any incriminating forensic traces.
Better safe than sorry!
Thanks, Mum.
When he finished washing he put his dirty clothes in a plastic bag, went back to his room, and began to write. Much like during the aftermath of his impromptu excursion into 1973, the words fell into place easily and he wrote at a feverish pace. It was all he could do to keep up with the thoughts tumbling out of his head.
He described the momentous experience in full. Not just his actions but his feelings, thoughts and emotions. He wrote until morning, feeling like he was in a race against time to get the words out before the police knocked his door.
During the homeward journey, his imagination ran riot. It was a struggle just to keep it in check. He had the strangest feeling that everyone who looked at him knew what he had done. He could see it on their faces; distaste, repulsion, judgement, evoking a weird mixture of guilt, shame and perverse pride within him.
He kept expecting a tap on the shoulder.
Excuse me sir, would you care to accompany us to the station? We'd like to ask you a few questions...
But it never came.
Soon, the entire incident faded into memory. But even so, Joe felt changed somehow. The person who returned from that trip to Liverpool was a different person to the one who had gone. It was a shock to find that it was true what they say in the movies; the perpetrator always returns to the scene of the crime. For a while, he fought a nagging compulsion to go back to the canal and walk up the tow-path again. He wanted to make sure he hadn't left a piece of himself behind, something that could be used as evidence.
In the aftermath he found himself locked in a constant battle with his conscience, knowing he had murdered someone for no good reason other than artistic gratification. There was no other way to legitimize what he had done. It wasn't an accident, or self defence, or even a matter of life or death. He killed her for the sake of art. Was any art worth that sacrifice?
He would have to say yes, it was. Obviously. Violence could even be the only thing that really quantified it. His Special Project flowed like nothing else he had ever written, the prose alive with passion and a depth of insight he could never unlock in his other work.
Of the entire experience, the hardest thing to deal with were the nightmares. In that nocturnal neverland, everything seemed so real.
The dream always began with darkness. Thick, impenetrable darkness. He could see nothing, but he knew someone or something was nearby. He could sense it. And then the girl's bloated face would come into view, looming over him, eyes dead and accusing. She would float in the air like an apparition, waving her arms and kicking her feet. Going through her death throes night after night, making it look like a jerky, spasmodic dance.
She always wore a white lace dress. The clothes she had been buried in.
Joe knew this the way you just knew things in dreams.
Once pristine and flawless, the dress was now covered with black mildew and yellow and orange stains caused by liquefying flesh underneath seeping through to spoil the fabric.
Her body was progressively decaying.
At first, she was deathly pale. Then, as time marched on, her cheeks sank and her flesh started to putrefy. His eyes were always drawn to the wound in her throat, now crudely stitched closed with rough black sutures. A mortician's work.
But... wait.
There was movement there. In between the stitches. White dots set against the darkening skin.
What the fuck?
As he peered closer, to his disgust Joe would see the white dots wriggling.
Maggots.
Inside her.
Then the girl would laugh, her swollen black tongue lolling around in her cavernous mouth, and Joe's eyes would snap open, a terrified scream caught in his throat.
On those nights, he was very glad he lived alone.
He began to obsess. Instead of working, he would waste entire afternoons scouring the Internet. Had the body been discovered yet? Were there any suspects? One day, he found a short news item on a local news website:
STUDENT FOUND DEAD
The story, no more than two-hundred words, said that the body of a woman named Susan Reilly, 21, had been found in the canal. She had been reported missing a few days earlier. Now it was being treated as a murder enquiry. The police had appealed for information.
After reading the article Joe waited anxiously, periodically checking back to see if there were any further developments. To date, there were none. It appeared the girl's whole life, and death, amounted to that one little article. How sad.
Even so, Joe decided he should make a contingency plan.
If you knew the right people and had enough money, it wasn't difficult to set yourself up with a whole new identity, right down to operational bank accounts, university diplomas and falsified medical records. Documents so authentic that they would withstand all but the most rigorous scrutiny. Joe was pretty sure the illegal Eastern European immigrants he met at the meat-packing plant in Sunderland would help him out. For a finders fee. It would make him sleep easier at night knowing that if the worst happened, he could flee the country.
The thought of life on the run excited him. He could become an international fugitive, using his meagre savings to buy a one-way ticket to Vietnam or Thailand where the remainder of his money would go a lot further. There, he could write with freedom. It would mean starting again under a pseudonym, but what the hell?
The only thing stopping him getting the documents was that he didn't want to alert anyone to the fact that he needed them. Only people in trouble needed new identities. He would be laying himself wide open to blackmail.
After a while, the compulsion to check the Internet every day slowly dissipated, and Joe slipped back into his daily routine. Although he often thought about the girl in the canal (the Special Project was on-going) the nagging desire to return to Liverpool faded, the fear and guilt subsided, and even the nightmares grew less and less frequent.
He had literally gotten away with murder.
Now, years later, he often found himself wondering whether Susan Reilly still looked the same. Or whether corruption and decay had made her as repulsive as the dreams suggested. He wondered if she really had been buried in that white lace dress, and in which cemetery she had been laid to rest.
His thoughts soon shifted to the trivial. How many people had attended the funeral? Did they have sn
acks and drinks afterwards? Did anyone fuck? He heard funerals were just as good as weddings for hooking up.
Another thought that haunted him was...
If he hadn't stepped in when he did. If their paths hadn't crossed that night, what would Susan Reilly be doing now?
He accepted the notion that his pathetic attempt at becoming a serial killer had stalled after Victim Number One. But maybe this strange set of circumstances he now found himself in offered the perfect opportunity to find Victim Number Two. In fact, there was a whole spectrum of possibilities.
He could murder someone and not just be in a different place when the body was discovered, but in a different time.
Now, there was an airtight alibi.
If he did a little planning, he could even take credit for cracking one of the country's most mysterious unsolved murders, producing 'evidence' that proved beyond doubt the identity of the murderer who ideally, would be long dead. It wouldn't be too difficult to shift the blame onto someone else.
The first step, he decided, was to find a suitable victim. Everything else would fall into place later.
That night, he had difficulty sleeping. He tossed and turned for hours, his racing mind never relenting enough to allow sleep to claim him. He toyed with the idea of staying awake just to witness the time shift. He wanted to see the people age and the buildings crumble.
But he had a profound notion that sleep was an essential ingredient to the process. If he tried to stay awake, it wouldn't happen. Not tonight, maybe never. He would be forever trapped in 1982. All the big hair, shoulder-pads and disco music. Fuck that. It felt almost like Christmas Eve when you were a child. The building excitement and sense of anticipation keeping sleep at bay. But you knew that Santa Claus wouldn't come if you were awake, so you eventually succumbed.
When sleep finally came, it brought the nightmare with it. The first in a long time.
Susan Reilly was now little more than an animated skeleton with lumps of putrefying flesh and shreds of skin hanging off brittle exposed bone. She had been in the grave a long time now.
First, she did her awful death dance for him, suspended above his head, jerking around to some inaudible soundtrack. Then, she swooped down, arms outstretched and mouth twisted into a hateful grimace.
Out of Time Page 5
