Out of Time

by C. M. Saunders

  Or was it a smile?

  One of her eye sockets was empty now, while the eyeball occupying the other had swelled so much it looked ripe to burst.

  Joe woke with a start, his fist jammed into his mouth to keep in the screams, and the bedsheets twisted around his sweating torso. He lay in bed, gasping for breath, until his heart finally stopped trying to break out of his chest.

  It was morning. He could hear the familiar caw of the seagulls and low rumble of traffic outside. He lay in bed for a few more minutes as the images gradually faded, then got up and dressed. A busy day lay ahead. There was work to do.

  Chapter 6

  Outside, thick drizzle and dense sea mist hung in the air and the seaside town seemed virtually deserted, which was all the better for Joe's purposes. Sticking with recent tradition, he decided to take a walk and buy a newspaper. It seemed the easiest and most convenient way to find out which year he was in today.

  As he walked briskly down the promenade he felt invigorated, bestowed with a new sense of purpose. The news kiosk was back, manned by the same old tweed-wearing gent he had met before. Only this time, he looked a few years younger. It was almost like unexpectedly meeting an old friend. In a world that seemed to be spinning wildly out of control, it was reassuring to know that some things stayed the same.

  Not surprisingly, given that it would be years before their next (first?) meeting, the old man didn't recognize Joe. Even so, he greeted him in his customary friendly manner. “Good morning, sir! Nice weather for ducks!”

  “It certainly is, my old friend,” Joe replied, scanning the assortment of newspapers and magazines neatly laid out in rows in front of him. He selected a crisp new copy of the Daily Mail and picked it up. He would never normally consider himself a Daily Mail reader, scaremongering wasn't really hi thing, but the story on the front page screamed at him.

  America had began bombing North Vietnam.

  The date was Wednesday September 9th 1964.

  Wow, fifty years. The biggest leap so far.

  Joe paid for the newspaper with some pocket change, and walked away. Again, he missed the look of bemusement that spread over the old proprietor's face when he examined the coins. He wouldn't have cared very much had he caught it. The newspaper was already sweeping him away on a tide of high-impact global events.

  Apart from the lamentable Vietnam war, one of America's biggest mistakes, kicking off, the space race was hotting up, and Andy Warhol was at the peak of his powers. The newspaper also informed him that the Beatles had just hit number 1 in both the singles and album charts with A Hard Day's Night, Cassius Clay was the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world, there were race riots across America, and a rebellion in the Congo.

  This was a document of real history, descriptions of events that would shape the world Joe would grow up in. But the strong sea breeze kept trying to rip the newspaper from his hands. And the drizzle, which was rapidly turning into fully-fledged rain, was getting it wet, smudging the print and inking his fingers. If this was allowed to continue, soon he would have nothing to show but a handful of cold grey mush. Joe ducked into a shop doorway for shelter.

  The promenade was devoid of all life. This time there were were no holiday-makers, no gangs of troubled teens, not even any dog walkers. Evidently, anyone with any sense had decided to stay in bed this morning. Though obscured by mist, he could smell and hear the sea. It almost seemed to be calling him, pulling at him like some invisible force.

  That made up his mind about what to do next. You can't go to the seaside without taking a walk along the beach, can you?

  “Early in the morning was the best time. Such a lovely part of the world!”

  Ah, dear old mum.

  The beach was as deserted as the promenade and the rest of the town. Joe walked along the hard wet sand for a while, enjoying the feel of the wet breeze against his face. Overhead, the gulls swooped as the waves crashed against the shore and the mist swirled about him. There was something almost spiritual about seeing rain hitting the sea, the act of nature completing another cycle. Combined with the sheer size and scale of the sea, it was almost mesmerising.

  Joe was so entranced that at first he didn't see the diminutive figure standing on the beach, staring forlornly out into the distance. He almost walked straight past. It was a female form, he could tell that much. Joe's mind was instantly cast back to that night in Liverpool, when he had stalked Susan Reilly along the tow-path of the canal.

  The scenario was eerily similar. Two sad loners, an empty landscape, water.

  He knew getting away with murder for a second time would be doubly difficult. It was difficult enough to do it once. Especially with the threat posed by modern technology and forensic science.

  But it was different now. Today. They didn't have any of that stuff in the Swinging Sixties, did they?

  Joe began to feel the same, aching familiar emotions. The tension, the excitement, the sense of deity-like power.

  He didn't know how long he stood there before making up his mind, but he guessed it wasn't very long.

  He had found Victim Number Two.

  He just needed some kind a weapon.

  Inspecting the sand around his feet, his eyes soon rested upon a chunky-looking lump of driftwood. Stooping to retrieve it, he realized it was waterlogged, which certainly made it heavy enough for the job. It must have been in the sea a long time, the water eroding all the corners away so it was now completely smooth and slightly tapered at one end. A bit like a club. Not perfect, but it would do.

  Bludgeoning had to be one of the least subtle ways in the world to attempt a murder. It smacked of desperation and spontaneity. There was no style or finesse. He doubted anyone ever sat down and planned to carry out a murder with a blunt instrument. It was always something you found just lying around. But in the absence of a spring-loaded flick switchblade, it was the best he could do.

  With the lump of driftwood in hand, he did a slow turn.

  As far as he could tell, he and the girl still had the beach to themselves. The heavy mist meant that visibility was no more than a few hundred metres so he couldn't be sure, but the conditions were his ally as well as his adversary.

  There would be no witnesses to the atrocity he was about to commit.

  The girl seemed lost in thought. Little did she know that whatever those thoughts were, they would be the last coherent ones she would ever have.

  Joe calmly approached from behind, being careful not to look directly at her. That was how the Royal Marines and other Special Forces were taught to attack from the rear, he had discovered in his research. They looked at the ground, or off to one side, keeping the target in their peripheral vision. The belief was that people could sense someone staring at them, and would turn around. Fact or superstition, so far it seemed to be working.

  He was almost close enough to strike.

  Just a few more paces.

  Joe paused to savour the moment. In his limited experience, the penultimate moment before attack was the best part. The adrenaline coursing through his veins pushed him into a heightened state of awareness as he took one final deep, shuddering breath.

  Beating someone to death with a heavy lump of wood was about as up-close and personal as it could get. He mustn't get it wrong. He didn't want to be chasing a screaming girl down the beach with a lump of wood.

  Amidst the swirls of mist, he held the improvised weapon in both hands, raised it up, and brought it back down on the back of the girl's head as hard as he could.

  Donk!

  Dazed, the girl staggered forward a few paces up to the water's edge and tottered precariously on her feet. She began to turn around to see who or what had hit her, but Joe couldn't have that. He had no desire to see this girl's face, one ghost haunting his dreams was enough.

  So he hit her again, from the side this time, catching her on the jawline. The force of the blow snapped her head back and to the side. She let out a grunt as she fell to her knees, her injure
d head lolling on her neck. Something might have broken or ruptured in there, the image reminding Joe of one of those plastic toy dogs with bobbing heads people kept on the back shelf of their cars.

  The girl was still trying to twist around to see her assailant. Only now her neck didn't work properly she was trying desperately to twist her whole upper body. A bit sad to watch, really. She was like an injured bird.

  Sometimes, dead is better.

  Joe manoeuvred around out of her line of vision.

  The girl seemed to be moving in slow motion. Joe guessed being whacked over the head a couple of times with a big stick would do that to you. Both hands went to the top of her head, almost as if she were wearing her 'thinking cap' at school, blood cascading through her interlocked fingers and over her shoulders. For some reason, maybe shock, she still wasn't screaming.

  Joe brought the lump of driftwood down on her again, and again. On the third or fourth strike, he heard her fingers break and her skull crack. Then, she was lying face-down in the sand with waves kissing her prone body.

  Still, Joe didn't stop.

  Consumed with rage, he struck her until half of her head was beaten flat in the middle of a spreading pool of blood that glistened almost black in the wet sand.

  Pulverising someone's head into pieces was a far more strenuous exercise than stabbing someone in the throat and running away. When he had finished, Joe slunk to his knees beside the body, unable to even raise his arms, the improvised murder weapon matted with hair, blood, and jagged pieces of torn scalp.

  Knives would definitely be his weapon of choice in future. They made for a cleaner, more professional kill. Looking at the gore-streaked piece of driftwood in his hand, he wondered what the hell he should do with it. He had to get rid of it somehow. The sea? It was the world's biggest toilet, after all.

  He took a short run-up and launched the chunk of wood as far as he could. It landed with a plop and disappeared beneath the waves. He hoped the tide was going out. If so, it would take the murder weapon out with it. Fish, crabs and other sea creatures would take care of any incriminating residue and then the salt water will wash it clean. If anyone happened to pick it up again at some point in the future, they would have no idea about the piece of driftwood's gruesome history.

  Maybe... just maybe... the tide would take the whole damn body out into the murky depths where it will never be seen by human eyes again. A few years from now some bones may get washed up on a beach somewhere. But by then, the crime will have been long forgotten and they'll attribute the remains to an unfortunate fisherman.

  Perfect.

  Now all that remained was to get the hell out of there.

  There still wasn't a soul in sight. It was almost too easy, as if it were preordained. If he believed in that sort of thing, he would start thinking it was his destiny to become a serial killer.

  Leaving the battered body to the will of the tide, Joe hurried away. A little way down the beach he found a rock pool and washed his hands in the cold water.

  There was more blood than last time. To be on the safe side, he also washed his face, peering at his reflection in the pool to see if he was clean. The last thing he wanted to do was parade about town looking like an extra from Dawn of the Dead.

  What now?

  Think!

  He knew he had to stay focused. Mustn't panic. He could hope that the tide did his dirty work for him, but he couldn't count on it.

  Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

  That had been another of mum's favourite sayings. It wasn't a bad motto to have.

  He had to be realistic, rather than optimistic. Despite the bad weather, in all probability the crime would be discovered soon. Then, someone would alert the authorities and the investigation would start. If he happened to be caught up in it and, God forbid, interviewed by the police, he just didn't trust himself to withstand any kind of intense scrutiny. He would go to pieces.

  Should he just run? Leave town?

  No, that would surely arouse suspicion.

  He needed an alibi.

  As far as he knew, no one had seen him that morning. Except the old newspaper seller, and he must see hundreds of people every day. Worst case scenario would be Joe's word against his. And the guy was old and probably easily confused. Not a very reliable witness. A good defence lawyer would tear him a new one in court, if things got that far.

  Joe could just slip back into the hotel. Go back to bed, even. That way, if the police came around making door-to-door enquiries, they would have to wake him up.

  This was day three of his stay, wasn't it?

  He thought so.

  But with all the time travel nonsense he had kind of lost track.

  If he was right, he would be leaving first thing the next morning, anyway. He just had to keep a low profile until then.

  Chapter 7

  In order to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to himself, Joe made his way back to the hotel via a convoluted series of unfamiliar side streets and alleyways. It took a little longer, but he didn't mind. The walk would give him a chance to calm down. On the way, he thought maybe he should have waited until the evening to make the kill. The body would probably have lain undiscovered until the morning, by which time he could be halfway home.

  Damn it!

  He should have thought things through.

  Then again, you had to take your chances when they came. He may not have had the same opportunity again. The whole thing was a learning curve. You don't get to be the perfect serial killer overnight. Making mistakes was all part of the process. The early histories of all the big guns were littered with errors. He just hoped none of his would come back to haunt him.

  He thought about making his getaway. In all the excitement, he had all but forgotten he was in a different year. Shit, did they even have trains in Rhyl in 1964? More to the point, if he was still in the same time period tomorrow, where the hell would he go? Assuming he could make his way home, he wouldn't move into his flat until 2009!

  His head was beginning to throb again. There were just too many questions and not enough answers.

  One thing he was almost certain of was that somehow, the Sea Breeze hotel was playing a key role in his time travelling exploits. He could feel it in his bones. It was the only constant, the only thing that stayed the same no matter what the decade. It was almost as if the hotel was some kind of portal.

  When he finally arrived, Joe was almost hesitant to cross the threshold. Who knew what unearthly power the place had somehow harnessed. But what choice did he have? He had to get back to his own time, somehow. And somewhere in its inner sanctum, the hotel held the answer.

  Joe inserted his key into the front door, let himself in, and hurried up to his room on the second floor without seeing another soul. Quietly, he opened the door.

  The first thing he saw was his laptop, in its usual position on the desk beneath the window. Though he felt drawn to it, he resisted the urge. He thought it might be best if he went back to bed for an hour or two. Try to get some more sleep. Then he could make a big song and dance about something trivial waking him up, just to make sure the hotel staff and maybe a few fellow guests took note and remembered him thereby firming up his alibi. Assuming, of course, he woke up in 2014. At least, using old-fashioned keys rather than key cards meant there would be no record of his activity to trip him up.

  Problem was, he didn't think he would actually be able to sleep. He was wound as tightly as a coiled spring. There was far too much going on in his head to allow any form of relaxation. But he had to try. He slipped out of his jeans and jacket and crawled under the covers.

  For a while, he simply lay there with his hands behind his head, expecting a loud rap at the door. But despite himself, Joe soon drifted off.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he slept, the nightmare came again. But this was the worst one yet. Everything was more vivid than he ever could have imagined, full of sickening detail, and magnified to nausea-inducing clarit
y.

  It started as it always did. In a black room. But this time the room felt even more claustrophobic than before. It was also damp. Joe thought he could hear water dripping somewhere, and the stench of death hung heavy in the air. Only then did he finally realize that he was in a tomb. He had been buried alive.

  If before, the nightmare had been akin to a horror movie, then this was the extended Directors Cut, played out in excruciatingly intense detail. It seemed to take longer than usual for Susan Reilly to materialize, and the mere harrowing anticipation of knowing what was to come accentuated Joe's fear. He could imagine the murdered girl waiting patiently somewhere stage left, until the moment was just right to make her dreaded, show-stealing appearance.

  When that moment duly arrived, Joe first heard a faint scratching he couldn't remember hearing before. Like fingernails being drawn agonizingly slowly across stone walls.

  Or gravestones.

  Then, he became aware that he wasn't alone. Something shared this black void with him. Something twisted and terrible. And it was eating up the space between them with a fearsome appetite.

  He lashed out wildly, but his fists connected with nothing but stale air. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, only to discover that they were already closed. So then he tried to force them open, and realized that they were also already open. It was as if someone had taken a razor blade and cut slits into his eyelids.

  Susan Reilly, his first victim, was getting closer and closer.

  Coming for him.

  He couldn't see her but he knew she was there. He could feel her.

  And suddenly, there she was, in all her rotting glory.

  Her appearance came as no surprise, but Joe still couldn't stop himself screaming. The emission came out as more of a defeated, tortured howl.

  After five years in the ground, the girl was now practically a skeleton glowing in the darkness before him, shimmering in a ghostly greenish-yellow light. As he watched, one of the last remaining chunks of flesh slithered from her cheek and dropped to the floor.