The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  “I want you to help me catch a killer, Tanya,” he spoke softly, almost guiltily. It wasn’t fair, he’d enlisted the help of Loony Liz and she’d ended up dead. Prostitutes are expendable; Dawson said the day they found Amanda Chapman.

  “Why me? How?” Suddenly she seemed to have matured, grown ten years older in a matter of seconds. The cat on her lap was forgotten.

  “Why you? Well, you’re shrewd; you might know how this particular killer thinks. That’s what I want you to do, I want you to help me get inside her mind. That’s the only way I’m going to find her, Tanya.”

  “The Black Mantis?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve read about her in the paper. She’s crazy. She’s clever, too, which is why you’ll never catch her. Not without my help, anyway.”

  Ford’s heart seemed to flip but not a muscle in his face betrayed his excitement. “That’s why I’m here. You’ll help?”

  “Yes. Tell me what you want to know. By the way, I’m not a prostitute, you know. I only flog men, I don’t let them do anything to me. I’ll tell you something but you won’t believe me. I’m a virgin.”

  “I believe you, Tanya. I’d swear on the bible.”

  “Thank you. But keep the bible out of this, I don’t believe in God. I believe, though. In a power. I’ve never let a man do anything to me. A lot have wanted to but I refused. Even Gerald never fucked me.”

  “That was the guy you three parts circumcised?”

  “How did you know that?” She sat upright suddenly, suspicion clouding her features. “Tell me, or I’ll refuse to help you.”

  “Doctor Whittaker told me. He finished the job you started, stitched up Gerald. Don’t worry, you didn’t break the law, you did it with his permission.”

  “Not quite. We used to play this game, his favourite. I had to act anti-Semitic, of course. Gerald was accused of taking ducks from the park because everybody was starving. I was telling him that he was going to a concentration camp with three thousand other Jews. He was tied up, couldn’t move. Then he started to whine that he wasn’t Jewish so I said there was one sure way to find out. That was when I’d unzip him, pull his foreskin and shout my rage. ‘I’ll fucking well make you so as nobody can tell the difference!’ Often I’d whip his foreskin till it bled. Then, when I got my knife out, he’d start to plead for mercy at first but when I got him really turned on he’d beg to be circumcised. The night I did it we’d been playing the same game; for me, it was getting boring. He knew sodding well that I wouldn’t cut him, and I knew it, too. Maybe he sensed I was losing interest. So he started to taunt me about my cats, said he was going to sneak down one night and kill ‘em all. I just went crazy. I’d cut through most of his foreskin before I suddenly thought, My God, I’ve gone too far! That was when I untied him and called the doctor. Gerald wrote to me a couple of times afterwards but I’ve never answered his letters.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d enjoyed those circumcision games, and now that he’d been circumcised there wasn’t anything left to play for. Okay, it was a game of pretend up until then, but several times I really had to stop myself from making it real.”

  “I see. Did you enjoy circumcising him?”

  “For about three seconds I was ecstatic. I virtually orgasmed. It was the shock of actually having done it that brought me to out of it. I’d say, in all honesty, that those three seconds were the most exciting of my life. I just wish that I hadn’t chickened out and left some bloody medic to finish what I’d started. If I had my time all over again, I’d cut him right through, then phone for help.”

  “Could you circumcise another man?”

  “Oh, sure. As I said, the pretend part was making it boring but once I’d done it, I knew I could do it again. Not that I’m looking to but I sometimes fantasise about it.”

  “I’m curious to know why the Black Mantis circumcises men. All small men. And why she castrated the last one.”

  “I’d say because she’s got a taste for it. Like I have but I wouldn’t do it unless a guy asked me to. If that happened, I couldn’t hold back. You ask why she cut his cock off … Well, if I’d gone back to Gerald I might have done just that. Out of frustration, because there wasn’t any foreskin. Do you see what I mean, Mister Ford?”

  “Yes, I do, Tanya. Could it be that she’s been another game player, like yourself, and the pretend part became boring?”

  “Could be,” Tanya didn’t sound convinced. “Could be also that she hates small men, either she’s been raped by one or jilted by one. So she’s collecting foreskins. Maybe she played games and the guy ended up screwing her against her will. If Gerald had done that then I might’ve wanted revenge on men in general. Gerald was big, though, weighed nearly sixteen stone.” Just in case you think he might have been small. “So I’d have gone for big men.”

  “Quite. Tell me, Tanya, do you get many men come to the Punishment Parlour looking for simulated circumcisions or maybe just foreskin tortures?”

  “Occasionally,” she was thoughtful; “maybe two or three times a year, and often then it’s the same blokes. When they ring to book, Madam usually phones and asks me to go in. I guess after Gerald she thinks I’m an expert. But she always gives me an imitation plastic knife!” Tanya laughed. “She doesn’t trust me but she says the clients always ask if I can attend to them. She hasn’t called me for sometime, though. Not for that anyway. It isn’t a common hang-up, just two or three regulars. There’s one who’s probably popped his clogs by now, he was well into his eighties. I always used to worry about him having a heart attack, he used to get so excited. Mostly the customers at the Parlour are younger, thirties or forties. They like flagellation sometimes they plead with me to urinate on them. That’s dirty, I don’t like it. In fact, I‘d prefer not to go in at all these days. I’m happy just to be with my cats. I love my cats.”

  “Do you think the Mantis is a prostitute?”

  “I’d say it’s unlikely, she just solicits to get her victims. She’s probably middle class, too clever for the police.”

  “We’ll see. Do you think she has a husband? Or a boyfriend?”

  “No, because if she did then when the urge was on her, she’d circumcise him, and if he was already circumcised then she’d castrate him. She couldn’t help herself. I know that, Mister Ford, believe me, I know only too well because I’d do exactly the same if I was in her place.”

  “Surely she must love somebody or something? A lesbian, perhaps?”

  “A possibility but very few real sadists, like me, have got any time for women. I really hate Madam and all the other girls at the Parlour! No, I’d say she doesn’t love a human but she really loves animals or birds, has a strong love for a particular species. With me, it's cats.”

  “So she might love something?”

  “Oh, sure. It could be cats, dogs, rabbits, ducks, anything. Take it from me, when you hate humans, you have to balance your feelings some way. Whoever she is, wherever she is, she has to have a safety valve. She has to think the way I do, you couldn’t circumcise anybody cold unless you were a surgeon. You have to have a feeling for it, a lust. And when you’ve satisfied that lust, you have to turn to something to love.”

  “Thank you, Tanya,” Ford stood up, eased his cramped muscles. “You’ve been a great help to me. Right now I don’t know where to start looking but at least I know what I might be looking for.”

  As he threaded his way back through the overgrown garden, he heard her starting to talk to the cats again. It was as if she had forgotten that he had ever called. Right now, in his mind, he saw a Big Girl, her back towards him, dressed in dark Levi’s with a sweater to match, her fair hair tied up in a ponytail. She stood on the edge of a lake somewhere, anywhere. In her left hand she held a wrapped sliced loaf, with her right she was skimming the slices out across the water. Ducks quacked and churned up the water as they chased after the bread, squabbling.

  It might not be ducks, it could be anything. But ducks
were as good a starting point as any.

  24.

  Kate, habitually, never liked Monday mornings. In some ways this morning was worse than usual.

  The hired van arrived and the driver’s mate carried her belongings from the flat, loaded them into the back of the Transit.

  Her request to “please be careful with the paintings” was answered by an insensitive grunt. By ten o’clock they were unloading at Valley Tower and carrying everything up to the thirteenth floor. The job was completed by eleven thirty and then she set about arranging things the way she wanted them.

  She had carried the mauve sports bag on her lap, sitting in the centre front seat of the vehicle between the two men. She took care to hold the bag upright; in spite of the foam rubber packing the jars inside clinked as the driver negotiated the ‘sleeping policemen’ on the service road leading to the tower block.

  “Make your own jam, do yer, luv?” the co-driver asked.

  “That’s right,” she answered, stared straight ahead of her, braced herself for the next bump. “Every autumn I make wild fruit preserves.” One year she had done just that but not any more.

  “Wouldn’t mind tryin’ a jar. My missus used to make jam but ‘er ain’t made any lately, seems to ‘ave gone off the idea.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve only got a half a dozen jars left. Perhaps next autumn, if you’re passing by …” And I hope to God you forget.

  Paul had not returned last night, he had probably stayed over at Matthew’s place. His belongings were still in the flat, he would probably collect them later, leave the spare key on the table. Kate was glad that she had managed to get out before he arrived, the final parting of their ways might have been difficult.

  Number 177, Valley Tower, consisted of a living room, single bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen. Basic fittings in every room, the cheapest that some chain of building supplies could provide. It was much smaller than her previous accommodation but it was adequate, room enough for herself and her painting but nowhere for visitors. So that ruled Paul right out.

  She had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. She was one step ahead of everybody, she would make sure that she kept it like that.

  That afternoon she called in at the bank to deliver her latest sick note, went to the enquiry counter and rang the bell. One of the senior clerks scrutinised the note, his expression undisguised scepticism and contempt.

  “You’ve been off work a month now,” a veiled reprimand that went beyond his authority. “I trust you’ll be back after this one otherwise they’ll insist that you’re seen by the bank’s doctor. Relief expenses are mounting up.”

  Kate checked a retort. “I can only heed my own doctor’s orders,” her voice trembled. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to pass the note on to the manager, that’s his concern.” Not yours.

  The other closed the bulletproof screen, went away. As Kate left the bank she had already made up her mind that she wasn’t going back. She couldn’t face a formal nine-to-five job, shackled by convention, again. She would find something else to do. Painting. She would sell her pictures, distribute them round the city restaurants, they often had pictures for sale, took their commission. The art centre café, too, was a useful source. Dammit, people made a living out of painting, she could paint ducks better than most, Peter Scott had done just that in the early stages of his career. She’d give it a try, after her sick leave on full pay expired. And she already had a prospective customer; WPC Braithwaite. Kate would even visit the police station in order to get a sale.

  The clock on the Guild Hall said 4.30. By public transport, Valley Tower was a ten-minute ride; it took twenty minutes to walk the distance. Kate was in no hurry, she decided to call at a café for a snack, afterwards she would decide by which means to return home.

  It was as she munched on a Big Mac that she made an on the spur of the moment decision; she would call in at evening surgery, see Doctor Whittaker. He had told her to keep in regular touch, she would take him at his word. The idea had her spine goose pimpling.

  “Miss Kate Leonard for Doctor Whittaker, please.” She was the last patient in a previously crowded waiting room, it was as though he had deliberately left her until last. Perhaps because he had to talk to her at length. Psychiatric consultations took longer than run-of-the-mill diagnoses. She stood up, felt slightly dizzy, walked unsteadily down the long, emulsioned corridor. The nameplate on the half-open door said DOCTOR WHITTAKER. She experienced an almost orgasmic sensation; it passed as quickly as it came.

  “Ah, Miss Leonard, sit down, please.” Doctor Whittaker was washing his hands at a small sink in the far corner of the room; he was meticulous in everything he did.

  Kate seated herself on the straight-backed chair in front of the desk. The doctor was behind her, still washing his hands. She swallowed guiltily, the visit was contrived, he was shrewd enough to see that.

  “I didn’t expect to see you quite so soon,” he said drying his hands now.

  “I’m sorry …”

  “Not at all,” he’d done with his hands, flicked the towel before he hung it back on a hook. “No drastic problem, I hope?”

  “No.” None that she was going to confide in him. “I’ve just been relocated.”

  “You mean you’ve moved to get away from your boyfriend?”

  “Yes.” It was as if he read your thoughts, she was regretting her impulsive decision to come here this afternoon.

  “Rather drastic, don’t you think?” He didn’t give her time to reply, asked, “Where to?”

  “Valley Tower. Thirteenth floor.”

  “Dear, dear,” he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t think that’s a very clever thing to do, Kate. The block is virtually condemned, structural and damp problems, hardly the place to recuperate in.”

  Her brain reeled; he had called her by her first name. “I had to get out, he wouldn’t go. This place is a single flat.”

  “Well, let’s not go into all that,” he moved into her field of vision, seated himself at the desk. She noticed that her file went unopened. “Now, how are you feeling?”

  “Much the same,” which wasn’t exactly a good reason for a return visit so soon.

  “One can hardly look for a lightning recovery,” he slid his glasses down from the bridge of his nose in a gesture of admonishment. “But you want to talk to me, I can tell that. You’re edgy. Calm down, take your time, there aren’t any other patients waiting out there.”

  Her intestines seemed to know. I’ve only come here, Glenn, to find out whether you’re …

  “A broken relationship is disturbing,” he seemed to sense her embarrassment, a man who knew when to speak and when to remain silent, “however turbulent it has become. Logically, no relationship is better than a bad relationship, but it hurts just the same. Am I right?”

  “I guess so,” she could not meet his eye. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m wasting your time coming here with emotional problems which I have to sort out myself.”

  “Not at all,” his kindness flooded her with guilt at her deception. “Your relationship has a definite bearing on your mental and physical health. Which is where I can help. I admire your common sense in coming to see me right away. Now, the worst thing you can do is to begin another affair on the rebound, as they say. You need time to sort yourself out. Are you still painting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ducks, of course.”

  “I rarely paint anything else.”

  “That’s fine. Carry on painting them, it will help your loneliness. Perhaps, eventually, and I hope it won’t be too soon, you’ll find somebody else.”

  “I don’t want …” Yes, I do, I want you, Glenn. Which is bloody stupid, a crush, and all I really want is …

  “I’m an atheist, Doctor.” She blurted it out clumsily, a confession that was designed to turn the conversation towards religion.

  “There’s no harm in that. Everybody is entitled to their own beliefs. I have mine.”

 
; “You’re religious?” She held her breath, expected a brusque answer. Mind your own bloody business.

  “In a way. I believe in a divine power but I don’t go to church. I was brought up C of E.”

  Oh, shit, that tells me nothing. RC, high church, Jewish, Muslim, any of those would have been a pointer to his circumcision or otherwise. He was in no-man’s-land.

  “I shall carry on painting … I may find someone else.”

  “Good, I would say then that we are making progress. I’m worried, though, that you are living in Valley Tower. Apart from its structural health risks, it isn’t a good area for an attractive girl to live alone. Do you have a telephone?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. I’m considering it.”

  “I think it’s vital that you do.”

  “You’re thinking about this rapist? I thought he only murdered prostitutes. Like Jack the Ripper.”

  “So far,” he stroked his chin meditatively. “One can never be sure. The man rapes and kills when the urge takes him. If he is desperate, he will take the first woman to hand.”

  “I read in the papers about some woman called the Black Mantis,” somehow Kate managed to keep her voice even, almost casual. “Sounds a dangerous nutter.”

  “Dangerous, certainly, but we don’t know yet what motivates her. There has to be a strong psychological reason behind her attacks. It would seem, though, that her desire is principally to circumcise. It is the already circumcised men who are in the most danger, as we discovered by her last victim.”

  “What’s the point of circumcision, Doctor, I never could work it out?” She made is sound like small talk, asked out of idle curiosity; the answer didn’t really matter.

  “Hygiene, religious reasons, sometimes a boy’s foreskin causes discomfort and has to be removed,” the stock answers she was expecting. “I think female circumcision is barbaric, should be outlawed except for medical reasons and only then when there is no other alternative.”

  “And male circumcision?” She was trembling in anticipation of his reply.

  “Again, only for positive reasons. If a male is going to reside in a tropical climate, then it is advisable. I don’t think it should be carried out as a matter of course.”