by Kane, Paul
I couldn’t prove anything that day, but didn’t need to. I simply knew.
The next step was to attempt what I’d failed to do with Miranda. The key turned out to be that fork, the one Sebastian used to clutch as he increasingly withdrew into himself.
(He’s just a shadow, a…reflection of what he used to be; my reflection in reverse. I know I did that to him, but it was necessary. His sabbatical eventually became an early retirement. I don’t think he’ll ever return to that hospital.)
The knife I’d used hadn’t been quite right. I needed something to conduct that energy, that life-force into me. So I ‘borrowed’ the fork, one night when Sebastian was asleep, prying it out of his hand.
It was a simple matter to sharpen the prongs.
To turn it into a weapon.
Then I—
[Fire damage]
—overcompensated, but I went much further afield to make sure. Mrs Thomas has all but moved in now. She watches over Anton and his father while I disappear for days at a time. Anton doesn’t question it, he knows we’re still playing the game. Nobody asks where I’m going or where I’ve been. I think they just assume I’ve fallen in with a bad crowd. Doesn’t matter.
As for money, it’s easy enough to forge Sebastian Sr’s signature on cheques. He’s built up quite a fund in the bank over the years. I know because I saw the accounts while I was still searching for information about who I am.
Anyway, back to the first one I…hunted. Yes, I suppose you could call it that. I tracked him at any rate, got his scent in my nostrils. Followed him, planned it all in advance: what I would wear – all black, including the mask – what I was going to do, where I was going to do it. At his home, where that used car salesman lived out his miserable existence alone. Sad bastard, I was doing him and the world a favour. He was in his forties, so I had youth on my side, but he still put up quite a struggle, even though I came up from behind, grabbing him and choking off his airway with the crook of my arm. We fell forward through the doorway at one point and I remember thinking: We’re making way too much noise.
Everything changed when I stuck the fork into his back, puncturing his spleen. I felt the jolt, the trembling sensations, same as I did with Miranda, only they were amplified tenfold. And, as I grew stronger, the man I was wrestling with weakened. Not just because he was losing his will to live, but because I was taking his will. It was being transferred into me: all his energy, all that he’d ever been…or ever would be. Wasn’t long before he was still and I rose, staggering around. It felt a little like that time I’d tried alcohol. I was dizzy, but managed to make it to the front door, closing it.
My whole body felt different and, once things had settled down, I realised that I liked it. A…it’s a little hard to describe it, but—
[Fire damage]
—fire this time. It would get rid of everything, just like the furnace in the hospital. He was a smoker, so it wasn’t that hard to fake a gas leak accident. From a distance, I watched the explosion, the flames rising. I felt just like them. Powerful. Dangerous.
I was gone by the time I heard the first sirens.
Sadly, the feeling didn’t last. I couldn’t hang onto it. The dream told me why, afterwards. I needed to keep some physical part, only then would it remain.
You see? Still learning.
The time after that was better. The woman, the whore. I pinned that one on her last client, incapacitating him while he was still on top of her, while he was ejaculating. Then I rammed the fork into her throat before she could get a scream out.
Oh, it felt good.
When I was done, I snipped off her little finger; it was all I needed. A body part that she had a pair of. Then I did things to the rest of her, things that would cover my tracks and ensure her customer would go away for a long time after I placed the knife in his hand.
It was only what was left behind: the machinery. I have the important part inside me – working for me.
The finger’s in a solution I concocted myself, hidden in our locked basement. I’ve discovered I like it down there, underground. It’s like my…sanctuary. My Batcave. At some point I will need to find somewhere better, though. Somewhere I can keep them all. My trophies. My reminders.
Because there will be so many more. I’m only just getting started, but already I have two more parts of my collection, pieces of the jigsaw. And I’m getting…better (no glasses now), closer to the reflection with each one I take. No, not take. Store, keep safe, borrow. Like the fork.
Old Sebastian simply sighed when he couldn’t find it, but I said nothing. He’s growing frailer by the day. I am growing stronger.
And I’m far from empty now.
Tuesday, March 13 – 1984.
I had to share this one with you. The latest addition to my collection.
Matt Wilson (names to faces now, faces to names), fitness instructor in a gym. I followed him for four days, the posing twat. I did so enjoy our little ‘altercation’ out in the car park when he was leaving work late. And he was strong; a real challenge—
[Fire damage]
—warned him that he wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Just my little joke. He had balls, though, I’ll say that much.
I took one of them from him as a souvenir.
I. Fucking. Hate. P.E!
Friday, May 25 – 1984.
Acid is my new best friend, you just have to be careful when you use it.
I spilt some on myself by accident, and it burned me pretty badly. But my arm healed up in under an hour.
Being a freak of nature has its compensations.
Monday, September 10 – 1984.
I finally showed Sebastian Sr what I am, what I can do. I figured the timing was right, I’d waited long enough. I’m eighteen very soon, it’s a coming of age. Time for a little ‘Father’ and ‘Son’ chat. Ha!
So I showed him my new trick.
Showed him what happens when I wear one of the faces…or even two. When I summon them. It’s handy, I don’t even need my mask anymore. I also told him it was all thanks to Angela’s fork. Just before he had the heart attack (I was wrong, he did wind up back in the hospital; I put him there) he asked me what I was.
‘That’s what I want to know!’ I grabbed him by his jumper, lifting him off his feet. Even without my new strength, he’d lost so much weight I could have managed it easily. ‘Where did you buy me from?’ Buy, like I was some kind of thing!
I only found out a few things before the attack came on. He got me from a woman up north sometime in late May, 1966. Where exactly I didn’t discover. But she’d died in labour, giving birth to…
I dropped him then, leaving him to spasm on the floor, gasping for breath.
I have a brother. A real brother.
An identical twin brother.
The irony wasn’t lost on me either. That I’m like the people I hunt. (No, I’m so much more than that.) I’ve wondered a lot of things about my twin since I found out: wondered what his childhood must have been like; wondered if he’d felt alone as well.
Wondered if he kept a diary like mine? If we shared any traits beyond a physical resemblance?
Wondered whether he might be a hunter?
And the reflection in my dream… I’m beginning to question if that is me looking into the mirror, or him? My subconscious lack of him. Now I’m becoming the mirrored image, does that make him the one I’m addressing? Ordering, as I do with Anton? I have a feeling I am the dominant one. Unless he’s even stronger than me – than I will be once this is all over?
Not possible. But just in case, I’ll wait a while before I track him down. I’ll know when the time is right, when we’re close to the endgame.
Not much to go on, though, those tiny hints at my origins, I thought. Then it struck me. That’s exactly what this is.
My origin story.
I watched him die then, this impostor, this man who’d claimed to be my Father, and I felt about as much pity as I did for Angela (now pl
aying a harp of a different kind!). He wasn’t worthy, neither of them were. ‘Secrets have a way of coming out, of coming back to punish you,’ I whispered. ‘Some son I turned out to be, eh?’ I’m definitely a stranger, and proud of it.
I said he ended up back in the hospital, and he did…in the morgue I love so dearly. There’s been some mention of Social Services coming in to assess things, but I can handle them. By that time my birthday will have passed (which in itself is a nonsense, my real birthday was months ago!); I’ll take over Anton’s guardianship, and between us we’ll have access to all of Sebastian Craine Sr’s wealth. I’ll need it to complete my work, complete my collection, honing my skills and abilities as I go. It will take some time, but then I’m quite a patient person – unless I’m tested. Mrs Thompson will continue to look after Anton, until I have use for him, now I know exactly how willing he’ll be. How eager he is to play.
But I’ll have much more than that. And with great power comes… Well, you know the rest. This world needs to change, needs someone to take command of it. This is a new war, but it’s one that’s worth fighting.
I’ll also have all my ‘friends’. They’re right here inside me, doing exactly as they’re told.
Late May… I just realised what star sign that is, and laughed out loud. A Gemini.
No. The Gemini. He has awoken. He is rising.
And I will never be alone again.
The Anniversary
‘There now. Isn’t that nice?’
‘Yes, dear.’
Beryl Sutton finished arranging the flowers in their vase. A dozen red roses as a centre-piece. How sweet! Everything was going to be perfect tonight. Had to be perfect. After all, it was a very special anniversary.
‘You look a little chilly, love. I’ll pop a few more cobbles of coal on the fire, shall I?’ she said, not waiting for his reply. Beryl did so love to see a roaring fire; very romantic. What was the point of putting the table up in their living room if they couldn’t be nice and warm of a winter’s evening?
The coal struggled against her metal tongs as it was snatched from the bucket and tossed into a flaming oblivion. Beryl looked at his card on the mantelpiece (Words cannot express how much you mean… I’ll always be there for you), then across at Trevor, her husband of thirty years. Her sweetheart. He was so handsome, especially in the glow of the fire, lights down low; no need for candles.
‘That better?’ she asked him.
‘Yes. Much better, thanks.’
Beryl hung the tongs back on the companion set between the brush and shovel, then rubbed her hands together. She’d been looking forward to this evening for ages. Had planned everything right down to the smallest detail. The food: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and veg. Trevor’s favourite. The music: a lovely Richard Clayderman record on the turntable. Her clothes: a lilac two-piece from the catalogue – buy now, pay later. Even a bottle of the finest red wine from her local supermarket; their own brand, naturally.
Who said you had to go out to some swanky restaurant to enjoy yourself? Much better to stay at home, revel in each other’s company. It was something they’d always seen eye to eye on, that. Trevor was a homebody, just like her. And she could tell he appreciated all the effort she’d gone to by the smile on his face.
‘Can I do anything, love?’
‘No, silly. You stay right there while I fetch the dinner.’ Beryl wandered through into the kitchen, pausing only briefly to examine her reflection in the hall mirror. She patted those curls which the home perm kit had given her; the copper red tint having also come from the chemists. For sixty she didn’t look half bad. Lines around the eyes and neck, but that was only to be expected. God’s way of reminding you to enjoy every moment you have left.
‘You’re only as old as you feel,’ she murmured to herself, then continued on. And Beryl Sutton felt like a woman in her twenties; exactly how she’d felt when she met Trevor for the first time. Golden memories they were and no mistake.
He’d been a new recruit at the bank where she worked – secretarial duties mainly, though she told family members otherwise. A striking example of manhood at twenty-five years old, Trevor. Yes, there was three years difference between them. She often joked even now that he was her toy boy.
Women weren’t supposed to do all the running in those days, at least not in the little corner of the world where she lived. However Beryl was well aware that if she didn’t do some sprinting soon it might be too late; twenty-eight wasn’t quite on the shelf, but it wasn’t sweet sixteen either. After holding out for Mr Right for so long, he’d finally appeared – just as she’d imagined him. And she wasn’t about to let him slip away. She made it plain – in all but words – that she was interested in Trevor: dropping her papers when she saw him coming down the corridor in the hopes that he’d stop to help her; walking by his desk several thousand times an hour; making him extra cups of tea…that sort of thing.
Until at last, the shy young lad of her dreams had asked her out. He later told her that it had been an effort for him to summon up enough courage. But they were both pleased he had. Now, all these years later, they were still together.
Beryl turned off her gas oven and brought out the beef. She’d never been interested in microwaves, no matter how good the adverts said they were. Beryl liked to see exactly how her food was being cooked. She sliced succulent pieces of meat off the side with all the skill of a trained chef. Well, she’d been doing this for some time. Had to, Trevor was simply a hazard in the kitchen. But she didn’t mind cooking for him; in fact she loved it. Beryl laid the beef on round Willow pattern plates, one wedge on top of the other, until she’d created a staggered effect. Next she placed the beef back in the oven and rescued the Yorkshire, which had filled out its square tray adequately – a wave-like quiff rising up at each end. A truly mouth-watering sight. Quickly she divided it up, then turned her attention to the carrots, sprouts and beans simmering away on the hobs. Beryl spooned equal portions onto each plate. Last, but not least, she poured on the gravy.
A meal fit for a king…and his queen.
Beryl carried these full plates into the front room and deposited them on the table.
‘Hmm…smells terrific,’ said Trevor.
Beryl beamed from earring to earring. ‘Oh, the wine! Just hold on a tic.’ She dashed back to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
She was glad Trevor was happy. That’s all she’d ever wanted for him really. To be happy. With her.
Theirs had been a careful but wondrous courtship. For their first date he’d taken her to see a re-release of The Odd Couple at the local Odeon. Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon had been funny enough, but it wasn’t really her cup of tea. Given the choice she would’ve preferred to have seen something with Paul Newman in it. They’d sat near the back, not quite at the back, and Trevor had behaved like a perfect gentleman. Afterwards he walked her back to her parents’ home and they kissed on the doorstep; only a peck, but it made her night. She knew from that moment on he was hers. They belonged together.
The corkscrew slid easily into the top of the wine bottle. She twisted it a few times then jiggled it out. There was a knack to it. Her brother had shown her one time. Dear Harry, she missed him so much… Out it came. No pop. No bang. Just a disappointing hiss as the air was released. The glasses chinked when she lifted them out of the cupboard. A wedding present from the gang at work; a set of eight, out of which only three now remained. It didn’t matter. They only needed two.
The bells of St Mary’s rang for them on a Saturday in early October. The best day of her entire life. Trevor had looked like a film star and she was on top of the world, with friends and family all telling her the wait had been worth it. That she’d finally hit the jackpot. Beryl couldn’t have agreed with them more. Blissful years followed and it wasn’t too long before Beryl found herself blessed with child.
She’d had to leave the bank, obviously, as a baby would mean so much more responsibility at home. But it was what she�
��d always longed for: a family; a husband; and a gorgeous bundle of joy.
Sadly it wasn’t to be, and on 18th February, Thomas Trevor Sutton was delivered stillborn. To this day she couldn’t understand it. She’d felt him kicking right up to the last minute. The doctors had told Beryl it would be dangerous for her to conceive again. Next time it might not be just the baby (just?). They reeled off some medical nonsense she hadn’t understood in the slightest, but she took their word for it; they knew best when all was said and done. He’d be heading towards thirty himself now. She often wondered what he would have become. Whether he would have stayed with her…
Trevor had been mortified, though he maintained the obligatory stiff upper lip, and Beryl had tried not to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. There was nothing that could be done. Best to move on, make the most of life. They still had one another. In some strange way she believed it had brought them closer together.
Beryl never had any desire to go back to work. They’d given her job to some teenager anyway, so she devoted herself fully to Trevor. Every day when he came home his dinner was on the table at 6 o’clock precisely. The house was always spick and span in case anyone visited. Not that they ever did – Beryl had lost touch with most of her friends, and Trevor had never been one for mixing socially; kept himself to himself and his workmates at arm’s length. Trevor’s parents had passed on before he’d turned nineteen, and now that her own mum and dad had gone to meet their maker – with brother Harry not far behind them; if only he’d stopped smoking – they couldn’t even have family get-togethers. Not that they’d had many of these before, either.
Beryl clipped the glasses together between thumb and forefinger, and took the wine by the neck to carry it in. Oh, she was so excited she thought she might actually burst. Yes, anniversaries were such romantic occasions. That wasn’t to say Trevor couldn’t be just as thoughtful at other times of the year, too, especially on Valentine’s Day or birthdays, buying her surprise gifts and the like. Just look at the chest freezer he’d splashed out on a few years back. You could get all your weekly, even monthly, shopping in there and still have room for things like the beef she’d cooked today. All right, not the most personal of gifts some might say. But Beryl cherished it. Any such offering was a token of his love. You might not be able to wear it on your finger or around your neck; nevertheless, the principle was the same.
