The voice was silent for a few seconds and I smiled, still scared but with relief growing. Then the voice spoke: “I tried a face to face meeting last night after you chose to ignore my wave, but you sped off so fast I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”
I gasped as my heart thundered in my chest. Quite obviously, it was the hooded figure from last night, but on some level I was still convincing myself that it wasn’t happening.
“I thought that very rude of you, you know,” the voice continued, “so I thought I would call to find out who you were.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, the quiver in my voice denying my words.
“What did you think of that little show the sluts put on, Danny? Disgusting wasn’t it? I couldn’t help but notice that you hung your head and seemed somewhat embarrassed, or angry, I couldn’t figure which. Were you involved with the woman?”
There was no doubt about it, he was talking about the couple I followed last night. The couple who had been murdered in the same apartment I had watched them have sex in through the large windows the night before.
How would he know I was watching unless he’d seen me?
And how would he have seen me unless he was following them also?
“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about,” I said firmly. “You have the wrong number and I’m hanging up now.”
“So soon? Don’t you want to know why I killed them?”
I felt as if all energy suddenly left my body and I sagged in my seat. I stared blankly ahead, my mouth agape as I realised beyond any doubt that I was talking to a killer.
“Since you’ve chosen to be very rude and are ignoring my questions, I’ll be going now Danny, but I’ll contact you again. But, before I go, can I ask: was that your mother you saw today? If so, how on earth did a scrawny and despicably ugly and vulgar woman give birth to a big, strong―though cowardly―man like yourself? And who was the young man who visited with you a short while ago?”
Stunned and feeling faint, I said nothing.
“Yes Danny, I’m watching. How does it feel to be on the receiving end? I’m the follower,Danny. And I’m the only one. And one more thing, Danny.”
I waited, my heart in my throat. He’d seen Ricky leaving, that was about 25 minutes ago.
“No police. And I will find out if you contact them. My resources are endless;I found you with only your licence plate to go on. And also some advice; take it easy with the fast food. You had fish and chips this afternoon and a pizza this evening. You’ll end up obese or dead of a heart attack. I will contact you again tomorrow and I trust you will have checked your manners by then. And you had better answer your phone. I know you will, since you know what I’m capable of.”
The line went dead and I lurched to my feet as a car engine started. I reached the window, gasping for air as sweat trickled into my eyes. I pulled the curtain back just in time to see a dark car pull away from the curb. I watched it drive slowly away, tooting its horn twice as it went.
I slumped to the floor quivering as my heart beat wildly within my heaving chest. Minutes ticked by, yet I remained where I was. The smell of the fish and chips I’d thrown in the waste bin that afternoon suddenly swamped me, smelling a 1000 times stronger than the distinctive but only mildly unpleasant odour it’d been giving off all day. My stomach cramped painfully and I lurched to my feet, staggering down the narrow hallway to my tiny white bathroom.
After vomiting violently, I slumped to the floor and rested my head against the cold floor tiles.
How had this happened? What had I done to deserve this?
I knew what had happened of course, but what had happened was so shocking, so terrifying it just couldn’t be true
Because if it was true, then not only had I just spoken to a brutal killer whose victims were all over the news, but he knew my name, my address, my mobile number, and that I had been watching him last night.
Danny.
He’d called me Danny. Not Daniel, as my name appeared on my driving licence and birth certificate, but Danny, the shortened nickname only family and friends called me.
I sobbed once, unashamed of my tears as I curled up into the foetal position on the bathroom floor.
I had nowhere to go. The killer had seen me.
He’d said he’d be in touch again and had listed the activities that I had engaged in just minutes earlier.
When will this end?
“The victims were discovered early this morning by a family member who let herself into the apartment with a spare key. Both bodies were stabbed numerous times with what appears to be a large butchers knife. Detective Jackson stated it’s the most brutal double murder he’s investigated…”
The news story replayed in my mind as I pictured the young attractive couple the last time I had seen them.
Chapter Nine
I awoke the next morning from a troubled sleep and turned over in my bed. Wondering at what time I had dozed off since I couldn’t remember, I then realised that the other half of my double bed was empty.
I sat up and heard running water in the bathroom and checked the clock.
7.32am.
I sighed and stood up. Feeling hurt, rejected, afraid and angry all at the same time but for different reasons, I pulled on my jeans and headed to the bathroom.
The water had stopped running but I could hear clinking and shuffled steps through the closed door. I knocked softly.
Immediately, Becky opened the door and smiled out at me. My anger satiated somewhat as I looked at her, but my feelings of rejection and hurt grew.
“Sorry babe. Did I wake you?”
Becky smiled once more then turned back to her reflection in my bathroom mirror, obviously unconcerned about whether she’d woken me or not. I leaned on the doorframe, my arms folded across my chest. She had to be aware that I was watching her, but probably thought I was gazing at her with adoration.
In fact, I was glaring at her.
Not half an hour after talking with the killer, she had knocked on my door. I had vomited a couple of times and felt weak, angry and scared shitless. When I checked through the peephole and saw her face, I’d gratefully opened the door and let her in, desperate for company, especially hers. Immediately upon entering my flat, she passionately kissed me, rubbing me through my jeans.
It’s strange what you can think at times. I’d had a conversation with a brutal killer who somehow knew my name and my address not half an hour before her arrival, yet as she kissed me, I felt very relieved I’d brushed my teeth and used mouthwash after vomiting.
Becky tugged my T-Shirt over my head and I wrestled her arms out of her coat. We performed a strange, clumsy but passionate dance into my bedroom, bumping into every wall and door frame as we frantically tore at each other’s clothes.
I can quite honestly say it was the most mind blowing sex I’d ever had.
How did I manage it after what happened, you may be thinking?
Truth is, I have no idea.
Becky smiled up at me after, her eyes glazed and her arms spread out. Her orgasm had been strong; I think all the tenants in the block had heard that she was coming.
After, we went into my living room and sat down. I wore my jeans and Becky wore my T-Shirt and nothing else. I came very close to telling her about what had happened.
I’m glad I didn’t.
What stopped me from telling her was the realisation that we’d been sat together for nearly an hour and she hadn’t noticed, or had but just didn’t care, that I was down, troubled and quiet. She had merrily flicked her way through all the channels on my cable until she found a show she liked. Not asking me whether I liked it too, she’d snuggled beside me and settled down. The only times she’d moved for the next couple of hours was to help herself to beer and anything else in my fridge and cupboards that she fancied.
Getting annoyed with her self-absorbed attitude, I excused myself and went to bed. She followed me, however, and we
had sex again, her on top and riding me so hard I thought the bed might break. My last thought before I’d fallen asleep was that I was pathetic, that I was willing to be treated like a doormat if it meant some company, affection and good sex every now and then.
I watched her as she observed herself in the mirror. She dyed her hair blond, but it was a nice shade of blond with dark and light tones. This morning she had piled it all on top of her head in the stylish ‘undone bun’ as Becky called it. Many women wore their hair that way but to me it looked as though they had put her hair into a bun then been dragged through a hedge by the ankles.
Her make-up was done and her hair was done.
She would be leaving soon.
I watched her turn her head slightly to the left, then to the right as she checked her hair from different angles.
A heavy painful ache grew in my chest as I realised that she did not care a whit about me.
She came to my place, we had sex and she enjoyed running the TV and helping herself to my food and beer, then she woke early in the morning and went home.
If she left some money on my bedside table I’d be no different than my mother.
“Why do you turn up late then leave early?” I asked bluntly.
Becky rolled her eyes at her stunning reflection. “We’re not gonna have this conversation again, are we? I’ve told you, like, a jillion timesRIGHT SQUARE BRACKET I have a son! I can’t just swan off every time I fancy and leave him.”
I got angry. The way she said she couldn’t leave her son, like I was implying she should leave him so she could come and see me whenever I wanted.
“I don’t mean that, Becky,” I said slowly, “of course I don’t want you to leave your son. What I’m saying is: why don’t you answer my texts or phone calls? I rang you last night but you didn’t answer, then you turn up here a couple of hours later. Why didn’t you ring or text to say you were coming over?”
Becky dragged her eyes away from her reflection and looked at me, clearly annoyed. “My phone is playing up so I didn’t know you’d phoned. And I didn’t let you know I was coming so that I could surprise you.”
“You just assume that I’m in all the time, waiting for you to show up?
Becky frowned at me. “What’s up with you this morning? Why are you talking to me like this?
“What if I’d been out, Becky? Would you have called me then to let me know you were here?”
“Of course,” Becky said, her tone implying she thought it a ridiculously stupid question. “I wasn’t gonna camp in front of your door waiting for you, was I?”
“And you would have fully expected me to come running just because you were here? Just drop whatever I was doing? And how would you have rang me if your phone is playing up?” I spoke nastily, my face hardened and showing my anger. Becky was stunned since I’d never spoken to her that way before, but before she’d admit she was wrong, she’d twist it around to appear as the hard-done-to victim.
“Fine. I won’t bother coming again then.”
She stared at me and I stared back. I knew she was waiting for me to relent and apologize, to beg for her to stay with me.
Not this morning, sweetheart.
When she realised I wasn’t going to call her bluff, she pushed past me and stomped out of the room.
I sighed and entered the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
I urinated and brushed my teeth, trying all the while to calm down. I hadn’t spoken to her like this before and every time I brought up this subject Becky always made me feel bad.
I wasn’t having it this morning. Last night, Becky had been my main problem. This morning I had a killer to worry about.
I left the bathroom and found Becky standing by my front door, her coat on and bag slung over her shoulder. I was surprised actually, I thought she would have stormed off after the way I spoken to her.
“Ring me later, when you’re in a better mood,” she told me stonily before she turned away.
“What, so you can ignore the call like you usually do?”
Becky swung around and glared at me. “Get stuffed,” she hissed. She turned again and pulled my front door open.
“I don’t want to see you anymore, Becky. Don’t ring, text or come here ever again.”
Becky turned to me again. There was shock and surprise on her face, but no hurt.
No hurt.
Stomping out of my flat, she slammed the door so hard she probably woke all the neighbours.
I felt good for the next hour or so that I spent cleaning my flat, but the more I replayed the whole thing in my mind, the worse I felt.
Had I just let go of a relationship that would have turned into something special if I had been a little more patient?
She was a single mother with a small child, that can’t be easy, and she was probably scared of being hurt again, of settling down with a man and devoting herself to him just to end up alone. Had I just proven in her mind that she’d done the right thing by keeping me at arms length?
Was she home now, crying because she had proven herself right? Was she holding her son close and thanking God that she hadn’t let me near him?
I knew I had reason to feel pissed off at her behaviour, but perhaps I had been a little hasty at dumping her.
In the back of my mind I wondered how I could care so much after I’d been contacted by a killer the night before, but I think that’s probably why I was obsessing about her and the our relationship. I didn’t have many positive points in my life, and I wanted to keep hold of the ones I did have.
Realising that ringing her so soon may not be a good idea, I spent the next few hours pacing my flat and keeping my phone close, wishing and hoping she would call.
When my doorbell rang, I sprinted to open it without checking through the peephole.
The expectant smile froze on my face as my legs suddenly went numb and my heart skipped a beat.
Standing there were two police detectives, their badges extended in front of them.
Chapter Ten
“Daniel Rivers?” One of the detectives asked.
I nodded numbly.
“We’d like to ask you some questions if that’s okay?”
I felt as though I had just gotten off a twilt-a-whirl, you know the ride at the fair that spins you continuously then suddenly stops? That weird disorientated feeling afterwards when you don’t feel in control of your limbs?
That’s how I was feeling at that moment.
Why the hell were they standing on my doorstep?
What if the killer was watching and thought I’d called them?
“Mr Rivers?” the same detective asked. “Are you okay?”
I looked at them both and noted the look of suspicion on each of their faces, and I tried to smile. “I had an argument with my girlfriend this morning,” I said, trying to put a gloomy tone into my voice to mask my fear. “I was hoping it was her at the door.”
“Ah, the fairer sex. They do cause a man a bother or two, don’t they?” The detective laughed, but neither I nor the other officer joined in.
The detective that, up to now had done all the talking, was a rather short man, but he made up for it in bulk. He almost looked as wide as he was tall. His round chubby face reminded me of a jovial monk, though don’t ask me why since he had a full head of hair. And, come to think of it, I’d never seen a jovial monk.
Of the two detectives standing before me, he was the prettier one. His partner was fairly tall with broad shoulders. His salt and pepper hair was thinning considerably and his face, especially his eyes, were deeply lined. He gave me the impression of a man who lived for his job, that he was on a personal mission to put every bad guy on the planet away before he retired. Although he looked older and a little wasted, I guessed any bad guy who had dismissed him as a threat because of his age had deeply regretted it later.
While the jovial monk detective spoke kindly and made jokes, his eyes were clouded with suspicion. The older sour-pus neither smiled
nor made an effort to speak with me, but he regarded me with barely disguised contempt.
I was being carefully scrutinized by both men.
I knew I had to be very careful and behave as though finding two detectives standing on my doorstep was as bizarre as being mooned by the alien crew of a passing spacecraft.
Both men were looking at me and I shook my head in exasperation. “I’m sorry. Please come in.”
“Thank you,” said jovial monk as both men entered my living room. “I’m Detective Jackson,” jovial monk said. “This is Detective Dobson.” Sour-pus nodded at me. I offered them a seat and the both sat in my leather two-seater while I sat in the leather chair directly across from them.
Both men regarded me again and I squirmed in my seat.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?”
Jackson raised his hand and shook his head politely. Dobson stared at me like I’d offered him a cup of dog waste to drink.
“What can I do for you?”
“We’re currently investigating a double homicide,” Jackson said. He pulled a photograph from the file he carried and handed it to me. “Do you know this man?”
My head swam as I felt the blood drain from my face. Both men watched me closely.
“I recognize him from the bar last night.”
“Which bar?”
“The White Bull. I was having a quiet drink after work and he came in.”
“You speak to him at all last night?”
I felt both men’s gaze on me and my skin prickled. For the life of me I couldn’t see where this was going and why the hell I was being questioned about this couple.
I shook my head at Jackson’s question.
“You ever seen him before last night?” Jackson asked.
Again I shook my head.
“His name was Michael Phillips. We know he was in the White Bull last night, his fiancee told us. They had just gotten engaged on Wednesday, their 5th year anniversary.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, then mentally scolded myself. Trained detectives watch body language, and God knows what they were picking up from mine.
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