Stalked

by Lorraine Taylor

  George’s sister.

  “How is he?” I blurted. “The police questioned me like they thought I did it but I would never―”

  “Danny, Danny, Danny,” Evie interrupted me laughing, “I have good news and great news. George is awake and talking. Good job he’s hard-headed, eh?”

  I laughed as relief, both for myself and George washed through me.

  “And,” Evie continued, “I take it you mean the dead ringers for beavis and butthead detectives; George’s pet name for them, not mine.”

  I laughed again. “Those are the ones. You’ve met them then.”

  “Yes, and it wasn’t a pleasure. Anyway, let me assure you that any suspicions they had about you, George certainly put them straight. He has a concussion and stitches, but insisted he remembers everything clearly. He said his attacker was a lot shorter than you and very fat with a huge belly. Of course, this is George’s description after being bashed over the head so how seriously the police will take it, I don’t know. The doctor says the wound looked a lot worse than it was because of the blood, something about the scalp area bleeding a lot. So, there he is, sat in his hospital bed with his head wrapped in bandages and in come these detectives. One acts like George’s best friend and the other stands there glaring at everyone. It was glarer that bluntly asked if you’d done it. George admitted seeing no face, just a balaclava mask, but insisted the man was too small for you. Even then they asked if he was covering for you, did he know something about you that you didn’t want him to know. Well, it took myself and two nurses to hold George back. Anyway, you’ve been cleared so they shouldn’t be bothering you again.”

  I thanked her for letting me know and we chatted for a short while longer before we said our goodbye’s. She wasn’t sure when George was coming home, but assured me she’d let me know as soon as she knew.

  I’m ashamed to admit that I felt more relief at knowing Jackson and Dobson knew for sure that I hadn’t harmed George, though I still had the worry of being blamed for the Sunnyside killings.

  I moved to Samson. “He’s coming home, Samson.”

  Samson ignored me and my concern grew. George loved this cat, I hoped that Samson would hold on until George could come home. Without thinking, I reached down and petted Samson on the head. To my surprise, he responded by nuzzling my hand affectionately, a soft purr rumbling in his throat.

  “Hang on in there,” I told him. I found that petting him soothed me too and I was so content that I actually startled when my phone rang. Sure that it was Evie to tell me when George was coming home, I answered with checking the caller’s number.

  “Hey, Danny.”

  It was the killer.

  In spite of the rush of fear that immediately grasped me, I felt a rage grip me, a rage that was greater than my fear.

  “You sick son-of-a-bitch,” I hissed. I shook so hard with rage and emotion that I actually felt a little light-headed. “I saved the girl and I got out, you bastard. Why are you doing this to me?”

  The killer said nothing.

  “Answer me! Why are you doing this to me?”

  Again, the killer stayed silent.

  “I just spoke to George’s sister; he’s okay too you son of a bitch! And he’s cleared me of any suspicion so whatever you tried to do to me there, you just failed.”

  The killer suddenly laughed scornfully. “Oh Danny, if I’d wanted to kill the pervert I would have.”

  “You’re trying to frame me. You planted those overalls to frame me!”

  “Ah yes, I did enjoy that.” The killer chuckled, the sound made more ominous by the strange device he used to disguise his voice. “See, I knew they’d suspect you, obviously. But they need evidence; a motive, witnesses, the smoking gun. I knew old George would pull through.”

  “You tried to frame me,” I shouted. ” Then you tried to kill me!”

  “Maybe I’m teaching you a lesson,” the killer said, his voice growing tight with anger. “You shouldn’t follow people and spy on them, it can get you into serious trouble.”

  The killer’s tone stunned me, reminded me who I was dealing with.

  “That’s better,” the killer said in response to my silence. “Why were you following them, Danny?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’ve been looking into your past, Danny. You’re a very fascinating young man. Taken from your mother at the age of 9 and sent to live with your aunt, you were the victim of severe neglect and abuse at your mother’s hands. The pictures the police took of your injuries are astonishing.”

  Tears burned my eyes and I gritted my teeth, ashamed that a brutal killers apparent sympathy for me could affect me at all.

  “Your mother was a prostitute; though how any man would go to her for free is beyond me, never mind pay her for it. She was never prosecuted for what she did to you, even though the report on your injuries when you were first examined stated in black and white that you had both old scars and new fresh wounds caused by what appeared to be a belt and burns from a cigarette butt. When the officer and social worker led you away from the house, you didn’t cry, and you didn’t speak. Just sat quietly in the back seat. The social worker wrote that she was afraid for your emotional health. Looks like she was wrong eh, your creepy stalking thing aside, of course.”

  I sank to my knees and rocked back and forth as tears streamed down my face, the killer’s words taking me back to that moment. I remembered the social worker holding me, my horrid smell neither repulsing nor deterring her from holding me tightly as my mother’s body went by on a stretcher. I don’t remember the journey to the hospital, but I do remember the doctor who examined me. A jolly man with enormous glasses and a warm smile, he checked me from head to foot then allowed a male nurse to accompany me to the shower room, but not before pictures were taken of my back and torso. I remembered being ashamed, ashamed because I thought that all these doctors and nurses who had been so kind to me would now know what a unlovable naughty boy I was. My mother always told me good boys don’t get hit, and my many scars and sores indicated, in my mind, just what a naughty boy I was.

  “I’m getting to you,” the killer said, his tone surprisingly soft. “I look around in today’s society and I see so many people who are just a waste of a breath. Why are good people taken, taken by disease or the evil deeds of another person when wasters get to live? I’ve lived with it for as long as I can take it, it’s up to me to do something about it. These wasters always have some sob story excuse to feed to anyone who’ll listen, then I meet you, so to speak. You’ve turned into a rather decent, hard-working young man. You know, I had planned on killing you.”

  I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Tell me why you were following them, Danny.”

  And right there on my knees on my living room floor while tears flowed from my eyes, I opened up to a killer.

  I told him everything about my childhood and the first time I ever followed anyone. I told him how I got addicted, and how sometimes even to this day, there were times the feeling to do it would get so strong I was unable to resist.

  “What triggered your urge to follow Michael that night, Danny?”

  “My girlfriend. Nothing major, just a communication problem.”

  “What your mother did to you was horrific beyond words. I respect you, I think you’re a good kid.”

  I cried harder.

  “Why do you still see your mother, Danny? How can you possibly stand to be around that woman? What are you seeking from her?”

  “I don’t know,” I cried, sounding like a child as my answer came out in a drawn out whine. “I guess I want her love me, to feel bad for what she did to me.”

  “She will never change, Danny. And your life will never move on while she’s around. So, I’ve taken care of it for you.”

  Dread stirred within me, the killer’s words immediately making sense.

  “She doesn’t deserve a boy like you, and you don’t deserve the life you’re leading now. Take th
is opportunity to move on. And don’t worry about the police, this is no longer a lesson to you. You will be cleared of this fairly quickly as I made sure you have a firm alibi. Don’t be planning some expensive funeral either, let the bitch rot where she lies.”

  The killer hung up and I dropped the phone.

  My mother is dead.

  Trance like, as if I were dreaming, I grabbed my van keys and left my flat.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The relatively short drive to my mothers took a long time. I was unwillingly cast back into my childhood repeatedly, the darkness from those times numbing my senses and causing a further state of detachment. Suddenly, I was cast back to the night when I’d found my mother the first time.

  Darkness had fallen and I’d tiptoed through the house, constantly freezing for any tell-tale noises that my mother had heard me and was on her way down the stairs. Mother had taken a man into the house as I’d snuck out of the back door around three hours earlier, she should’ve been finished with him by now. I could hear no sounds from above; no wet smacking noises, no bed springs, no filthy words or my mother’s harsh panting.

  Nothing.

  I’d crept upstairs, tears of dismay in my eyes at the piles of junk littering the staircase. I took my time, carefully avoiding causing a loud avalanche of noise were I to trip over something and fall down the stairs.

  Though I’d been certain at that point that my mother was alone, I was still terrified of waking her; the beatings were almost as bad as the ones I received when disturbing her with a man.

  I don’t know how long it took me to get to the top of the stairs but I was shaking and sweating as I stood still outside my mother’s bedroom.

  Only then did I realise that something was wrong.

  Her snoring was loud, nearly as loud as the moans and shrieks her clients ripped from her, but there was only deathly silence coming from her room. I could see the dull light of a lamp on in her room so I peeked around the door.

  I saw my mother sprawled on top of her bed, an ugly bruise circling her throat.

  I’d felt no panic, no grief, no fear.

  I calmly left the house and went to the phone box at the bottom of the street and rang the police. I had then walked back home and sat in front of the house to wait for them.

  And I’d wondered if anyone would come.

  No-one liked my mother, and no-one had ever paid any attention to me. I’d sat shivering on my front doorstep and wondered whether the concerned sounding lady had realised my mother and I lived at the address I’d given and called the police off.

  I’d honestly believed that no-one would turn up.

  The sound of sirens filled the air and before long, our house had police cars, ambulances and various neighbours crammed in front of it. A young female officer stood with me, asking me questions as officers’ and ambulance personnel scuttled in and out of the house. Police in suits arrived and a lady called Susan came to stand with me. She was a social worker, called by the police upon seeing the state of the house I lived in with my mother.

  “Don’t worry, sweatheart,” she’d told me. “It’ll be okay, you and I will be out of here soon. Okay?”

  I nodded and Susan began to turn away.

  “Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt her,” I’d said.

  Susan turned back around to face me and I’d stared at her, momentarily stunned at the colours flashing on her face. Then I’d realised it was the police cars flashing lights that were causing it.

  “Who Danny? Did you see who hurt your mother? Has he been here before?”

  “No. I just mean maybe he didn’t mean to hurt her that bad. She told all the men she liked it rough; she’d scream for them to hurt her. Maybe he didn’t mean to squeeze her neck so bad and it was an accident.”

  Susan had hugged me as the female officer lowered her head, but not before I saw the tears shining in her eyes. I remember thinking that all this sympathy and the female officer’s tears were for my mother.

  I hadn’t realised that they were for me.

  The memories faded as I pulled up outside my mother’s house.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I entered her house and searched the ground floor, somehow knowing I wouldn’t find my mother’s body there.

  I didn’t.

  I walked slowly up the cluttered staircase, struck by how similar this was to the first time I had found my mother.

  I entered my mother’s bedroom, and froze.

  My mother laid sprawled on her bed, an ugly bruise circling her throat. She looked almost identical to how she’d looked the very first time I’d found her like this. This time, whoever had placed his hands around her neck and squeezed had done it properly, not loosening his grip until she was dead.

  Dead.

  I stared at the woman who had given birth to me, the woman I had sought love, compassion, sympathy from.

  I felt no sorrow.

  I felt no joy,

  I felt…nothing.

  For the second time, and indeed the last, I called emergency services to report my mother’s body.

  After the call, I tucked my mobile into my pocket, went outside and waited for the police to arrive.

  I imagined how it would feel to see my mother’s body rolled past me, not on a stretcher with lifesaving equipment surrounding her this time, but zipped up in a body bag.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Detective Jackson slammed his fist down on the desk in front of me. “Damn it Danny, tell me what’s going on!”

  The interview had gone by in a blur, a blur of questions, the same questions but asked in all different ways.

  I answered them in monotone, the image of my mother’s lifeless body sprawled on top of the filthy pile of rags she called a bed.

  The feeling of being trapped in dream had grown stronger and I became afraid, afraid that I may somehow end up trapped in this trance-like state and never be able to pull myself out.

  I’d been at the police station for three hours now and all the facts had been laid out to me.

  At first, Jackson had been kind, friendly, suggesting that a terrible accident had occurred. He said that maybe someone had been so angry with my mother that they had simply snapped, not intending to kill her but to just shut her up maybe. He said that scenario would be classed as manslaughter and with the right defence could easily be turned into a relatively short prison sentence. I knew he was implying that I’d killed her, so I said nothing.

  My silence angered him. He began asking me why I’d got back in touch with her after so long and after such a brutal childhood at her hands. Unsure of what to say, aware that I may incriminate myself, I simply said that my memories of her were somewhat hazy and I’d been curious as to the woman she was today.

  “Wow. Bet that was a disappointing day for you when you saw her again then,” Jackson remarked.

  I said nothing.

  He turned into friendly Jackson again and insisted if I told him the truth that he would help me. He even went as far as to imply that my upbringing and abuse my mother subjected me to would create a very strong defence for temporary insanity, depending on what triggered my attack.

  I became angry and I shouted at him, told him I had not killed my mother.

  Jackson stared at me. Dobson stared at me. Then Jackson asked me what I was doing outside of Sunnyside Apartments the night the couple had been killed.

  I went quiet, again aware that anything I said could, and most definitely would be used against me.

  Not mentioning George’s attack or the bloody overalls found in my block of flats, Jackson then began to question me again about my childhood, prying into my painful memories and trying to get me to talk.

  I refused to rise to the bait. Now, Dobson was the calm one as Jackson stood and leaned over the table, towering over me.

  “Why is it Danny, that in the last 4 days we’ve had three murders and one brutal attack, and you’re somehow connected with each of the victims?”

&nb
sp; I said nothing.

  “Are you in trouble, Danny? Are you involved somehow with people that are hurting the one’s around you as a warning or to get you into trouble?”

  Jackson glanced over at Dobson and they shared a look. Facing me again, Jackson said: “What were you doing driving down Stymer Street last night, Danny?”

  Here it is, I thought. I didn’t know how the hell I was going to get out of this police station. I decided to stay quiet.

  “Rachel Watts,” Jackson said, “she’s traumatized but alive; thanks to you. She told us in a statement that a man had entered her home when her parents’ were still at work. She said she was tied to her bed as the intruder waited for her parents’ to return. She said she didn’t know what he’d done to them until you helped her escape the fire. Now, and here’s the interesting part.” Jackson leaned close to me. ” Rachel said the intruder told her her life depended on ‘him’ getting here in time, said she would die if ‘he’ decided not to save her. Then, you appear in her room, cut her free and help her to safety.”

  The killer had told me not to worry about the police, so I simply sat there and said nothing.

  “I’m not gonna lie, Danny, I’m stumped. I think the only person who can help us with this investigation right now, is you. You’re the connection, the link between all these crimes.”

  He stared at me, still I said nothing.

  “We’ll give you some time alone, to think about what is happening around you,” Jackson said. “I hope you’ll be a little more co-operative when we return.”

  They left me alone and I sat staring blankly at the table in front of me. They certainly couldn’t charge me for saving the girl’s life last night; George had cleared me of his attack and they had nothing on me regarding my mother’s murder, though I had motive. I wasn’t too concerned as the killer had assured me that I had an alibi for her murder. Then I marvelled at my trust in a killer’s words.

  I really was going crazy.

  I was, however, concerned that they would combine charges somehow and charge me with the Sunnyside Killings and tie it to my mothers, maybe stating that I’d got someone else to kill her for me while I established an alibi.