Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  Ellie lay on the floor, arms out at her sides, eyes rolled up into her head. His momentum had carried him several steps across the carpet, and Jon began to turn, knowing he had exposed himself to an attack from behind. Something crashed onto the back of his neck. Purple flooded his vision and he dropped to his knees, the jarring impact snapping his head to the side and sending a wave of pins and needles shooting up his spine. He felt himself falling to the side, but was unable to raise his hands to cushion the fall.

  Tom turned the glue gun round in his hands so the solid metal plunger faced outwards. The voices screamed their encouragement and he raised the implement high in to the air, ready to smash it down onto the man's skull with all his strength. But then he saw the large number seven on his back. Slowly, his eyes moved up to the man's face.

  Kill him!

  Tom remained still, his lips barely moving. 'But it's Jon. I know this man. He's wearing your number. What should I do? He's wearing your number.'

  The colour began to melt away from Jon's vision and he found himself kneeling with his upper body half slumped forward on the sofa. Looking down, Ellie's face was inches from his. He watched as she breathed slowly out. Then he heard Tom plead behind him, 'But he's wearing your number. I cannot.'

  Footsteps suddenly ran from the room and out of the house. Using the arm of the sofa, Jon got unsteadily to his feet. There was barely any feeling in his legs and, as he took his first tottering steps, he wasn't sure if his knees would buckle. But his legs held firm, growing stronger each time he felt a foot connect with the floor. By the time he reached the front door, he could feel the adrenaline pumping right down to his toes. He jogged down Ellie's path. A rocket exploded in the sky above him and, through the sheets of rain, he was just able to see a figure running round the corner at the end of the street. Jon exploded on to the pavement, sprinting the first sixty metres without taking a breath. He reached the end of the road and looked up to see the silhouette cutting towards the A6.

  'Tom!' he yelled at the top of his voice.

  Tom glanced over his shoulder and saw Jon closing on him fast. He cried out for guidance and was told to run for the main road. Reaching the pavement, he looked to his side. Down the road an eighteen-ton Argos lorry trundled towards him. He knew that its thirty-foot-long container would be packed with every type of household item imaginable. Enough merchandise to meet demand at the Manchester store for less than a week.

  Tom strode purposefully across the lanes and into the vehicle's path. Raising the palms of his hands outwards, he closed his eyes and commanded the vehicle to halt. He felt the power of the Masters coursing down his arms and imagined the light that must be crackling from his fingertips.

  At the kerb, Jon could only watch as the driver stamped on his brakes. Rain pouring off the vehicle's mudflaps suddenly flew forward on a diagonal trajectory under the vehicle's huge tyres. The lorry began to slide over the wet road surface. The first thing to connect with Tom's outstretched hands was the grille below the cab. As both arms were driven out of his shoulder sockets, a moving wall of metal slammed into his face and chest. Like some grotesque mascot pinioned to the vehicle, he was carried back for over forty feet, straight past Jon, before the vehicle slowed enough to let him slip down.

  As his head slammed against the tarmac, Tom's right eye opened a fraction, allowing him to see an infinite galaxy of brilliant stars. An instant later, the first tyre rolled directly over his head.

  'Oh my God!' someone screamed.

  A couple of people were jogging uncertainly to the motionless lorry, the driver already on his mobile phone.

  Jon bent over his knees for a moment, breathing heavily after his sprint. Ellie. He must get back to her. He straightened up, turned and began walking back to her house, his pace quickening as a desire to distance himself from Tom's mangled corpse combined with concern for his sister. As he neared her house, he could see a woman approaching in the opposite direction. Alice. He held up an arm and she stopped running. 'Jon! What's happened? Where's Ellie?'

  'In here. We'll need an ambulance. She's been drugged. 'He took her hand and led her towards the open front door.

  'Is it safe? Where's Tom?'

  'Tom's gone.' The sight of Ellie on the carpet caused Jon to fall to his knees. He slid a hand under her head, lifted it up and pressed his cheek against hers. In the hallway he could hear Alice on the phone, demanding an ambulance. He hugged her close, rocking back and forth as if he was comforting a baby. After a few moments he felt Alice's arms curling round his head and the tears suddenly came.

  Author's note

  To chart Tom's descent into madness, I described symptoms that accompany various types of mental illness. The most notorious of these is probably the auditory hallucinations that many schizophrenics experience.

  However, I wouldn't like any reader to make the mistake of believing schizophrenics are likely to be driven to murder by the voices they hear. (Sadly, they're far more likely to hurt themselves.) If any readers are wondering who is most likely to murder them, look to your family. Statistically, you're far, far more likely to be killed by a relative than a stranger suffering from schizophrenia.

  For a very readable and illuminating description of schizophrenia, I recommend, Schizophrenia: A very short introduction, by Christopher Frith and Eve Johnstone.

  The significance of seven obviously plays a pivotal part in the story. There is enough material about its repeated and mysterious occurrences throughout history to fill several books (and swathes of my references were wisely cut by my editor for the sake of pace!). Although the internet does provide a rich source of material on seven, much of my information, including Tom's belief in The Masters, is based unashamedly on a theory put forward by Geoffrey Ashe in The Ancient Wisdom.

  Acknowledgements

  This novel would never have seen the light of day without the faith shown by Gregory & Company and the expertise of Jane Wood at Orion. Huge thanks must also go to, in no order of preference:

  Dr Allan Jamieson for providing me with so much information on forensics and toxicology

  Aidan O'Rourke, whose photographs of Manchester allowed me to describe so much of the city during the Commonwealth Games

  Simon Roberts for showing me around a Vutek 5300

  Paul Rourke for explaining the outdoor advertising market to me

  Dr Ian Collyer for describing the process of suffocation

  Claire and Paul for letting me look at their holiday snaps from the Seychelles!

  Killing the Beasts - The ideas behind the story

  For this novel, I drew on my experience of seeing Manchester as it was transformed in the run up to hosting the Commonwealth Games. It was an incredible time; millions of pounds were pouring in and landmark buildings were springing up all over the place.

  But what fascinated me was how so many of the city centre’s older buildings – many of them derelict throwbacks from Manchester’s industrial past – were simply hidden behind huge building wrap advertisements.

  Once the games were finished and the crowds went away, these massive posters came down. With their disappearance, the teams of litter pickers and additional bins also vanished. Soon the real city – dirtier and dilapidated – reasserted itself, and a series of bizarre killings start to occur in my book.

  Lead character in Killing the Beasts is DI Jon Spicer. As a member of the city’s Major Incident Team, he soon finds himself hunting the killer. The pace of events begins to pick up and, along with it, Jon’s concern for an old friend called Tom Benwell. Jon’s worries are justified – Tom’s mental health is starting to fragment, making him ever-more vulnerable to a sinister figure who lurks in the shadows of the city.

  Shifting Skin – Chapter One

  Jon Spicer looked around what used to be his weight training room and sighed. Bare plaster walls faced him, exposed surfaces still raw from where he’d scrubbed them with sandpaper. The carpet was hidden by dust sheets that stretched from skirting board to s
kirting board. In the corner the steam machine looked like the victim of a clumsy shave, scraps of dry wallpaper stuck all over it.

  He started peeling apart last week’s local paper, separating the pages and laying them across the small table in the middle of the room. Immediately, and even as he tried to look away, his eyes were snagged by the front-page headline: butcher of belle vue strikes again.

  Quickly he flipped the page over, but it was too late. The horrific details of his latest case came streaming into the last place on earth he wanted them: the nursery.

  The latest victim, Carol Miller, had been a midwife at Stepping Hill hospital. She was good-looking, her strong facial features complemented by a curvy, full figure. The sort of woman his dad would refer to in his strong Lancashire accent as ‘proper breeding material’. In his own way, he would have been right. She’d given birth to a thickset baby the year before. Jon had watched as the infant drained an entire bottle of milk without pausing for breath, blissfully unaware of the tears streaming down the face of his grandmother above him. Jon had sat with his tongue frozen in his mouth, thanking God the bereavement counsellor had come with him to inform the woman that her only child was dead. The counsellor had kept up a soothing murmur, the actual words of secondary importance to the comforting tone of her voice.

  ‘What will become of our Davey?’ the woman had gasped.

  ‘His father’s not around and I’m not well. What will become of him when I’m gone?’

  The wrinkles round her eyes deepened and she started sobbing again. Jon could feel her looking at him and he kept his eyes fixed on the counsellor, willing her to break the silence with an answer. Say something, he pleaded in his head, because if you don’t I’m going to fucking cry.

  Pushing the memory away, he picked up the paint tray and decorating implements. He banged them down on the table, then placed the tin of paint next to the tray. Getting his blunt nails under the lid, he began to pull, increasing the force until the pain in his fingers got too much. ‘Bastard,’ he cursed, glaring at the tin like it was trying to insult him. He glanced around for a suitable tool, and spotted the scraper lying next to the steam machine. Only able to fit the corner of its blade under the lid’s rim, he cautiously increased the downward pressure. The seal broke with a pop and the blade jerked upwards, gouging into his thumb. Pain shot through his hand and he drew the scraper back, ready to slash the side of the tin in retaliation.

  Get a grip, he told himself, placing it on the table and examining his thumb. The red line ran across his knuckle, merging with an old scar from where an opposition player had stamped on his hand while wearing illegal rugby studs. Jon sucked the back of his thumb, then blew a thin stream of air on to the wet skin, the coolness detracting from the pain. He peered into the open tin, frowning at the purplish red paint inside. Then he picked up the plastic spoon and scooped a dollop of viscous liquid into the tray.

  Immediately an image of the pathologist dropping Carol Miller’s liver into a stainless steel tray appeared in his head. As the pathologist had stepped across to the mortuary’s scales, Jon couldn’t help staring at the corpse on the autopsy table before him.

  She had been found early in the morning, naked except for her knickers, stretched out in the middle of a small park in Belle Vue. The skin from her upper thighs, stomach, chest and neck lay in a neat pile beside her, muscles, tendons, ligaments and subcutaneous fat exposed to the world. The Home Office pathologist who attended the crime scene quickly concluded that she had been moved there from another location. Lifting one of Carol’s arms, he pointed to the long grass beneath it. ‘No blood. If she’d been flayed here, this whole area would be soaked.’

  Jon had stepped out of the white tent shrouding the body and looked around. He was standing in the centre circle of a badly neglected football pitch. It had rained during the night, washing valuable forensic evidence off the body and blurring the many footprints in the patches of mud around it. The area was overlooked by residential properties. Dotted in the unkempt turf was lump after lump of dogshit – apart from late at night, the animals’ owners must be using the area as a toilet for their pets almost continually. Even now a woman with a brindle Staffy was hovering beyond the perimeter tape, surreptitiously watching. The ghoul. Jon walked round the white tent, putting it between him and the woman’s inquisitive glances. He looked at the modern, cheap council stock, ground-floor windows elongated and narrow to deter burglars. They had a defensive appearance, like machine-gun slits in pillboxes.

  Beyond them a large church spire thrust upwards, the flat grey sky making the green copper stand out. Jon shook his head: there was little evidence of the forces of good in this grim place. He dropped his eyes back to earth, looking at the scattering of seagulls waiting at the far end of the pitch. Their hunched postures made them appear resentful of his presence on their feeding ground.

  Behind him came the low rumble of traffic, a steady stream of it passing along the A57. He moved away from it, stepping between the team preparing to go over the immediate area on their hands and knees, and walked over to the park’s perimeter fence. Rubbish was piled against its base, deposited there by the unrelenting wind that blew across the bleak expanse of grass. At the top of the park was a basketball court, the cracked concrete furred with patches of moss. Fragments of glass crunched under his foot as he paced across it. On his left he counted another gate into the park. That was the fifth. By the time he’d circled the perimeter he’d counted seven more. Twelve possible entry points for the killer. The whole place would need sealing off. He halted under a wiry tree, noticed the beginnings of leaf buds on the bare twigs above him. He took a little comfort in the thought that spring would soon be here to transform the desolate place.

  Why take the risk of leaving the body here, in a park overlooked by so many houses? Perhaps the victim was being made an example of. Some sort of warning?

  Jon had to agree with the pathologist. There was no way this was where the killer had carried out his . . . what? Surgical procedure? He walked back to the tent and stepped inside. ‘There was a bit of disagreement about the first victim – whether her killer had any surgical knowledge. Assuming the same person is responsible for this one, what’s your opinion?’

  The pathologist was about to take a glove off. He stopped, allowing the rubber to snap back over his wrist. ‘As I understand it, the first victim only had the skin from her chest and upper arms removed?’

  Jon nodded.

  ‘And here we see he’s removed the skin from her throat, chest, stomach and upper thighs. In both cases it’s not a particularly difficult procedure to perform. Anyone with the most basic knowledge of surgery, probably even a butcher, could manage it.’

  ‘Really?’ Jon was surprised.

  The pathologist smiled. ‘Ever peeled the skin off a raw chicken breast? Not much more to it than that. You just use the tip of a very fine scalpel to help divide it from the layer beneath – something to think about next time you’re making a casserole.’

  Jon felt a wave of revulsion at the pathologist’s reply. He’d sat in on a lot of post mortems over the years. But he never could get used to the macabre comments that bounced between the mortuary staff with the same ease as the pre-match banter in his rugby club’s changing room.

  ‘So he may not have medical training?’ he asked, suddenly aware of the muscles moving beneath his flesh.

  The pathologist stood up and removed his gloves. ‘He’s got some skill, but it could have been gained from practising on dead pigs, for all I know.’

  *

  ‘Jon! Have you seen the local paper from last week?’ Alice’s voice, calling up from the bottom of the stairs.

  He blinked once or twice, waiting for the images to fade. Then he looked at the sheets of newspaper covering the table in front of him. ‘Yeah, it’s up here.’

  ‘You’re not using it to cover that table are you?’

  ‘Well, it’s last week’s, babe. This week’s is by the sofa, I
>
  think.’

  She began puffing up the stairs, slow footsteps eventually reaching the top. ‘There was something in the classified section I wanted,’ she announced, slightly out of breath.

  Jon turned to the doorway. His girlfriend stood there, strands of blond hair haphazard on her shoulders, football-shaped stomach forcing its way between her T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

  Jon’s eyes moved from the strange blue line that had appeared beneath the tightly stretched skin. ‘What was it?’

  ‘One of those abdominal crunchers.’

  ‘I thought you were buying Chloe’s off her?’

  ‘Someone else beat me to it. She forgot to mention she’d also put an ad up on the noticeboard at her hospital.’

  ‘That was good of her.’ Jon lifted the tray off the table and put it on the floor. He peeled the paint-covered spoon off a sheet of newspaper, leaving a thick daub of red behind. ‘Are you sure this shade isn’t too bright?’ Carol Miller’s blood was still in his mind.

  ‘Jon, it’s going to be a nursery. We want it bright and cheerful.’

  ‘Yeah, but red? Isn’t it meant to close a room in? That’s why they paint the ceilings of boozers with it.’

  ‘Ah,’ she countered, ‘but we’re only using it for the skirting boards and doorframe. The rest of the room will be in that bumblebee yellow.’

  Jon started shuffling through the pages, scanning the columns of advertisements.

  ‘There you go.’ She stepped over and slid a page towards her.

  ‘Health and Beauty section.’ She traced a finger down the ‘A’ column. ‘I thought so: ab cruncher, ten pounds. Bargain.’ She tore the corner of the page off.

  Jon looked at her enormous bump. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea at this time?’

  Alice giggled. ‘It’s for afterwards, stupid. God, if I can hardly do my own shoelaces up, how will I use one of these? But once the little one’s arrived, I can start working my abdominals and pelvic floor, get my stomach back in shape.’