Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  How ludicrous is that?

  If you think there might be someone in the house, a thief or attacker or murderer even, the very last thing you are going to do is yell something, thus giving yourself away, and alerting the invader that you are coming for them. Belinda wasn’t stupid. She remained silent, and still.

  She crept to the top of the stairs. The only light shining was the little coming from her pulled-to bedroom door. Switching on the landing light would only serve to alert whoever it was that might be downstairs, that someone was awake and moving. She wouldn’t switch anything on.

  She listened hard down the stairs. Nothing new, nothing detected, nothing to indicate there was a person or persons in her house. She thought of retreating to her bedroom and getting her mobile and ringing for help, maybe ring Lena, maybe even ring the police. But didn’t that sound just too ridiculous for words. To ring the police, and say what exactly? ‘Excuse me, but I think I heard a noise downstairs,’ and all that during a fearsome electrical storm. Of course you can hear a noise downstairs, you stupid neurotic bitch, was how she imagined the station sergeant might reply, or at the very least imagine, even if he was too polite to say.

  She set her foot on the top stair and catlike, began descending those thirteen precious dancers.

  Belinda’s house had been built in 1925, and was loosely described as Edwardian, even though George the Fifth was parked on the throne at the time, when he was not getting up to all sorts. It was a typical smallish detached house of its time, three bedrooms, two reception rooms downstairs, front lounge, and rear sitting room that Bel’s mother rather grandly liked to call, the drawing room.

  Bel crept down the stairs, knowing full well that the second to last one creaked terribly. It always had done. She carefully stepped over the creaking step and was safely on the ground floor, standing still in the carpeted hallway. It was pitch dark, other than occasional lightning flashes, but thankfully the lightning had seemed to change from forked to flash, and everyone knows that flash lightning can’t hurt you, can it? Bel shivered. There was a distinct draught blowing through the ground floor, and a cold one at that.

  It appeared to be coming from the drawing room door. In the blackness, she felt for the door. It seemed to be open. That was a little odd because she was fairly certain she had closed all the downstairs doors before she went to bed, though she couldn’t be sure. After all, she had been carrying a lot of stuff, so maybe she had forgotten and left it open.

  She gently pushed it open.

  Flash lightning filled the room.

  There was no one in there, but there were shards of glass on the maroon carpet, momentarily lit up like huge precious stones. She had a moment to glance at the French doors before the light vanished. One of the small panes of glass, close to the lock, maybe seven inches by five inches, was broken, hence the glass on the floor. Once broken, anyone outside could carefully reach in and turn the lock and open the door.

  She had thought many times to have it replaced with a new double glazed unit with super locks that would forever keep her safe, but she could not, for silly sentimental reasons. Her dad had fitted those doors almost thirty years before, with his own hands. It would take something real and tangible away from the building, from the home, if they were removed, and sterile white plastic replacements fitted. Stupid, she thought right there, but maybe understandable.

  She went to the door and found it unlocked. Someone had either been in the house, or had attempted entry, or they were still inside. That thought made her mind up. She would call the police. Stupidly, she had left her mobile upstairs. She would use the landline, and that was in the kitchen on the other side of the hall.

  She locked the door and turned round and peered into the darkness across the drawing room.

  A huge flash filled the room, dazzling the eyes.

  She put her hand to her face and in that split second saw, or imagined she saw, a man, a tall slim man, standing in the internal doorway, a man who leapt from view the moment the flash had appeared.

  Bel’s heart raced.

  What to do now?

  Scream? Seemed fairly pointless.

  Retreat to the French door, let herself out, and go and find help, but the thought of running down the road in the pouring rain in her dressing gown and fluffy white slip-on slippers, amidst thunder and lightning and rain sodden streets, didn’t fill her with confidence. And anyway, she was armed, with the heavy bat, and she was young-ish and fit-ish.

  She did attend the gym occasionally, though right there she reprimanded herself for not going often enough, but she was strong, and courageous, and no damned man was going to chase her from her own home, the same sturdy house that had been the home of the Cooper family for more than forty years.

  She would go after him, she would go hunting, and woe betide him when she found him, for she would hit him with all the anger she possessed, and there was quite a bit of that in there too, after five failed relationships, and all that entailed. She was off men, for the foreseeable, no question about that, and if she happened to whack one hard, then so much the better. And hadn’t the government recently announced that homeowners defending their own homes had the right to attack and injure invaders? She seemed to recall such a thing. She raised the bat ready above her right shoulder and crept across the room toward the door. She paused and waited and listened. She was ready. Couldn’t hear a thing. No man breathing, no man smell, no man’s clothes rustling, no man’s feet on the stairs, or crossing the stone kitchen floor. But he was there all right. Wasn’t he?

  Flash!

  And the hallway lit up better than daylight.

  No one there. No one visible. No fleeting movement.

  Tricks on the eyes? Could have been.

  The door to the kitchen was open.

  Again, she couldn’t remember if she had left it open or not.

  Blackness again, and just the noise of wind and heavy rain.

  She crept into the hallway, intent on heading to the kitchen, and the landline telephone there, a tried and tested piece of old technology that never needed charging, that never kept users waiting to get a signal, that never got lost, that rarely if ever let you down, and never got stolen. That’s the thing about old stuff, and old tech. It was built to last. It keeps on working.

  She felt the cold stone floor beneath her feet, as she tiptoed across the silent and still kitchen. Fumbled for the old grey telephone, the same phone her parents had used, and a phone she had stubbornly refused to upgrade for that very reason. It was another direct connection to her only flesh and blood. She picked up the handset and felt for the number pad, trying to remember where the 9 was, readying to poke in three 9’s, practicing her whispered lines. It was only then that she realised the handset was no longer connected to anything else. Someone had cut it free. Sometimes old tech didn’t work.

  Final proof positive that a stranger had been in her house, or worse than that, was still in the building. A thought raced through her head in a millisecond. What should I do now? Go upstairs and get the mobile. Put all the lights on. Open all the windows and doors and scream the place down. Or get out of there, and run for your life.

  In the darkness, Belinda was frightened. Terrified even, but there was something else there too. Shear enjoyment. The thrill and excitement of it. It was better than her favourite novel. Her heart raced. She was relishing the hunt. She wasn’t and never had been, a pathetic damsel in distress. Her mind flashed back to being a young teenager. That time her pushy mother had bought her a decent horse, with one aim in mind.

  For her to join the hunting set, and mix with the great and the good of the county, maybe even one day to land a wealthy and titled husband, and to everyone’s amazement she found that she enjoyed it immensely, the hunting lark, and couldn’t wait for the next one, and the bloodier it was, the more she enjoyed it.

  Back then it was quite legal to kill foxes, and occasionally other creatures too, when not too many nosey parker people with big
mouths and big morals and small minds were about, and Bel remembered it as if it were yesterday, the first time, the day she was on hand when that big old insolent fox, Reynard, was torn to shreds before her eyes, and right afterwards the leader of the hunt had grabbed a still warm bloody piece of fresh fox flesh, and had wiped it across Belinda’s brow, the blood dripping into her eyes, seeping down into her pink mouth, knowing full well that she was a hunting kill virgin, and tradition was tradition, going back centuries. Everyone had to go through the initiation ceremony the first time; that was the way of things, and how bloody exciting it was too, literally.

  Truth was, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her, the most exhilarating day of her entire life, and five failed relationships with five failed men had never come close to matching that day in any way.

  In the darkness she smiled a cold smile. Flexed her muscles around the bat handle, and thought to herself, okay, mister fox, mister invader, mister burglar, mister man, mister tiny mind, you, my friend, have invaded my territory. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, and now you must pay the price.

  Belinda Cooper is gunning for you, or to be more precise, batting for you, for your life, and before the daylight returned, blood was sure to be spilt. It was simply a question of whose. The hunt was truly on.

  Eleven

  Walter arrived at Carlene Henderson’s smart modern flat at a quarter past ten. He rang the intercom and turned around and squinted up at the hostile sky. The storm has been going on for several hours and showed no sign of abating. Flash lightning lit up the sky, as Carlene’s deep voice floated from the square metal box beside the door.

  ‘Is that you, Walter?’

  ‘Were you expecting someone else?’

  ‘No, Mr Darriteau. You’d better come in out of the rain,’ and the half glazed security door sprang open.

  Carlene’s neat flat was on the second floor. No lift, so Walter took the stairs gently, not wishing to arrive breathless. The door was open and she was standing just inside. Walter smiled and entered and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Thought you might like a top up for your wine cellar,’ he said, passing over the bottle of white she liked, hurriedly acquired in Abdul’s off licence before he closed.

  ‘Ooh thanks,’ she said, taking it and setting it temporarily on the small but tall hall table.

  ‘Let me take your coat,’ she said. ‘You’re soaking, what a wild night it is,’ as Walter slipped off his raincoat and hung it on the 60s style coat stand. She held her arms wide. She was a particularly tactile woman, was Carlene, one of the reasons he liked her so, and in the next moment they enjoyed a huge hug.

  She’d slipped on a dark blue figure hugging satin dress. She’d had it ages, but it was an expensive thing. It rustled when it was squeezed, and it rustled now, and that was kind of nice too, as Walter kissed her ample lips.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered.

  ‘Thank you for asking me.’

  She grabbed his huge hand and led him through into the kitchen cum sitting room. The aroma of barbequed chicken was unmissable. On the kitchen bar lay a large white plate, and on the plate numerous pieces of succulent fare unashamedly displayed themselves.

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ she said, nodding at the still warm goodies.

  ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘I’ll slip them back in the oven to keep warm,’ she said, going about her business. ‘You sit down. Fancy a beer? Or wine?’

  Walter sat in the black leather sofa and muttered, ‘A beer would be great. Heavy one if you’ve got it.’

  Carlene was well aware he liked stout and had bought in supplies specially. She squished open a can, carefully tipped it into a tall glass, and went over and handed it to Walter. He took it and sipped it, as she collected a large glass of white wine and sat beside him and linked his arm.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Taxi,’ which was true, though he’d had to be careful which taxi firm he used, for Carrie the Cab, who always did the late duty, was a former girlfriend, and he didn’t really want to meet her.

  ‘Why don’t you get a car, Walter?’

  ‘I have a driver who drives me around all day. I get the bus into work. It’s only ten minutes and it’s a good service. I don’t need a car, or the worry of maintaining such a thing. I can always get a car if I need one.’

  ‘Nice to have, though, especially on a night like tonight.’

  ‘You have a car, don’t you?’

  ‘Course I do.’

  ‘There you are then, if we need a car you can always take me out.’

  She smiled and kissed him again, just a quick peck. She quite liked the “we” part he mentioned.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Are you going to stay over?’

  ‘No, can’t do that.’

  ‘But you’ll stay for a while?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll stay for a while.’

  ‘How long.’

  ‘Till two, if you want.’

  ‘Oh yes, Walter, I want.’

  They both laughed and sipped their drinks and then Carlene said, ‘Bloody marvellous invention, the Internet, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is, though it’s not without its faults. What made you say that?’

  Carlene smiled that warm smile again and said, ‘But for the Internet I would never have met you, would I?’

  ‘Ah, I see. Yes, it has its uses, that’s for sure.’

  Walter’s glass was empty.

  ‘Do you want another?’

  ‘Later. Much later.’

  Across town, Karen stayed up late. Till midnight to be precise, channel surfing the TV, waiting for David Baker to make a contrite phone call, as he made his way home, apologising for standing her up, after she’d gone to so much effort.

  But the dork didn’t ring.

  She wondered where he was now, and what he was doing.

  She wondered if he had been truthful with her. Did he really go and see a corn miller to sort out some complicated contract? It didn’t seem likely to her. Maybe that was just so much of a smokescreen, when in reality he’d double booked his dates, and was right at that very moment jazzing it up with another woman. That made sense, and that was one thing she would not tolerate, him two-timing her. She was a detective and a damned good one at that. She knew how to extract the truth from people, often without them knowing it. She had been on enough courses to learn how to do precisely that, though in truth, she had always possessed that particular knack.

  Much of the technique centred on asking the same set of questions twice, on two different occasions, fitted into seemingly ordinary conversation, and where the answers differed, there were the lies. If he were lying to her she would find out. If he were lying to her he wouldn’t see her for dust. Toast, he’d be. Burnt toast.

  She crawled into bed at twenty past twelve, miserable and confused, for there had been no late night telephone call. It would be a fitful unsatisfying sleep and she wondered why that was; yet she instinctively knew the reason why. She liked him. It was obvious. She liked him a lot, though she tried hard not to show it, yet images of David cavorting with other women were never far from her mind.

  In another apartment in another part of town Walter was in bed by twenty past twelve, and had been for quite some time. He’d stay there until half past one, when hot barbequed chicken would be served up in the kitchen, alongside fresh coffee and warm buttered rolls, by a happy looking curvy lady.

  Twelve

  Belinda Cooper retreated to the hallway. The lightning had finally abated. She thought again about switching on the lights, but that was a double-edge sword. She might be able to see him, but he would be able to see her. In her mind she was now the hunter. Hunters live off stealth and surprise. She didn’t want him to be able to see her. She didn’t want him to know where she was.

  She didn’t want him to see the heavy blow she’d issue when the opportunity arose. She imagined the strike raining
down on his fragile head. No human skull is a match for a heavy baseball bat. That’s why drug dealers keep them in their cars and flats and houses, as she had read in those thrillers countless times. Silent but deadly. It was simply a case of setting up the opportunity. The lights would stay off. If it were necessary, she would kill him. She was ready for that. But where was he? He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t in the hall. He wasn’t in the drawing room. That only left the front lounge, or failing that, upstairs.

  The silent power of touch told her the door to the front lounge was closed. She tried to recall when it was last open. Could he and would he have gone in there? Had he opened the door and stepped inside, and then closed it again? It seemed unlikely. And what was he doing in her house anyway? What was the motive for his late night visit? What was he after? Robbery? Rape? A violent thrill? Simply to scare her, or terrify her? Or something much worse, like murder? And why was he playing these stupid games? Like disappearing and reappearing. What was that all about? Perhaps he was toying with her as a cat does with a mouse, before killing and devouring it.

  A noise came from upstairs. Not a crashing breaking noise, but a slight bumping sound, as if he had knocked something off her dressing table, or disturbed something in the bathroom. He wasn’t in the front lounge; that was now certain. He was upstairs, doing God knows what. But was he luring her into a trap? There was only one thing to do. Go and find out. Her hands deposited sweat on the varnished bat handle, as she stepped over the telltale stair, and started up the stairs.

  In total dark towards the top she stopped and paused. Wondered if he was there, waiting for her, planning on striking her before she struck him. Where would he and could he be hiding on a darkened landing? When his only hiding place was the darkness itself?

  But he wasn’t on the landing. She knew that for sure, because she could smell him. Three quite distinctive masculine odours, and the stink was coming, without any question, from her bedroom, where someone had turned off the light.

  She crept silently toward the door, her soft slippers enabling silent running. She breathed in through her nose, just the once. Not a sniff, not a noise inducing action, but gentle inhalation.... of man, and invader, in her house, in her bedroom, for Christ’s sake.