by Spike Black
“Mur-der-rah! Mur-der-rah!”
Garth rolled his eyes as he approached two protesters. Meat is Murder, screamed a banner behind them, daubed in blood-red paint on a white sheet. A craggy woman held a placard that stated Its Not Food Its Violence. Beside her, an old man’s sign read Save The Pig’s!
Save the English language, Garth thought as he passed them. Their use of apostrophes is appalling.
Still, he admired their dedication to the cause. It was two in the morning and freezing cold. Suddenly there was a loud bang and Garth jerked around. The old man was bashing the side of the car with his placard.
“Son of a bitch!” Garth shouted. The body shop would charge him extra for any damage to the courtesy car. He put his foot down on the gas, watching the old man as he raged in the rearview mirror. Ten minutes later, as he pulled onto Eldham Road, he thought he could still hear the faint echo of their chants.
He slowed as he crested the brow of the hill, the dark horizon giving way to the illumination of the town below. The trees seemed to rush past on both sides at an impossible speed, causing a pang of fear to pluck at his gut, and Garth slowed some more. The bus shelter emerged from the darkness to his left, and his stomach lurched.
There was somebody standing there, inside the shelter. Waiting for a bus at this crazy hour.
A big bear of a man.
As he rolled toward him, it seemed to Garth that the man had the head of the dead guy. But of course, that was ridiculous. Garth blinked. Looked again. The moon face, the many chins, the ursine build.
This was insane.
As he came level with the figure, Garth peered through the side window and the guy stared back. There was no doubt at all in Garth’s mind: it was him.
Garth sat bolt upright. Picked up speed. Checked the rearview mirror.
When he thought about it later, struggling to sleep, he realized that this bizarre sighting had been a positive thing, because at least now he had some clarification. There was, of course, only one possible explanation for why he had seen the dead guy. He had suspected it for some time, but now he had proof.
He really was losing his mind.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
Focus. Picture the pins falling. Never take your eye off the shot.
Garth approached the lane, his gaze fixed on the pins. Tomorrow night was the most important game in his entire bowling career: the final match in the Chalkstone & District Works Bowling League. If Wortham Meats defeated Herbert’s Foundry, they would win the league for the first time in their history.
He lined up the shot, desperately trying to ignore the blubbery face, eyes pooling with rainwater, that had projected itself onto his vision. The very face that he had seen, alive and well and waiting for a bus, only a few hours earlier.
Garth took a deep breath, refocused, and delivered the shot. He watched in despair as the ball sailed into the gutter.
Crying out in frustration, he turned back to Juha, who sat stony-faced. If tomorrow night’s match was important to Garth, it meant everything in the world to Juha. The guy was crazy about bowling: he had his own personalized bowling ball, high performance shoes - even the license plate on his car was 5TR 1KE.
Garth took another ball from the rack and delivered his second shot, with identical results. He apologized.
“Dude,” Juha groaned, “if you’re off your game tomorrow night, we don’t stand a chance. Your average will bring the whole team down.”
Garth shook his head. “I hear you. It’s shameful.”
“Seriously. I don’t know what’s been scrambling your noggin lately, but you need to do something about it before the final. In the words of our dickhead foreman, get your goddamn act together.”
Garth nodded. Juha was right. Of course he was right. He really did have to do something. And in a flash, he suddenly realized exactly what it was.
***
Chalkstone police station was a crumbling Victorian building overlooking the town center from its perch at the top of a hill. The place had always given Garth the creeps. How his wife had managed to work there for so many years, he didn’t know.
As he entered the building and saw who was on duty behind the front desk, his heart sank.
“Hey, Garth!”
“Hi, Trish.”
Trish was an old work colleague of Wendy’s. They’d all been out for the Christmas meal together for the past five years. Their daughters had socialized. Why did it have to be her shift?
“What can I do you for?” she said.
“I… Well, the thing is, I’d like to hand myself in.”
“Oh, okay, sure. I’ll just get the handcuffs.”
She didn’t go anywhere. Just leaned on the counter and smiled.
“No, really,” Garth said.
“Right-O.”
“I’m serious. I killed a man.”
Her face dropped. “You did?”
He nodded. “Hit and run. I panicked. Didn’t know what to do. But I see the error of my ways now, and, well, here I am.”
Trish fell silent for a moment, taking this in. She nodded solemnly.
Garth felt such an incredible weight lifted from his shoulders, now that he had finally told someone. His secret was out there.
“Okey-dokey, then,” Trish said. “I think we’d better lock you up and throw away the key.”
He nodded. Looked at her. She looked back.
He held the stare. “I’m not kidding.”
“Oh, I know. You killed a man.”
“Yes, and you need to do something about it. Arrest me, read me my rights, whatever happens next.”
Trish frowned. She peered at him over her glasses. “You realize I’m a civilian? I just man the desk. Or woman the desk, if you like.” She laughed in such a light and airy way that Garth knew he was never going to get anywhere.
“Look, is there nobody here who can arrest me? I’m totally serious.”
This just made Trish laugh some more. “We’re short staffed tonight I’m afraid, hon. They’re all out and about. You know, keeping the streets clear of murderers like you.”
Garth shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, well I’m just going to hang around here until somebody shows up.”
“Be my guest,” she said, motioning to the chairs lining the wall. “I don’t like it here on my own at night, anyway.”
Garth took a seat. Trish busied herself behind the desk. He watched her for a moment. “Why not?”
Trish looked up. “Sorry, my love?”
“Why don’t you like it here at night?”
She stopped what she was doing and studied him for a moment. There was no humor in her tone now. “Wendy never told you?”
“Told me what?”
She held the look a little longer, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
“No, please. Go on.”
“I shouldn’t. Ask your wife.”
“Trish. Tell me…”
“Oh, I feel silly saying it. I mean, I never saw anything, personally. But this place…”
She trailed off. Garth’s eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“It’s why none of them hang around here during their shift,” she continued. “Why they patrol the streets all night with nothing to do. It’s this place…”
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s old, isn’t it? And people… Brian, Silas, Wendy - they’ve…they’ve seen…”
Garth hung on her every word. “Seen what?”
Her eyes filled with tears, a primal terror etched onto her face, and for a moment she looked more frightened than anyone he’d ever seen. The fear infected him, creeping up his legs. His breath quickened, his head pounded, and suddenly he found himself standing, his mind whirling with images of the man at the roadside, and he simply had to get out of there.
Trish smiled again, blinking away the tears as if nothing had happened. “Well anyway, you have a good night, you hear? And say hello to Wendy for me.”
G
arth tried to speak but the words were stuck in his throat. He grunted an acknowledgement instead, offering a quick parting wave before he disappeared out of the door.
***
Garth burst into the house, teeming with questions for his wife. What did you see at the station, Wendy? What haven’t you told me? He found her coming down the stairs. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut in before he could say anything.
“Where are your bloodstained clothes?”
His mouth hung open for a moment. “Well, hello to you, too.”
“Where are they, Garth? I haven’t seen them.”
He inhaled deeply. “I threw them away.”
“What? Why?”
“Why do you think? Because they were bloodstained.”
“But they were salvageable, surely? Especially the jacket. I mean, that was expensive. Where is it?”
She pushed past him, headed for the back door.
“It’s not out there,” he said.
She turned back. “Then where?”
This was it. Time to come up with some clever, elaborate and foolproof ruse that would satisfy her while throwing her off the scent. But as she stared at him, waiting, he remembered how useless he was at lying to her, and the truth blurted from his lips before he’d had a chance to reconsider.
“I burned it.”
Wendy blinked hard. “You what?”
“I burned it. Along with the rest of the clothes.”
She stared at him for a long moment. He could see the cogs turning. Perhaps she was imagining what had really happened that night. Trying to comprehend that her husband could be a murderer. In the end she just shook her head, moved past him and ascended the stairs.
He watched her go, wanting to call after her, to explain himself. He was itching to ask about events at the station, and everything that Trish had said.
But all thought of ghosts suddenly seemed so trivial. So pathetic.
He retired to the living room and turned on the TV, hoping for a bit of mindless escapism to make him forget his troubles. But as he flicked through the channels, he realized that it was pointless. He would never be able to concentrate on anything. Being a murderer did that to a person - it was something of an all-consuming problem. He would get no sleep again tonight, that was a given. But how long was this going to continue?
If anything was ever going to change, he decided, then he needed a miracle. A miracle! And how often did they come along?
* * *
CHAPTER 6
“It’s about playing the angle,” Juha said, using a tangerine as a prop bowling ball. “You’re not someone who likes to throw a big hook, and that’s okay. You don’t have to play with a lot of hook if you’re playing the right angle.”
Garth was slumped in a bolted-down plastic chair, sipping his tea, only dimly aware that his friend was talking. He had one eye on the small TV screen in the corner, but he wasn’t paying attention to that, either. It was difficult to concentrate on anything when you hadn’t slept for almost three whole days.
“…of course, it’s also about the right ball, at the right speed. But here’s a tip…”
Garth found himself amused by two vending machines in the corner of the break room. They had Out Of Order signs emblazoned across them as if they were sashes awarded to the winners of a bizarre pageant for broken machinery. Around him, sour-faced workers buried their heads in tabloid newspapers.
“We’re going over to Chalkstone in Suffolk now,” the TV anchor announced, “for a breaking news report. Cheryl, what have you got for us?”
Garth’s interest was piqued.
“Thanks, Gerry.” Cheryl was a glamorous young reporter, standing on the grass verge of what looked, to Garth, like Eldham Road. “It appears that the mystery surrounding a decades-long spate of disappearances in Chalkstone has finally been solved.”
Garth leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen.
“I like to think of the ball,” Juha said, “as an extension of my arm. And I try to channel all of my energy into that sphere…”
Garth raised a finger. Juha stopped talking.
“In the past forty-eight hours,” Cheryl said, “local police have discovered the remains of several dismembered bodies inside a refrigerated storage unit on the outskirts of this sleepy little town.”
Juha wasn’t listening. “Dude, we have to do this. The big game’s tonight…”
“Wait,” Garth whispered. “Just hang on.” He noticed that many of his colleagues had stopped what they were doing and were watching the report.
Cheryl continued. “The storage unit belonged to this man: forty-six year-old local publican, Edward Serling.” A photograph appeared on the screen of an overweight man with unkempt eyebrows and pockmarked cheeks.
Garth frowned as he looked at the picture. Then it slowly dawned.
An involuntary moan escaped his lips. He clamped his hand to his mouth.
“What?” Juha said. “What is it?”
Garth couldn’t speak. The image on the screen had blown his mind.
“Eddie!” someone at a nearby table said. “That’s Eddie. Eddie Serling!”
“Holy shit!” another worker exclaimed. By now the whole room was watching the TV.
“The most remarkable part of this story,” Cheryl continued, “is that the bodies were only discovered because Serling, landlord of the Blue Boar pub, was found dead in the road two nights ago, the victim of an apparent hit and run driver. The key to the storage unit was found on his person.”
Garth struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. “My God…” The Blue Boar - it was out near the villages, less than a mile from where he’d hit the guy.
“You knew him?” Juha asked.
“What? No, no.” Garth didn’t want to oversell it, but he still found himself adding an extra “no, definitely not,” for good measure.
Boyd, the foreman, came over to the table. “Shame, I would have put good money on you being the local serial killer, Garth.”
Juha laughed. Garth joined in weakly, but he wasn’t really paying attention. His brain was still processing the incredible news.
The disappearances stretched back to the mid-nineties. A teenage girl, Becky Wickham, had been the first to go missing. She’d been suicidal, though, so no killer was sought. Then two years later, a couple in their thirties, an old man, and a homeless guy all vanished without a trace. A lull through the early 2000s and then, in recent years, a few more had mysteriously disappeared - men and women, young and old. Serial killers, it was generally accepted, had types. They followed patterns. Not so with Eddie Serling, it seemed. He killed randomly, and indiscriminately.
Garth’s head swam. He stared, open-mouthed, at the mugshot of Eddie Serling in the corner of the TV screen. This. Changes. Everything.
“Seriously, though,” Juha said. “Whoever knocked that guy down and killed him, I want to pat that guy on the back.”
“You’re right,” Boyd said. “They should give him a trophy. That guy’s a goddamned hero.”
Garth tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t help himself. A smile crept onto his lips. Inside he was beaming from ear to ear.
* * *
CHAPTER 7
Garth ate his dinner heartily, a smile plastered across his face that he just couldn’t hide. Wendy looked at him with disdain across the dining table, but he wasn’t sure he cared anymore.
He uncorked the wine. “Napa Valley Merlot, oh-three vintage. My treat.”
She shook her head, but he was already pouring her a glass. He set it in front of her.
“So, Chloe.” He turned to his daughter. “How was netball?”
She rolled her eyes. “Duh. I told you, it was yesterday, and it was cancelled. Don’t you ever listen?”
“Right. Sorry, sweetie. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
Wendy shot him a look. He met her gaze, lifted his glass and took a generous gulp of wine. “Oh, yes, this is a good one. You really need to tr
y it, Wends.”
She relented and took a sip. She winced.
“Did you hear?” Garth said after a moment’s silence. “The guy who died in the hit and run. He murdered, like, a dozen people.”
“I heard,” Wendy said, not looking up from her plate.
“What do you think? The landlord of the Blue Boar. A serial killer. I mean, it just blows your mind, doesn’t it?”
Wendy finished her mouthful and looked up, her eyes never leaving him as she spoke. “It goes to show. You think you know someone, but you can never truly know.”
She held the glare. He stared back. Inside, he was crumbling. This had confirmed it - she wasn’t just suspicious of him. She knew everything.
“Well,” he said, “I know one thing for sure. The guy who killed him is a local hero. What do you think, Chloe?”
“I suppose. I mean, it’s a relief that we don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“You never worried about him,” Wendy said. “You didn’t even know there was a killer in the town until today.”
“Yeah, but people were going missing. I’m just saying that he got what he deserved.”
Garth smiled. “Too right.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Wendy snapped. She looked over at Garth. “A killer is still a killer.”
Garth downed the rest of his glass. “Damn, this tastes good,” he said, and poured himself another. He saw Ray, Chloe’s little dog, sneering up at him from beneath the table.
Garth raised his glass to him.
***
Garth delivered the ball, and his line was good. He held his breath.
A strike! He punched the air and spun on one foot, returning to his team mates. They leapt from their seats and raised their fists in celebration.
