by Luca Veste
When the smack came, it took a moment or two to realise what had happened. The lad reeled back as the girl had gone for another slap. Then the lad raised a hand and punched her on the side of her head. Only a low wall had stopped her from falling. The lad was in her face by the time she’d stumbled, his words lost as he raised his fist and smacked it into her head again and again. She wasn’t on her feet long before she slid down the wall onto the floor.
He remembered the feeling as his stomach flipped, watching as conflict had turned to violence in front of him. He’d got out of his car on instinct, leaving it idling as he approached the pair.
By the time he’d got to them, the girl was lying on the ground – the lad about to volley her in the legs for a second time, his face a blank mask, droplets of sweat cascading down it as he prepared to inflict even more damage. The girl was crying, sobbing, curled into the foetal position.
He remembered the feeling of disgust at the sight.
As the lad had drawn back his foot, he had tackled him to the ground. Pinned the lad’s arms behind his back before he’d had a chance to react, pushing his face into the concrete. Used his whole weight on him, forcing him further and further down. The lad tried to kick out, but was outmatched and didn’t have the strength he possessed. He’d given the lad a swift dig to the kidneys and side of the head to stop him struggling.
It had been almost too easy.
He had turned to see if the girl was able to get up, his mind working away as he prepared to tell her to ring the police, to get help. Get this lad who was underneath him away from her.
As he’d turned, he’d felt a stinging blow to the back of his head which sent him dizzy. His head turned to fog for a few seconds, causing him to relax his grip on the lad underneath him.
He’d staggered a little, looking to see where the blow had come from.
‘Get off him, get off him.’
The girl was on him, hands on his shoulders as his head cleared, pulling at him and making his balance fail more. He’d ended up on his side looking confusedly back at the girl, as she helped the lad to his feet.
‘I was trying to help you.’
‘You’ve hurt him, you fucking prick. Look what you’ve done.’
He’d stood up, feeling the back of his head as he stared at the girl who by now had the lad on his feet, a dazed look on his zit-scarred face.
‘Fuck off now, or we’ll call the bizzies. His family will fucking do you.’
He’d walked back to his car, which was still standing alone at the lights, got in and driven away, passing the couple as they limped home arm in arm.
When he told the story, it was always greeted with the same shocked expressions and shaking of heads and the silent agreement that there was nothing you could do for someone in that situation. That she loved him more than she loved herself. Endless platitudes excusing the violence the lad had displayed, or the bleeding hearts of defence for the girl and her reaction to the man trying to help her.
He told the story again, the endless shadows listening along, as the well-rehearsed story came forth from him. Number Four closed her eyes as she listened, holding on to the radiator for a warmth that wasn’t there.
‘That was their relationship. That was the way they showed love for each other. There’s no other explanation for it. Love is just too close to anger and conflict. Why can’t we change this? What can I do to make this different? Better?’
Love and anger go hand in hand.
Violence was just the outcome.
‘Everyone uses violence now. It’s everywhere. It surrounds me. Surrounds everyone. We live in violence, so it’s only right that it has become a part of the most intimate aspect of our lives. Love. We consume anger and conflict, and violence is the result. Cruelty and sadism are used as a form of entertainment. War and terror are beamed into our living rooms, to be commented on and devoured.’
His words didn’t comfort him. Spoken into the darkness, louder than a whisper now, they echoed back at him.
He was sick of it all. Wanted to make it stop, but didn’t know how.
‘That’s my mission now. I have to stop it all. I have to use violence against them, when there is nothing else that can be done. I want it to end. I have to make you see that violence can be a force for good.’
He made her watch the video he had produced. Turned her face towards the screen, so she could see what his love for her had created.
‘It’s easy,’ he said, wiping away the tears which fell down her cheek, onto her jawline. ‘A dummy email account, a dummy Twitter account. Fake details, a fake persona. That’s what all those trolls do, isn’t it? Hiding behind anonymity. I’m just using the same process.’
He closed the lid on his computer and put it to one side. Tiredness swept over him, his eyes threatening to close of their own accord. Return him to normality.
He walked back into the other room, lay down on the mattress there and slept. Waiting for tomorrow to come, when he could be someone else instead for a few hours.
Whilst the world around him changed.
* * *
She waited for him to leave before she began to breathe normally. The smell of him, it stuck at the back of her throat. The sickly sweet smell of his fading aftershave disgusted her.
She couldn’t move that much, could sleep upright only in short bursts, the pain in her arms when she awoke worse than ever. Pins and needles, needles and pins. Everything hurt. Everything felt wrong.
The duct tape across her mouth would need replacing soon. He hadn’t let her drink since that morning and now there was pain in her stomach from hunger and thirst.
Her thoughts no longer made much sense. She knew why she was there, what he wanted. He wanted her. She just didn’t understand why she was being shown videos of people being murdered. Why he would rant at her about love, as if it would make a difference.
She hated him.
He had never called her by her name. She wasn’t even sure he knew what it was. She recognized him, of course: a regular from the shop where she’d worked. Someone she had thought of as normal.
How wrong you can be.
Now, she was just a number to him. Number Four. She knew Numbers One and Two were still alive, as he couldn’t find them. She knew Number Three had been dead at least two weeks or three.
It could be days . . . she had no idea any more.
She was waiting for him to kill her now. Number Four. Then, there’d be a Number Five, a Number Six. Because no one could give him what he wanted.
She wasn’t a number. That’s what she held on to. She was a real person, with real feelings and thoughts.
She couldn’t be reduced to a single digit. She wasn’t a number.
She was Amy Maguire.
Part Two
@EchoNews
BREAKING – Couple found dead in Tuebrook home. More news here – bit.ly #BreakingNews
@LiverpoolLid82
First #ChloJoe, now there’s another couple. What’s going on in Liverpool??!
@Smithy_Says18
I was fine with it just being those two off the telly. Don’t want us normal ones getting it. #serialkiller
@RedAndProudWayne
Bet it’s get nothin to do with #ChloJoe. Someone tryin get attention. #RIPChloJoe
@ScouseNotEnglish1
Scared to leave the house now. People gettin killed everywhere. #Liverpool
@EvaDunning30
It’s like something on telly this. Police everywhere in Tuebrook.
@TuebrookGuyKev
Just asked police when I can get back in my house. Told me ‘when we’re finished’.
#Ipayyourwages #Wannagohome
@FitzyPatrick1
I hope they catch whoever did this soon. #Scary
Chapter Eighteen
Emily Flynn had come out of catatonia and into pragmatism. There were things that needed to be done, things that needed to be sorted out. There were arrangements to be made. It hadn’t been long
since she’d had to do the same thing for her mother, so she knew the things that would fall upon her to organise.
She was still Hannah’s mother. Whether she was gone or not.
The big bear of a detective, who had his best we’re really sorry face on, was beginning to annoy her. All po-faced and concerned. Scratching at his beard every time she asked him a difficult question.
It had all been too easy lately. No issues or crisis to sort out. All three of her children happy and settled at the same time for once. Now . . . there was this.
‘When can you let me see her?’
Another hem and haw from the large detective. No set time, or straight answer. Just more obscuring of the facts.
At least Millie was being spared this part, Emily thought. She’d been picked up by Hannah’s sister and ferried away to safety.
She put the conversation she would eventually have with her granddaughter to the back of her mind. How do you tell a two-year-old that her mum and dad aren’t coming back? No, she thought. Another time, another place. Another worry. Right now, there were other things she needed to think about.
Not the room and how her daughter had looked as she walked into it. Not the blood, or the smell. Anything but that.
‘I know how these things work, Detective. I just want to see my daughter. Properly this time.’
‘We know that, Mrs Flynn. We’ll make that happen as soon as we possibly can. We just need to ask a few questions, okay?’
Emily just wanted them to leave. Not that she wanted to be alone. Not with the way thoughts were flying round her head at that moment. She just didn’t want to have to deal with any of these stupid things at that moment. Questions and suspicions. She knew how those things worked. She’d seen it on TV enough.
‘I have no idea what’s happened. I imagine it’s burglary by some evil little thug, who your lot have let out onto the streets. What was taken from the house?’
‘We’re not sure about that right now, Mrs Flynn,’ the brunette with the dark complexion said. Bit foreign, Emily decided. The olive skin, the vowel at the end of her surname. Definitely not totally English. Even if she spoke with a flawless Scouse accent.
‘Well, they didn’t have much. Worked hard and paid their bills. Hannah had only recently gone back to work. Just part-time. Greg works in a solicitor’s. Low down on the ladder, but he’s getting up there. They . . . they’ve done nothing wrong.’
Emily could feel the tears coming; she tried swallowing them back down, but failed to dislodge the lump at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry in front of these two police detectives. She hadn’t cried in front of anyone in a very long time and wasn’t about to do it in front of strangers.
‘Have there been any incidents in the past few weeks, Mrs Flynn? Something that may have worried or scared either of them?’
Emily hesitated, wondering if the impossible had happened. Decided it didn’t have anything to do with what had happened. ‘Nothing at all, as far as I was aware. They’re a normal couple.’
What would she say to Millie?
‘Do you give out those books,’ Emily said, before either of the detectives could jump in with more questions. ‘The ones where you explain . . . this kind of thing . . . to a child? Only, I don’t really know what I’m going to say to Millie. I’m not used to that type of thing. Hannah’s dad died young, but she was a teenager. I have no clue what to say to a two-year-old about her parents. I just . . . don’t.’
She could feel the tears now, falling in single file down her cheek. She choked back a sob and turned away from the pair.
‘Please . . . can I have a minute. I can’t do this now.’
* * *
‘She held it back well.’
‘So unhealthy and bloody British to keep it in.’ Murphy and Rossi waited outside by the police van as a family liaison officer took over inside with Emily Flynn.
A low morning sun, which had made a brief appearance, dipped behind dark clouds once more. A smattering of raindrops soon appeared above them.
‘Sit in my car?’ Murphy asked, turning to Rossi who already had a hand above her head.
‘Better than out here.’
Murphy led the way, passing miserable-looking uniformed officers. It was the one thing most coppers could agree on – there was almost nothing worse than having to stand in the rain and look professional.
‘That’s better,’ Murphy said once they were both sitting in his car. He turned the engine on and flicked the heater on. ‘Hopefully it’s just a shower.’
‘From the look of those clouds, I’m not so sure.’
‘What are you thinking then? Serial killer going after couples for reasons unknown?’
Rossi slipped off her jacket as the car heated up, ran a hand through her hair and shook the moisture out. ‘Looks about right. Although there does seem to be something about all the messages he’s leaving behind.’
‘It could be a woman doing it.’
‘You’re always so quick with that one,’ Rossi replied, fiddling with the heater controls. ‘You’re desperate for a female serial killer.’
‘Well, we’ve seen most other types. Always good to have a bit of variety in your life.’
‘I think you’ll be waiting for a while yet. They’re hard to come by.’
Murphy hummed agreement, watching the uniforms outside scramble for cover as the rain came down harder, the gentle swipe of his wiper blades clearing the view every few seconds. ‘Talking about variety, I didn’t get a chance to give you my opinion on the latest bloke in your life.’
Rossi shifted in her seat. ‘Go on then. Give me the bad news.’
‘There isn’t any. I’ve done a full background check on him and he’s clean—’
‘No you bloody haven’t . . .’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ Murphy said behind a smile, dodging out of the way of one of Rossi’s backhands. ‘He seems all right. He’s proper into you, though.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The way he looks at you. It’s all in the eyes. I’ve seen that look far too many times not to recognise it. He even got a bit jealous, back at the hospital, when that other guy looked at you. You’re feeling the same way, I hope?’
Rossi relaxed back into her seat. ‘I don’t know. It’s nice to have a distraction, but it’s a bad time for it, though, don’t you think?’
‘Is there ever a good time for it in our job?’
Rossi shrugged and turned away from him, looking through a rain-splattered window. Murphy faced forwards again, the road ahead now almost clear, save for a few hardened uniforms braving the now-slowing rain. ‘I reckon you should just go for it. I can see you’re feeling the same way as him. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ Rossi replied, still turned away from him. ‘I know what the worst is, don’t I? Working this job lets you know that pretty quick.’
Murphy decided an answer or opinion wasn’t what was wanted in that moment and kept his mouth shut. Waited a minute or two before speaking again.
‘You think there’s something more to this?’ Murphy said, pointing towards the house and what lay within. ‘Something we’re not considering?’
‘Oh, definitely. There’ll be a reason for it, whatever that might be.’ Rossi turned in her seat. ‘A link between all three couples so far. The messages at both of our scenes seem to be saying something about secrets. Maybe he’s targeting couples hiding things from each other.’
Murphy thought about Sarah, about the things she didn’t know. ‘Then he’s going to be a very busy boy.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Murphy switched the now-redundant windscreen wipers off, turned the key and began to open his door. ‘Because we all have secrets. All relationships do. It’s the only way they work.’
* * *
He hadn’t meant to go there. Not then. He did like to visit the old places from time to time. See what had changed since
he’d been there. Not for a sense of reflection, but more curiosity. He liked to know if what he had done had changed anything.
He was Working Man right then. Normal. Dressed up in another disguise. There were a few other people standing at the end of the street, peering past the police to try and get a better look. All gawping at the same nothingness. He was one of them, that was all. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Someone walking past who had taken a slight interest in what was going on. Who wanted to know what the commotion was. If there was anything to see.
He knew there wouldn’t be. Not from where they were standing. Everything that would satisfy their curiosity was behind the closed door of a house they could barely see in the distance. They would read all the grisly details of what lay behind that door on their phones and tablets later. The words deadening the impact of what it was they were reading about. The deaths of two people, a couple who could be any one of them.
This couple would eventually give up their secret, so the public could judge and evaluate. Decide if they deserved their fate or not. Talking with their own partners and friends about every detail and passing criticism.
As if their own lives would stand up to the same scrutiny.
He thought of the girl in his life now. Number Four. How he wanted to show her how things could be so different. How this was all for her.
How it would all be worth it.
He watched as the big detective, Murphy, scurried back to his car, the rain now coming down harder, Laura Rossi following close behind. He began to shift things into focus, working through problems and the possible downfalls to his plan.
Decided that he had come so far in his life that there was no sense in giving up. That he had a job to do.
That nothing was going to stop him.
