Girl 4

by Will Carver

  Eames

  THE KILL WAS so easy that it almost wasn’t fun.

  Dorothy was sweet. Too sweet, perhaps. You could tell that, despite the terribly average hand she had been dealt, she looked for the good in everyone and every situation.

  If her boss was harassing her at work it was just because he was under a lot of pressure and needed to blow off some steam. The idiots at speed dating, who were no good for anyone, were just lonely, like her. The serial killer who sat down next to her in an empty bar and bought her drinks at the end of a completely demoralising day was probably just lonely too, or was just a little too carried away with the passion of the evening.

  That’s not true.

  For me, it was a job. I was just doing my job. I transformed an agreeable young girl into a statistic. I turned a nobody into a headline.

  When a distasteful text message is sent to you from a friend containing a joke about a woman who has just been gutted, insert my name as her killer. That’s my punchline.

  Think how lucky you’d feel if I tied you up, but then let you go.

  Everybody gets bored. We all need something stimulating. To put us back on track. Whether you’re a salesman who consistently hits target with the same set of accounts for the last God-knows-how-many years, or a lawyer with an unblemished record, or a simple bank cashier with impeccable customer service. We need that new account, or that can’t-win case, or companionship when a day’s false sincerity has sucked the will from us.

  That’s what made Girl 1 so easy.

  That’s what makes them all so fucking easy.

  She just wanted someone to look after her, to take care of her. So I bought her drinks, I made her feel protected in an otherwise threatening area of London; I took an interest in her and complimented her ghastly flat. I brought her to shuddering orgasm.

  She was delicate and insecure and a truly beautiful person inside and out. She was stunningly beautiful naked with a slim, tight body and breasts that stood up by themselves. Tiny hands and feet and a nearly symmetrical face. It almost felt like a shame to ruin it by breaking her nose and shooting her in the mouth, but it had to be done.

  When the dictionary defines a word as the tendency to derive pleasure, esp. sexual gratification, from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on others, that word is me.

  I slit a tramp’s throat once because he asked me for money and I’d just lost some playing poker that night. Once, I waited a week to follow the woman who had scratched my car at the supermarket car park. I tailed her back to her house and stamped on her head in the kitchen until she stopped twitching. She had only managed to unpack the dairy products and some tinned goods.

  Despite the ease at which I pulled this off, the gratification is still there. But there isn’t really time to rest and enjoy the euphoria that always follows a good kill, the high you get with knowing that you have achieved your objective, that it’s been a good day at the office.

  I have things to prepare.

  Carla Moretti must be dead in a month.

  Girl 4

  WHEN I WAKE up, January’s not there. His side of the covers hasn’t even moved. I should be worried, but I’m not. He’s done this before.

  I wrap my robe around me and head downstairs.

  It feels a little colder in the house this morning and I’m not sure that this thin silk gown is serving any function other than protecting my modesty while making me look good. It’s a big house and takes a while to warm up, so there’s not much point in turning the heating on, because it will still be cold when I leave for work.

  The paper has arrived on time, as it always does. I pick it up and take it into the kitchen I designed myself, stroking the granite work surfaces as I make my way towards the extravagant, American-style fridge freezer. I’m reassured by the quality around me; top of the range, high spec: only the best.

  Throwing the broadsheet down on the polished glass breakfast table, I grab grapefruit juice and milk from the fridge before making myself a small bowl of muesli.

  I sit at the table, alone, and turn over the paper.

  The front page tells me exactly why January still hasn’t come back. It says that a woman from East London has been tied to a bed and shot in the face. It tells me that the police are following leads to apprehend the killer. It says that this was a heinous act of unprovoked violence by a psychotic individual with a taste for drama.

  I suppose that’s exactly what it looks like.

  The paper errs on the side of sympathy towards the woman, but I’m sure this will dissipate in a few days when they uncover that she used to take drugs or abandoned a child when she was young or worked in pornography in the early nineties or something.

  It’s not the best way to wake up in the morning, but it is the frightening world that we live in and I’m just happy to know that January is safe.

  I don’t want to look at the article any more; it’s too depressing, too frightening.

  I take another spoonful of cereal and grab one of my bridal magazines from the stack that lives on the breakfast table. I know that this will be another consuming case for January and that I’ll just end up planning everything on my own, but it’s probably best that way: I’m in control of everything. He won’t know the size of the guest list, who is coming, where the venue is, what food I have selected for everybody, the wine, the music, the possibilities for the honeymoon. All he cares about at the moment is that we have a free bar for the guests. He doesn’t need to worry, though; it’s me that’s paying for it anyway.

  I dog-ear a few pages that have inspired me for table decorations, place my bowl and glass in the dishwasher and head back upstairs to shower and get ready for work. I’ve already stopped thinking about poor Dorothy Penn, left on display like a mutilated rag doll. The whole sorry tale belongs to a totally different world than the one I live in.

  I’m thinking about the seating plan for the wedding in just three months’ time, and about the more pressing issue of my 10.30 meeting with De Vere.

  I’m not thinking that the word ‘unprovoked’ in the newspaper article suggests that this could have been anyone that I was reading about: a friend, a relative, me. So, while January submerges himself in this case, I allow myself to be consumed with what is real: planning our wedding and earning the money to pay for it.

  I try to call Jan once I’m dressed, but I know he won’t pick up. I hang up instead of leaving a voicemail. I drop him a text just in case he has spared a thought for me: ‘Hey, babe, I saw the paper. I figure you are busy. I have pilates tonight but let me know when you think you’ll be home. Love you. A xx’. I know he won’t text me back for a couple of hours, so I throw my phone into my bag, fill my aluminium cup with a strong, bold Sumatran coffee and head out to my car.

  The ground is damp from the rain last night and the sky is that typical English grey that they probably have a Pantone for. I hope that the caffeine picks me up for this meeting because, so far, my morning has not put me in the right frame of mind to negotiate a prestigious new recruitment contract.

  I sink into the custom-leather seat of my brand-new Mini Cooper S, Racing Green, of course. It’s the perfect car for me; all the charm of the original British design, but now with the build quality you only get with German engineering. I turn the ignition with one hand, the car purring into life as I swivel the air dial with my other hand, circulating heat around the interior. I give it a minute to warm up, then edge out into the main road, preparing myself for another morning of London rush-hour traffic.

  That’s not going to help my mood.

  Girl 1

  I’VE HAD A lot to drink. I’d already had three or four vodkas before I plucked up the courage to approach Eames and take full advantage of his benevolent inebriation. It doesn’t feel like he is trying to get me drunk, though. He doesn’t need to. I’d sleep with him after a cup of Earl Grey tea.

  He’s not tall, but also not what you would call short. Maybe six foot. Six foot one, perhaps. Dark hair,
maybe dyed. There’s a brooding look about him that I’m sure most women would find sexy as hell; dark around the eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. A defined jaw bone and brow, with a two-day stubble. He is either a weathered, thirty-two-year-old man or a forty-year-old man that looks great for his age.

  For the life of me I can’t remember what colour his eyes are, despite staring into them for most of the evening.

  It’s not the best description. Certainly nothing that would help Detective Inspector January David with his investigation. But I had been drinking, and he did drug me.

  And I am lonely.

  And this is the problem.

  I don’t ask myself what a great-looking man with a smart dress-sense and pleasant, giving personality is doing in a dingy pub next to Mile End Tube station on a Wednesday night. Why would this seemingly successful man stumble on this place and pick someone like me, a lowly cashier from a small building society on the Roman Road, living on my own and resorting to speed dating to meet people?

  The loneliness had killed me long before I spent the night with Eames.

  ‘Do you want to come back to mine for some …’ I pause slightly.

  ‘Coffee?’ he says, with a smile that just lights up his whole face and makes me feel safe, that I am doing the right thing.

  ‘Well, I was going to say wine, but I’m sure we could pick up some coffee at the petrol station on the way back.’ I laugh and put my hand on his knee. He doesn’t even flinch.

  ‘Wine would be great.’ He puts his hand on mine. ‘Don’t you have to get up early for work, then?’ he asks, as if he doesn’t know. As if he didn’t know exactly where I worked. As if our meeting was complete coincidence. As if I wasn’t chosen specifically to be the opening chapter to his diabolical scam.

  ‘It’s not even midnight yet.’ I stand up and start to put my arms into the sleeves of my coat. He stands and helps me with the second arm. The one he wants to handcuff to my bed. I feel like I am ticking off the qualities I seek in my mind. Then he pays for all our drinks and I know he is definitely going to hold the door open for me.

  The air from outside hits me like a brick in the face, and I suddenly feel more wobbly and frivolous than I had inside. Eames takes me by the arm and steadies me.

  ‘So, which way are we going?’ he asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly where I live. As if he’s never seen my street or watched me walk through my front door.

  ‘Follow my lead,’ I slur, trying to sound like I am still in control.

  We turn left out of the pub. There are still plenty of people out and about despite it being a weeknight. There’s a bingo hall across the other side of the road and the Tube keeps a steady flow of people down this street. I’m aware of the growing number of Somalians that have moved into the area over the last few years. I feel like a minority, and some parts really aren’t pleasant for me to walk around at this time of night. It’s fine right here, because it’s a busy crossroads; and anyway I feel perfectly content because I have Eames for protection tonight.

  I’m under the spell of forced serendipity.

  We head towards the crossing. I prefer it here at night because you can’t see as much. Those horrible primary-coloured flats they built in the distance, the way they painted the bridge over the road, the filth on the streets. The construction all around that they are hoping to finish in time for the Olympics; it all takes away the character of the East End that my parents and grandparents hold in such high regard.

  I see the partially lit taxi-rank cabins and ethnic eateries with signs that flicker in neon saying things like ‘Chin Garde’, because some of the bulbs have blown. It’s tacky but at least it’s real.

  The beeping from the crossing pierces louder than usual, and we pick up the pace to a brisk jog to make it through both sets in time. On the other side I need to stop, because I’m a little out of breath and I don’t want to throw up. Eames pulls me around so that I am facing him and leans in for a kiss. Nothing sexual, but enough to be exciting.

  ‘Sorry, I just thought it might be a good idea to get that out of the way now so that it isn’t awkward later.’ He smiles at me again and I melt. I forget that I’m still trying to catch my breath; I forget that I’m lonely.

  We continue to walk arm in arm. It’s about ten minutes to my flat from here. We pass the petrol station to our left and opt out of the coffee; by now we both know exactly why we are going home together.

  We hit another pub at the corner of Arbery Road called the Queen Victoria. It sounds unreal, but has been here longer than any British soap opera trying to depict our local community. He suggests that we step in for a quick drink before the final stretch. The lights are still on inside; I can see the green light-shade lit up over the pool table through the frosted window. I can hear the crack of balls hitting each other and men laughing. But the door is locked. Eames rattles it and we wait, but nobody comes to let us in.

  ‘Looks like we’ll just have to power through, I guess.’ He pulls me into his hip with his strong arms and we continue to walk.

  I live at the bottom of this road in a ground-floor maisonette. It’s not much, but I can afford it on my wage and I keep it nice for when people come over. My mum says it looks like the top floor of Ikea. I buy all my stuff from there. It’s got colour and personality and even though a lot of people buy lots of things from there I buy everything from there. I like the price and I enjoy putting it together myself.

  My living room is modelled on the Affordable and Complete design. So I have the Grevback TV bench and matching bookcase, the Klingsboro side table that I use as a coffee table, the Rejolit pendant lampshade – one of those spherical wrinkled paper shades that cost less than three quid, but look more expensive if you accessorise correctly. I have an Extorp sofa, in white, opposite the TV and have added a splash of colour with the Klinteby rug and the Hallaryyd print hanging on the wall to the left of the sofa – on the opposite wall to the bookcase. It does look a little like you see it in the showroom, but who doesn’t love the way they present it all in those spaces? I’m proud of my home.

  We get to the bottom of the road and cross over at the corner near the primary school playground. My flat is straight opposite. Number 126, almost in the centre of a long row of terraced houses. Eames lets go of me while I fumble in my bag for the keys.

  I open the door on to a communal hallway that both my upstairs neighbour and I use to get to our front doors. I mouth ‘Ssshhh’ to Eames by putting a finger over my lips. I don’t turn the light on in the hall, but inch my way towards my door, almost tiptoeing.

  Finally, we enter my flat and I flick on the light.

  There is a narrow corridor that leads to the other end of the house and my bathroom and bedroom. You can also get to the garden, but it’s not really worth the trouble; it’s totally concrete and about as narrow as the corridor. I send Eames in that direction to use the toilet, while I head left into the kitchen to open some wine.

  My kitchen is still a work in progress, because I really don’t have enough money to completely refurbish it, but I did splash out on the Oxscår mixer tap and I have accessorised with the Grundtal series of products. I love the way my herbs and knives are magnetised to the wall. It will take me a while to save up for the work-top and cabinets, but I have nearly £500 put away so I’m a fifth of the way to my perfect kitchen.

  I take a bottle of Merlot from the rack and open it. I don’t know too much about wine, but I hear that Merlot is supposed to be nice and it tastes OK to me. Eames comes back to the kitchen.

  ‘I like what you have done in there. Really made use of the space.’ He takes his glass of wine. ‘Thanks. Cheers.’ We clink glasses and sip our drinks.

  ‘The trick is to get smaller units to give the illusion of space,’ I exclaim triumphantly. I’m oozing with pride. He wanders into the living room, which leads off from the kitchen.

  ‘Wow. It looks like a showroom,’ he says, amazed.

  ‘Thank you very much.’ I take
this as a compliment, whether he meant it as one or not.

  He sits down on the sofa and continues to peruse the room from there, sipping at his wine while he does so.

  I never stop to ask myself why a seemingly wealthy man would feel so comfortable in my tiny Scandinavian-inspired flat full of not-real wood and massively reproduced art. Why would this intelligent, clearly well-educated, ruggedly handsome creature waste his time walking through the dimly lit streets of Bow with a working-class nobody like me, who has shelves full of books she has never even attempted to read?

  It doesn’t cross my mind to question it.

  He continues to slouch on my sofa as if he lives here, while I stand in the doorway, leaning to one side with my glass in my right hand, attempting to look elegant yet sexy, hoping that the light from the kitchen behind is catching my curves in the right way.

  ‘Can I top you up?’ I ask as he devours the last gulp of his wine.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do it.’ He stands up and walks into the kitchen. He only just squeezes through the doorway without quite touching me and grabs my glass, even though it still has some wine in it. He takes it over to the counter and fills both glasses almost to the brim.

  Handing mine back to me he says, ‘Maybe you can show me the rest of the house that I haven’t seen.’

  Without saying anything I grab his free hand with mine and lead him to the back of the flat where my bedroom is.

  It’s based on the Perfectly Cosy design. I have the Malm drawers with smoky glass top, matching Pax wardrobe with two very special drawers that display all my shoes beautifully. I have the Jorun Rug and Stave mirror, but opted for the Hemnes bed frame because I thought it looked more New England; plus, it has a slatted headboard so that I can be handcuffed to the bed easily. It’s very clean with clear lines and it’s bright enough during the day, despite the wall that goes all the way around my concrete garden blocking out most of the sun.