by John Nicholl
But my results at the end of the two-year course weren’t nearly good enough for me to go on to study for a university degree in the pleasant Welsh capital Cardiff, as I’d intended. That was crushing at first. I was so very disappointed that I almost gave up.
My mother suggested resits, a logical response on the face of it. But that would have meant delaying the changes I so desperately needed. I should have worked harder. I could have revised more before the exams that meant so very much. But I didn’t. How stupid was that? I could hear my father saying it, shouting it in my ear as if he was there in the room. He mocked me even after his death.
A new plan was necessary if I was going to escape my private hell. I had no option but to lower my academic aspirations. College rather than university seemed a viable alternative. And so I filled in the online forms and applied for a college degree course, much to my mother’s anxiety and dismay. She objected at first, insisting university was best for a girl of my academic abilities and promise. But she soon relented when I explained that it was something I had to do. It wasn’t a matter of choice; it was a case of necessity. I had to get out of there. My mental health depended on it. Another day in that house was a day too many. I needed change and fast. I told her that insistently with feeling. And to my surprise and relief, my mother understood almost immediately, as my mood darkened. She didn’t push it.
That’s how she dealt with things: avoidance, denial, looking away to protect her sanity. My father had beaten her down over time. He drained her resources. My mother was fragile. She’s still fragile. An open and honest conversation would be too much for her.
I left home a few days before my first term at a college in a small town about a twenty-minute drive from where I’d grown up. I could have gone further, and maybe I should have, but I still lacked confidence. Maybe Cardiff would have been too much for me after all. But leaving my village to live in a different area, however familiar, seemed like a good idea. There would be other students I knew. People from school. Not all would be strangers. I don’t think I could have coped with much more. They weren’t friends: I didn’t have friends, not real ones, and I still don’t. But I’d recognise their faces which offered some comfort.
I’d found a reasonably comfortable, cheap bedsit in a shared building about a fifteen-minute walk from the college campus, which I thought would suit me well enough as I started my new life of independence. Mother said she was happy to help me with my living costs until I found a part-time job to pay the bills. I know it was generous of her, but I still think it was the least she could do given her past failures. She still had a fair amount of insurance money left after a large payout, and she seemed pleased to use it for my benefit. I think that suited both of us. It facilitated my move and assuaged her guilt. I was grateful for the assistance and readily accepted. I still don’t think it was selfish. Something positive had come out of my father’s death, maybe the only positive thing he’d ever accomplished. I think he’d have hated that.
I was leaving my mother and younger sister to live alone in that big house so full of memories I’d rather forget. And I was fine with that. I’d done my bit. I feel certain I saved my sister from my father’s unwelcome advances. She was safe: I’d acted just in time. And so I suspect she was reasonably happy in that house. Her memories were untainted, so unlike my own. The monster only haunted the place for me.
My mother had traded in my father’s old, faded estate car for a newer but smaller German hatchback, a sporty model she said she loved to drive. That seemed so unlike her; she was evolving, slowly putting the past behind her, although there were still obvious weaknesses. Those weaknesses are still there, emotional scars every bit as deep as mine. Sadness ages a person. It sucks the life force out of them. It certainly has her. I suspect it’s the same for me.
We loaded the car with everything that an independent girl could need, and the three of us travelled together to the town where I’d study.
My mother did her best to put on a brave face as we emptied the car. But I could see her unhappiness. Her eyes were moist and reddening as a single tear ran down her cheek before finding a home on her green cotton collar.
Within an hour, the three of us were sitting in my room, drinking cups of tea from matching pottery mugs bought at a local market. I felt nervous but relieved to be there. I’d done it, I was free, and I couldn’t wait for my mother and sister to be on their way.
I stood on the narrow pavement outside my new lodgings about twenty minutes later, waving as they drove off. And that was it. I turned away when the car left my sight.
My plans had come to fruition. My new life had begun. It was more a relief than anything else. I intended to keep in touch with them from time to time, but not to visit unless it was unavoidable. I hoped never to enter that house ever again. I thought I could forget. I was that naive in those days. If only it were that simple!
A new journey had started. But it would ultimately take me on a darker and more perilous path than I could ever have imagined. The past follows us. It creeps up on us when we least suspect it. You’ll learn about it as my story continues.
8
My Applied Computing degree course was both challenging and surprisingly enjoyable. My skills developed quickly under my lecturers’ expert guidance, which unknown to me, would serve my true calling well in the years to come. I didn’t know then that my life had a God-given purpose. That the truly awful experiences of my childhood had shaped me to that specific end. That my father’s death was the start of something very much bigger. I hope you’ll come to see that too, as my story develops. Everything I’ve done was beyond my control. I was being rushed along by an irresistible tide.
I kept myself to myself for the most part while studying. Actually, that’s understating the case; I avoided meaningful relationships at almost any cost, that’s the truth of it. I already knew several of the other students when I first started my BSc studies, and, of course, I got to know others to a superficial extent as the months passed. But I kept those relationships at arm’s length, as I had at school, and as I do now. The other undergraduates were friendly enough. My emotional isolation was my choice, as opposed to theirs. You see, I really thought my childhood experience had been unique. I believed that nobody else could possibly understand what I’d been through at the hands of that monster in human form. And trust was an issue too, for obvious reasons I’m certain I don’t need to explain. I talked to people when I needed to; when it was unavoidable or to my benefit. I made small talk as necessary but no more than that.
Relationships apart, the course went well. I received good grades in my assignments and I felt increasingly confident of passing my degree at the end of the three years. I hadn’t really thought beyond that point. I was trying to live in the moment without much success. But I was reliably informed that the qualification would provide me with a wide range of employment opportunities in both the public and private sectors. And that statement would prove prophetic. I can see that now as I look back on events with a critical eye. Fate was taking me in a direction I couldn’t possibly comprehend. Everything would come together as it was supposed to. It was much more than coincidence, a plan written in the stars. I was born for a reason. I have a purpose I have no choice but to fulfil. That’s the way it is: sometimes, as God pulls the strings.
More monster men would die as the years passed – beasts like my father, creators of pain, misery and distress. I’ll tell you more about that later in my tale.
From year two of the course, I paid my living costs by working most evenings and weekends as a minimum-wage barmaid in a working-class backstreet pub. The majority of the punters were pleasant enough. I occasionally had to put up with misogynistic crap from one drunken idiot or another who fancied their chances, but I was used to a lot worse. And anyway, I was just glad to be free, in body if not entirely in spirit. Does that make any sense in your very different world? Moving on was one thing. But shadows of the past are far more difficult to
shake off. Memories follow us for good or bad, creeping, lingering, hiding in the shadows ready to pounce. We live in our heads. Maybe my mother knew that too. I suspect that she did.
I did the usual teenage things as that second year passed, drifting inevitably into the third. I drank too much alcohol and experimented with illicit drugs, one mind-numbing chemical hit after another, but if anything my experimentation made things worse. The nightmares intensified, the flashbacks became more vivid, restful sleep was beyond my reach as the darkness stretched out until dawn’s welcome light crept over the distant horizon. I was always on high alert, tense, stressed; however well things seemed to be going in the world outside my mind. And sleep was difficult, I woke often and still do. I’ve since realised that I was suffering post-traumatic stress, like that suffered by combat veterans. It’s not something that’s ever been formally diagnosed but I’ve got no doubts it’s the case. An unwelcome legacy of my father’s vile attentions that I still endure. But I got on with life as best I could. I’m still proud of that, one day at a time, trying to look forward rather than back, clinging onto the hope of better times ahead.
I won, I won, I won, the bastard’s gone.
I repeated it often, almost believing it, but not quite. He was always there, you see, somewhere in the background. A gradually fading dark shadow of his former self, but still only too real to me. I think of him less often now. But he still visits from time to time, in my weaker moments, when something reminds me of the past. His memory seems indestructible. He still haunts me however many times I kill in his name. He even talks to me sometimes, mocking, undermining my confidence, whispering in my ear. I fear he always will.
I qualified at the age of twenty-one. I passed, me, I was one of the educated classes. Let’s focus on the positives for once. And then, only weeks later, I got the job that would cement my future. I was to be an admin officer with the local probation service. I won’t say where. I’ve probably said too much already, offered too many clues. But please don’t assume a part of me wants to be caught. Arrest is the last thing I want. I can’t avoid the telling. That job was truly pivotal. It gave me virtually unrestricted access to information, access to files.
And I learnt something terrible, something that blew my world apart when I first began my new role. I wasn’t the only one who’d suffered the vile attentions of a predator. There are other monsters out there. Monster men like my father. Some even worse than my father. And any number of survivors, people like me who hold no blame and did nothing to deserve their fate. I read the details of one case after another, incredulous as to the harm such hunters of innocence chose to inflict on their many victims. I knew then that I had to do something, something positive, something proactive. It became an obsession. Nothing else mattered. It was as if a bulb had switched on in my head. For the first time ever, my true purpose was clear. I was to turn the tables. The hunted was to become the hunter.
I bided my time, researched, gathered information, and planned until I thought the time was exactly right to act. I like to think of myself as a crusader, a purveyor of righteous justice, a force for good in a dark and foreboding world of woe. But not everyone is going to see it that way. People get offended by the slightest thing these days. We’re members of a snowflake generation. You only need to look at social media to know that.
But please remember this before you jump to any ready conclusions. There’s any number of predators still out there, in your town, maybe even in your neighbourhood. Men like my father. Men who target the innocent. Monsters who can spot the vulnerable in the blink of an eye.
I’m comfortable with the decisions I’ve made. And I’ve still got work to do. It’s far from over. I’ll have more blood on my hands before this story ends. I’m trying to hold back the tide.
9
Two years have now passed since my college graduation. I’ve got the framed certificate on my lounge wall. I still work for the probation service in the same administrative role. But the bedsit of my youth is a mere memory. I live in a two-bedroom detached cottage these days. It’s remote, deep in the countryside with no near neighbours. It was somewhat in need of updating when I first bought it, with my mother’s generous help, one last financial gesture to compensate for the unspoken past. But I’ve done the place up since, as best I can, one room at a time, counting the pennies as I went. It’s far from luxurious even after all my efforts. But it’s practical, exactly what I need, and that’s what matters.
My cottage is surrounded by mature trees and high hedges, down a country lane away from inquisitive eyes. A small house with a useful outbuilding, once a pigsty, but now serving a very different purpose in the warmer months, that I’ll come to in good time.
The place is a bit of a drive from town, five miles from the main road and then on from there. But that’s not a bad thing, the distance has its advantages, as I’m sure you’ll come to appreciate. The location offers secrecy when needed; that’s why I chose it in the first place. There are no overlooking houses, and no curtain-twitchers sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. And that suits me just fine. I couldn’t function otherwise.
I was sitting in my small cottage kitchen not so very long ago, a short time before writing these words, with my recently acquired, state-of-the-art laptop resting, open and fully charged, on the pine table in front of me. That’s usually how I work these days, next to the radiator, close to the kettle. Keeping warm matters in the winter months. There’s a dusting of snow on the fields. I could see it through the kitchen window until the light faded. A chocolate box blanket of white that’s pleasing to the eye. It makes digging the ground more difficult, of course, that’s always a concern when the temperature drops. But there’s always an answer to a problem if you think about it for long enough. There’s more than one way to dispose of a body. You just have to use your imagination.
I sit on an old wooden stool rather than using a cushion. I don’t like to be too comfortable when I’m working. A bit of discomfort gives me an edge. I need to stay focused, on top of my game. I positioned myself on the very edge of my stool, staring at the laptop screen and tapping the computer keys, not nearly as quickly as I’d have liked. I’ve tried to develop my typing skills, to speed things up, to operate more efficiently. But that skill still seems beyond me despite so much practise, and so I accept my limitations.
I wear a pair of those blue-light blocking plastic glasses as I work, perched on the tip of my nose. Can you picture the scene? I feel sure you can. It’s a simple enough scenario, me, the kitchen, my computer.
I’ll move on to tell you more once I’ve calmed myself down a bit. Some of the things I see on the screen get my blood boiling. I feel such a sense of responsibility for the safety of children. I sometimes wish I could look away and ignore the horrors I encounter online. But it’s not in my nature to turn a blind eye. If only I could! My world would be a simpler place.
I was posing as a ten-year-old schoolgirl in an online chat room about an hour ago. That’s what I do, I create a character, like an actor, sometimes a boy and sometimes a girl, whichever works best with my particular target in mind. Now, do you get the picture? I was the bait, the lure, searching for perverts, drawing them in. And tonight, right there on the computer screen, there was a predator that caught my interest immediately.
I’d been looking out for him for some time now, not for weeks but months, and then there he was. He’s in his late forties, an ex-primary school teacher, a father and grandfather, on probation having avoided prison, as the bastards sometimes do. He’d been caught with thousands of indecent images of children, many in the worst category, including torture. It doesn’t get any more dangerous than that. I’d read all about him at work. It’s all there in the files, readily available information, just what I need to make my plans.
I’d expressed concern in the office months before, with feeling, talking to his probation officer over a coffee in the staffroom one lunchtime. I said I thought the man was a high-ri
sk offender. I even explained why. That his interests were extreme. That his offending had escalated over time, and would again.
Those vile photographs he’s so very fond of told their own awful story. They aren’t just digital images; they’re real living and breathing children, every single one of them. Children experiencing unspeakable horrors, as I did. I tried to explain all that, to elucidate my concerns. But my words of caution fell on predictably deaf ears.
I’m not qualified, you see. I’m just an admin officer, and so it seems my opinion doesn’t count for much, if at all. I suspected this particular offender would go on to re-offend. And I couldn’t have been more right. Tonight, there he was again, on my laptop screen, trawling for victims, predatory, menacing, the worst kind of man. Monsters like him don’t change. They are what they are. They do what they do. It’s why I do what I do. My deeds are my obsession, as my target’s crimes are theirs.
This particular sex offender calls himself Big Boy! It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. I knew exactly who he was as soon as I saw that name on my computer screen. The shit-stain is so full of himself, so seemingly self-confident as he plies his filthy trade. My anger is rising again now as I recall his messages. Vile words sent without conscience or care. How dare he send such abominations to a person he thought a child? What’s wrong with the man? He’s broken, something’s missing.
If I don’t stop him, then who will? I could report him to the authorities, of course, I could pass on the evidence I’ve gleaned. But what would that achieve? He may go to prison for a few months at best, and then he’d be out again, destroying more lives, robbing other children of their childhoods, doing his thing. That’s not good enough, it’s not nearly good enough, not in my world, not while I can still draw breath.