by John Nicholl
Come on, Big Boy, come on, monster man, in you come, in you come.
I repeated it in my head, willing it to become a reality. I was still carefully hidden, clutching the knife in my left hand so very tightly that my fingers ached. And then, as he took a forward step, I heard his voice for the very first time. Big Boy emitted a high-pitched sound, seemingly so unsuited to a man of his height and fleshy build. He had an English accent too, which surprised me. Southern maybe, I can’t be sure, but certainly not the Welsh lilt I’d expected. I peered out from the concealed alcove as he walked on down the hall for a second or two, ever so slowly, ever so cautiously, before stopping again. Even then, I could see him shaking as he stood there, shifting his not inconsiderable weight from one foot to another, his involuntary dance revealing his nervous state.
The monster’s words were hissed, almost whispered, but still audible to my sensitive ears, as I waited my opportunity to strike.
‘Where are you?’
I pressed play, my computer replying in that same girlish voice, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. He was so close to acting out his fantasies. Or, so he thought. He could smell it, taste it, almost touch it – this middle-aged man who preyed on the innocent.
‘I’m in here, I’m waiting for you, in the room at the end of the hall.’
‘I’ve, er, I’ve got the phone for you, it’s a pink one, just like you asked for. Show yourself.’
‘I’m shy. I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. You have to come to me.’
I think he almost turned and ran at that point. I could see it in his eyes. I could spot the tension in his face. He looked so close to panic as if the unusual circumstances raised questions that he couldn’t silence. But there was a prominent bulge in the monster man’s trousers that I couldn’t fail to see as he peered into the semi-darkness, seeing a childlike mannequin I’d placed in a far corner, seated on the floor. His hormones drove him on, his perverted desires at the forefront of his mind, overwhelming his misgivings. There was no running, no retreat. He slowly approached my slaughterhouse one step at a time.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes, there’s just me.’
He was at the door to the room now, sweating, the stink of his body odour filling my nostrils as he peered into the semi-darkness.
‘Have your parents definitely left? There’s no one else in the house but you and me?’
‘Yes, they won’t be back for ages.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you in the dark?’
I responded this time, rather than use the laptop. I didn’t have a suitable pre-prepared choice of words. I giggled, trying to sound shy, bashful. I think he liked that.
He seemed persuaded to me. And that was it. It was all the temptation he needed. One second he was safe, standing out of my reach in the hall, and then he was in my slaughterhouse, standing there, blinking as his eyes adapted to the gloom. I knew the time to act had come as he walked slowly towards the curtains a few seconds later, reaching out to open them to let in the light.
I crept out from my hiding place, leaping forwards with practised ability and speed, the razor-sharp knife raised high above my head in a frenzy of co-ordinated activity.
He turned to face me just as I brought the knife crashing down, using all my strength and weight to sink the steel blade deep into his upper chest, the tip hitting bone and almost jarring the weapon from my hand. I screamed in delight as he staggered backwards, bouncing off the wall behind him, sinking to the plastic-covered floor like a slowly deflating blow-up toy.
I left him lying there, incredulous and groaning, as I flicked a switch on the wall to my left, flooding the room with a bright white light that made us both squint. For one terrible moment, I thought I might have killed him prematurely, as I saw bubbles of blood and saliva erupting from his open mouth. But there was still the spark of life in those red eyes of his. He wasn’t ready to die quite yet. I’ve never seen a man so confused, so bewildered or fearful. It brought a smile to my face as he spoke.
‘What, what, who… w-why?’
‘Silence!’ I shouted it three times before he finally shut up.
‘This is the court of your victims, Big Boy. You were convicted in your absence. It’s time to pay the price of your sins. Have you anything to say for yourself in mitigation before I issue your death warrant?’
His voice was quieter now, slightly garbled as he struggled onto his side, spitting out a mouthful of blood, forcing out his words. ‘I’m– I’m not a p-paedo. I hate those dirty bastards. I’d n-never hurt a child.’
What utter shit. Was that really the best he could do? ‘Then, why are you here?’
‘I c-came to the wrong address.’ Big Boy still had the strength to talk, which pleased me. But his words had angered me even further. He was so full of crap. It spewed from his mouth in a torrent of lies. If he’d taken responsibility for his crimes, I would at least have respected him for that. But his filthy denial was no more than I’d expected. He had no redeeming features. Or, at least, none I could identify. Even now, he was trying to hide his true nature.
I knelt at the monster’s side, the blood-stained knife still in my hand. ‘Don’t waste what little’s left of your breath. I know exactly what you are, Big Boy, or should I call you Gavin, Gavin Michael Taylor. That’s your name, isn’t it? I’ve read your probation file, every single word of it. I know all about your interests, your collection of photos, those awful pictures portraying so much pain and distress. And now it’s your turn to suffer. There’s a price to pay for your actions. Think of it as karma. Have you got anything to say for yourself before it’s too late?’
He didn’t respond to my allegations, not directly. I already knew he had no intention of confessing. So what on earth could he have said? I knew his time was fast running out as he pleaded for his life, asking for help, an ambulance, talking of his children, his wife. He was trying to seem human. But he was wasting his breath. His family would be better off without him. He was a monster to me, and no more than that.
I did consider torturing Big Boy before death. I’d thought of inflicting similar abominations to which some of the poor children in those vile photos had been subjected. The ones that turned him on so very much, feeding his fantasies. But that sad excuse for a man seemed so utterly pathetic as he lost control of his bowels. So unworthy of my continued attention as he pissed himself while choking on his blood. I couldn’t stand to interact with that waste of breath even for a second longer than I had to. Just being in his presence made me feel dirty. I wanted him dead. I wanted him butchered, and his body out of there; one less predator in the world of the living.
‘Do you have any last words before I bring your miserable life to an end?’
‘No, p-please, I’m– I’m s-sorry, please, I… I–’
‘Shut the fuck up! Stop your fucking whimpering. It won’t do you any favours. I’ve never heard anything as pathetic in my life.’
But he didn’t shut up. His pleading intensified. I’d heard more than enough. There was only one way to silence him. I raised myself on my knees, looming over him, speaking loudly, insistently, not allowing him to finish his pitiful, snivelling pleadings. ‘Now would be a good time to seek forgiveness from your maker, if you believe in such things.’
And he did start praying as I raised the blade high above my head, clutching the slippery wet shaft with both hands, raining down blow after bloody blow until all was silence. And that was it; the deed was done. Big Boy was no longer a threat to me or anybody else.
I rose to my feet, filthy and panting, as Big Boy’s body fluids pooled around his corpse, flooding the floor with filth. I looked around me, yawning as the adrenalin in my system gradually subsided. The killing had been exhausting. I felt so very tired, as exhausted as I’ve ever been in my life. As I searched the monster’s trouser pockets for his car keys, I acknowledged I needed sustenance, I needed rest, to be at my best, to avoid mistakes. I’d have t
o get rid of his car, of course, later that night, to somewhere safe, somewhere I wouldn’t be implicated. But for now, I’d hide it behind the cottage, next to mine, where it wouldn’t be seen by any delivery drivers or other unexpected callers. That couldn’t be delayed even for a second longer. The risks were too high for that. But I was tired now, weary. I had a change of heart. Big Boy could stay where he was until the following day. What was the rush? I could take my time. The monster man could keep me company. A night as my guest wouldn’t do any harm at all.
I turned slowly away, walking down the hall towards the front door, satisfied with my rumination, feeling rather full of myself, my ego boosted. I’d done well, really well. Now all I had to do was keep it up, one job at a time. Bite-sized chunks and I’ll be fine.
12
I set my alarm clock for 3am on Sunday morning, a perfect time for subterfuge when most of the population are asleep and lost to their dreams. I threw back my winter weight quilt, jumped from bed with forced enthusiasm, and opened the bedroom curtains, looking out on a winter wonderland that raised my flagging spirits despite the early hour. I can still appreciate beauty from time to time in my ugly world of woe. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. And this was one of those rare moments as a bright three-quarter moon illuminated the snow-covered countryside in every direction.
The world can be such a wondrous place if one ignores the horrors. If I’d grown up in a very different family, who knows where my life would have taken me? Maybe I could have enjoyed more moments like that. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have a human slaughterhouse splashed red with blood.
I dressed in my warmest clothing, incorporating several natural fibre layers, topped with a thick, warm woollen jumper bought in a second-hand shop several weeks before. I made a quick bathroom visit before heading downstairs, full of good intentions despite my inevitable fatigue. I’d given some thought to the safe disposal of the monster man’s car before finally drifting off to sleep. Options were limited, but I was confident of success if I remained vigilant and stuck to a plan. I’ve found that staying positive is crucial to my holding things together. I can’t let practicalities get me down.
I’d finally settled on a nearby beach as a good disposal point. It seemed ideal with several miles of flat, hard sand and a fast-rising tide, which wouldn’t be full in until 3.55am. I intended to drive down a conveniently located concrete ramp used by my family in times gone by, park the car at the tideline, abandoning the vehicle to the rising sea. I felt sure that the saltwater would more than adequately destroy any evidence of my involvement, fingerprints, fibres, DNA and the like. Planning is everything given my vocation. I can’t protect the innocent if I’m locked up in a cell. I’m a dark-clad executioner in a good cause. That amused me when I thought of it in those terms. It’s the classic case of two wrongs making a right.
I glanced in at Big Boy’s lifeless body as I passed my slaughterhouse door on my way to the kitchen. His corpse was stiffening by then, and his blood coagulated. He had a look of shock on his face. As if, even in death, he couldn’t quite believe the price he’d paid for his sins. The scene gave me a warm sense of accomplishment as I yawned and rubbed my eyes.
A quick, strong cup of coffee sweetened with a little coconut sugar, and I was ready to go. I pulled on a warm coat, clutched Big Boy’s car keys, sprayed generous amounts of lavender air freshener in every first-floor room to mask the invasive smell of excrement in preparation for my return, and made my way outside, locking the front door behind me as I went. I sucked in long deep breaths of cold night-time air, filling my lungs as I made my way to the rear of the cottage, coat fastened, collar up, and a woolly hat pulled low over my head. I thought the hat an inspired idea, one of my best. I’d adjusted it carefully, hiding my short brown hair. And I was wearing bright red plastic rimmed glasses, rather than my usual contact lenses. Not the world’s most imaginative disguise, but a disguise nonetheless. I’d use the back roads and avoid any cameras, but I didn’t want to be recognised in the unlikely event I was seen. I think my outfit achieved that aim pretty damned well. As I’ve said before, getting caught was never a part of the plan.
I unlocked and started Big Boy’s car without any problems at all, but it was a manual gear shift, in contrast to my automatic, which caused me some concern. I punched the steering wheel hard and felt slightly better almost immediately. My initial rage was subsiding as my breathing slowed. Driving the car was one more obstacle to overcome and no more than that.
I stalled the unfamiliar vehicle’s engine three times as I manoeuvred to the front of the cottage in first gear. That disappointed me. I don’t appreciate failure. I see it as a weakness, something I can’t allow myself to indulge. It’s too risky in my world, too dangerous. It threatens my freedom. I feared spiralling into a cycle of despair as my world became a darker and more forbidding place. But by the time I drove up my lane towards the country road, I felt back in control only minutes later. I’d owned a manual geared car in the past, and the old motor skills were fast returning. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I liked driving the car. That would be something of an exaggeration. But it was something I could cope with. My feelings of failure abated almost as quickly as they’d arisen. I reminded myself that there was one less predator in the world because of me. Any amount of effort on my part was worth it to achieve that goal. I’d done a good thing, a worthy thing; I told myself that I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. And I’d dealt with a lot worse.
It took me a little over half an hour to reach my destination of choice. I was in a more positive mood by that point, singing along to the radio as I went. That same concrete ramp I’d remembered from my troubled childhood was still there when I reached the seaside village, leading directly onto a beach once used for world land speed record attempts in glory days gone by. I glanced around me, both pleased and relieved to see no potential witnesses as I drove slowly down the gradual incline onto the firm sand. The clear moonlit sky had clouded over by then, with a flurry of snowflakes seemingly coming from every direction at once. As if God was mocking me, laughing at my plans. But I focused with a new-found determination. I was there for a reason. I had to get on with it.
I switched the car’s headlights to the main beam on the second hurried attempt, increased the speed of the wipers, and headed towards the sea, about 100 metres away. When I reached the tideline, I could see that the water was rising quickly, making its way over the fresh sand at a reasonably fast walking pace. I felt elated. My plan was coming together exactly as I’d hoped. My spirits leapt and danced as I engaged first gear. I pressed my foot down hard on the accelerator pedal and entered the water. All was good at first. But the car came to a sputtering halt when the seawater reached the halfway point of the front wheels. I forced the driver’s door open, which was more difficult than I’d imagined, enabling me to step out into the sea, the freezing temperature of which made me gasp. I almost stumbled and fell at the water’s edge, but I regained my balance with quick-moving feet that were already numb with cold. What the hell was I thinking?
Stupid girl!
I could hear my father’s critical voice chastising me as he had so often in life.
You ridiculous girl!
I resented his mocking words but he had a point. I shouldn’t have got wet. I should have left the car parked at the tideline as I’d originally planned. The sea would have taken care of the rest.
My father’s voice continued to echo in my ears as I made my way back up the beach towards the ramp. He scolded me repeatedly, jeering, sneering, lowering my mood. But as I reached the ramp, looking back at the car, which was slowly disappearing under the waves, I drove the self-serving bastard from my mind. My plan had worked exactly as I’d envisaged. There were no witnesses. Or, at least, none of which I was aware. And all viable evidence would be destroyed. I was confident of that. No one could link me to the car or its recently deceased owner. That was a triumph in my eyes. I had to stay hopeful and focus on the positives.
The night wasn’t over. It was going to be a long walk home.
13
I’ve thought long and hard as to whether to share this part of my story with you at all. It won’t be easy for some to read. It certainly wasn’t easy for me to write. I want you to know that.
Please be under no misapprehension. I’m not one of life’s ghouls. I don’t enjoy the company of corpses, their unquestioning compliance to my every whim and desire. The way the dead look, smell and feel. It’s a case of necessity for me rather than pleasure.
I can’t push every monster off a cliff. I only wish I could. If I kill a monster man, I have to get rid of the body. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s reasonable. I can’t leave the corpse lying around my house to rot for weeks on end. I tried it once for a week or two when I killed my first guest. I couldn’t face cutting him up. I couldn’t figure out what to do with the corpse. Decay sets in, then maggots, then insects. The flesh breaks down, it blackens, and the smell becomes intolerable even to me. And so quick disposal is a necessity rather than a luxury – something I’ve had to learn to do within a reasonable time of death. It’s surprising what one can get used to.
I rang in sick early on Monday morning, claiming a stomach upset when I spoke to my boss. It’s not something I’m proud of doing. I like to think of myself as a conscientious employee. I value my integrity. But my trek home from the beach was totally exhausting. I was in one hell of a state by the time I reached my door. You should have seen the condition of my feet. I stripped off my sodden clothes, showered, set my alarm, and then fell into bed to adequately rest. I was going to need all the energy I could muster. Dismembering a corpse can be a surprisingly demanding process, even with the right tools and my degree of experience. Cutting through the flesh is easy enough if a blade is sharp. I guess that’s obvious to anyone who thinks about it. But sawing through bones can be onerous. You may not realise that in your very different world. It surprised me too the first time I had to do it. And the mess, I couldn’t believe the mess. Thank goodness for the plastic sheeting. The body fluids get everywhere. Cleaning up is a job in itself.