by John Nicholl
I went back to bed for a couple of hours after contacting my boss. Big Boy was a large man. I needed to be at my best. I got up for a second time at a little after eleven. I made myself some breakfast, just a bowl of cereal, turned up the heating, and then stripped off completely. Cutting up a body leaves one covered in blood. There’s no avoiding it however hard one tries. It gets everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, into every nook and crevice, even in my hair and ears. I like to shower straight away afterwards. I make sure the water’s piping hot, use plenty of scented soap, and keep scrubbing for as long as it takes. I like to be clean.
I collected my butchers’ equipment together at about 11.30am, laying the tools out on the plastic-covered floor for convenience before making a start. I like to work to the sound of favourite CDs, turning the music up loud, so it fills the room. I work to a rhythm, cutting, sawing, and singing along, occasionally standing up and dancing when the mood takes me.
I hope that doesn’t make me sound callous. That’s the last thing I’d want. As I’ve said, the dissection process is a demanding task. It can become tedious, unpleasant even, at times. The music helps with that. It lightens my mood.
It took me almost two hours to dismember Big Boy to my satisfaction. I removed his big old head first, rolling it aside before moving on to the arms and legs. He was big-boned, so removing each limb took some considerable time and effort even with my sharpest bone saw. And my God, he was heavy. Every limb was hard to lift as I wrapped it in black plastic bin bags for later disposal. Even the arms made me stagger, let alone the legs.
I was truly flagging by the time I finished, lying naked and panting next to the monster man’s torso. I lay there resting, breathing slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth, gradually regaining my strength. I hadn’t enjoyed the process. I want to stress that. I can’t say it enough. I was glad to get it over with. Bagging the final limb was a relief. But there was a sense of achievement too, of a job well done. I think that’s fair to say. But it wasn’t over.
Now I had to get rid of the body parts. I had some ideas. The ground was still frozen, so burial wasn’t an option. I had to come up with a viable alternative. I did consider leaving the bagged body parts outside in the pigsty for however long it took until the inevitable thaw. It seemed appropriate at first. Big Boy was a pig after all. But I finally decided that the risks were too high.
I settled on disposal in a local river that I’d used once before – a convenient tidal stretch of water that flows into the sea via a beautiful estuary overlooked by a twelfth century Norman castle. I’d got away with it the last time, so why not again? All I had to do was leave the house in the early hours of the morning, drive to a remote spot away from prying eyes, weigh the bags down with suitably sized stones, and drop them into the fast-flowing mix of fresh and saltwater one at a time.
I’ve decided I’m going to do it tonight. Why delay? I’ll be taking another sick day despite my misgivings. Sometimes such things are necessary to serve the bigger picture. I’ll let you know how it all goes sometime tomorrow when I’m in the mood to write.
14
Things haven’t been easy since writing my previous chapter. My plans, however well intentioned, don’t always go as well as I’d hope. And this was one of those times. My endeavours started well enough but it didn’t continue that way. My hands are still trembling as I write these words. But I’m determined to continue. My story has to be told.
I preferred driving my own car to Big Boy’s vehicle as I headed towards my river of choice. Big Boy had come to me, led to the slaughter, unaware of his impending fate. And now he was butchered and in my car boot, wrapped up in plastic, secured by tape. That had taken some effort on my part. Even after regular weekly exercise, I struggled with the lifting. I was red-faced and panting by the time I finished the process. The packages really were that heavy. There must have been at least fifteen stone of meat, bone and gristle in total. It’s not like I can ask anyone for assistance. My poor legs struggled to take the strain.
After a twenty-minute drive deep into the Welsh countryside, I reached the river, a spot where there were no nearby houses to pose any threat. I drove as near the riverbank as possible, manoeuvring carefully through an open farm gate and parking in a snow-covered field behind a high hedge. I realised the task of disposal would be challenging as I looked across the undulating blanket of white. I’d have to climb a second hedge and then trudge another thirty feet or so through several inches of snow to the water.
I took off my hat, scratching my head as I considered the physical effort involved. I tried driving the car on a few yards more. But the wheels span on the frozen ground as I attempted to climb a slight incline, making the task impossible to achieve. The noise of the revving engine worried me greatly, sending my blood pressure soaring to a new and savage high. I feared the sound would carry for miles in the still night air. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself, however remote the area. Being found out was unthinkable. And so I switched off the engine, reluctantly accepting there was no other way but to carry or drag the body parts to the riverbank one heavy parcel at a time. I stifled a scream of frustration, opened the boot, got my head down, and got on with it.
I was glad of my brown leather gloves, another charity shop purchase, and my pair of green wellingtons kept my feet dry. A lesson learnt after my experiences on the beach. The plastic-covered packages slid easily over the frozen ground as I dragged them behind me, except for the head, which I carried in both arms. The shape made the carrying easier, like a ball. And I’d removed the brain, slicing it up for disposal in the sewerage system, which reduced the weight. Something else I’d learnt from experience. I’m becoming more skilled with each killing. I consider that to my credit. Worthy of a symbolic pat on the back.
Things were going reasonably well right up to when I heard a dog bark somewhere in the distance. It set me on edge for some reason I still can’t fully quantify. As if it signalled my downfall. As if the animal was prophesying my undoing.
I stood shivering on the bank of the fast-flowing river, the various bloody packages to one side of me and a pile of suitably sized stones to the other. I began placing stones in each parcel one at a time before lowering them into the mire, in turn, watching them slowly sink as they were washed away by the tide. I had two packages left, the head and one leg, when the dog barked again, louder this time, the animal not so far away. I tried to ignore my growing anxiety as I dropped the final leg into the muddy water. But as I turned to pick up the head with shaking hands, a sheepdog suddenly appeared, rushing towards me and snatching Big Boy’s plastic-covered head in its jaws. The animal looked at me accusingly as it shook its prize, and then ran off as if to taunt me, the package still clutched in its jaws.
The dog ran along the riverbank with me trying to keep up, running with loping, long bounding steps until I finally fell, grazing a knee and cracking my head against a large, leafless branch of a felled tree. I looked up dazed and tearful as the dog kept running, looking back occasionally because it amused it to do so.
I punched the ground three times before standing, looking for an answer, desperate for revelation, any way of rectifying the situation, but without any hope of success. I spent almost an hour trudging along that riverbank after that, frozen, tearful, increasingly desperate, searching for any sight of the dog or Big Boy’s discarded head.
I told myself I’d succeed, that all would come good in the end. But it didn’t work out that way. As the sun slowly rose over the distant horizon, I decided the game was up. It was time to go. Time to head home. The risks of being seen were too high and increasing with every minute that passed. But leaving the head was risky too. I could have kept looking. But that’s not the decision I made.
I’d never felt more confused or concerned as I drove back towards my cottage. I’m on the side of the angels. A superhero, the good guy. So why had the universe conspired against me? I couldn’t make any sense of it at the tim
e and I still can’t now.
I hated that damned dog with a burning intensity that made my head pound. I wanted to kick the animal, to punch it, and drive the life from its body until it returned my property. But that was never going to happen. Not in this world, not in this life; things don’t work that way. I had to hope, to rely on random fate.
Say a prayer for me if you feel so inclined. It’s something I find difficult to do myself. I need all the help I can get.
15
I don’t often watch the Welsh evening news. It doesn’t usually interest me. The politics, the Welsh sports reports, and stories of local interest. It’s just not my thing. But this evening was different. I was on tenterhooks, agitated, unable to relax even for a moment.
I was desperate for information. Had Big Boy’s head been found? And I had other questions too. Questions that dominated my every waking moment. Was my car seen on that cold night as I drove to the river? And were the police on the case? Were they hunting me? Those questions rang in my ears as my father began shouting somewhere behind me. Those same unanswered questions were yelled repeatedly, louder and louder until I feared my head might explode with the force of the sound.
I had to know the reality for good or bad. It was the only way to silence that invasive voice that threatened my sanity.
I switched on the television, turned to the correct channel and waited. I needed to watch. I had to watch. If it were bad news, I’d have to deal with it as I had as a child. And as I had since, with one guest after another lured to the slaughter. That’s fair, isn’t it? I’ve done well, haven’t I? I feel sure you’ll support me in that.
My father stopped shouting just as the programme was about to start. He’d timed it to perfection, and I think I know why. I suspect he was hoping I was about to receive bad news. But, of course, I was hoping for no news at all.
I was once told that the anticipation of pain could be worse than the pain itself. The proposition seemed ridiculous to me back then. But I now know it to be true. I tore at my hair as I sat there in front of the television, rocking back and forth in my chair, tapping my foot against the floor. And then there it was on the screen, the lead story, Big Boy’s demise was the main headline. Oh, my God, oh my God! No, no, no!
I let out an anguished yelp as the pretty, young female journalist continued to present her report. A local farmer had found a man’s decapitated head. A head wrapped in black plastic, a head worried by an animal before being discarded close to the river.
I stared at the screen with unblinking eyes, my heart pounding. The presenter didn’t mention the missing brain, that didn’t feature in the report at all. I still don’t know why. But the police were investigating. Oh my God, they were investigating! They were attempting to establish the deceased’s identity and cause of death. And then the worse news in the world, the very thing I feared the most. The reporter looked into the camera with a manufactured frown to tell all who watched that the case was being treated as a murder.
Shit, shit, shit! My greatest fears were a new reality right there on the screen for all to see. Although, I guess such things were inevitable. If the head was found it would be seen as homicide. How else could he possibly have died?
I felt as if the room was closing in on me. As if the walls were about to fall, crushing me at any moment. The murder investigation would be a high priority case, with no expense spared. I knew that only too well from my work in the probation department. The police would be searching for the killer, snooping, sticking their piggy noses in, looking for me. How ridiculous is that given the identity of the victim? And that’s if you can call him a victim at all. I should be given a medal. The Queen should pin it on my chest. But that’s not the way our sick society works. The wrong people are protected. And so, I need to be extra careful from here on in. No more errors, no mistakes. One was one too many.
I stood, turning in a tight circle, my mind still racing, searching for reassurance. I looked for a positive slant, any positive slant that would alleviate my concern even slightly. Maybe I wasn’t seen, and my car, maybe that wasn’t seen either. I’d hidden it well enough in the dead of night. Behind that hedge, in that field covered in snow. My fingerprints weren’t on record even if found. And the dog couldn’t describe me. Ha! That was obvious. Things weren’t that bad, were they? What do you think? You must have a view on the matter. Maybe I am worrying about nothing at all.
I opened a whisky bottle as I paced the room, first one way and then another, pouring the strong liquid down my throat one generous gulp after another. I stopped at the window, tilted my head back and took another swig before staring into the darkness looking for answers. I hoped the alcohol would take the edge off, calm me down a bit, silence that voice in my head. But it didn’t really help however much I drank. The strong spirit just clouded my thinking and burnt my throat. So I hurled the three-quarter full bottle at the screen – no more television for me. No more news was good news, wasn’t it? I’d lie low for as long as it took to feel safe. That was the sensible thing to do.
If the police turn up snooping, I’ll deny everything. It’s not so much what I did. It’s all about reasonable doubt. Unless they dig up my garden. If they do that I’m screwed. If they prove my crimes, I’ll have to face whatever punishment the authorities deem appropriate. And if not, I’ll continue targeting predators. I could face prison if I have to. I have that inner strength. I’ve no doubt on that score. It isn’t the possibility of incarceration that worries me so very much, not in itself. But there’s more offenders out there, some on my shortlist and many not. Men like Big Boy, and some even worse. If I’m not going to stop them, who’s going to do it? Can anyone answer that for me? No one, that’s the answer, no one, in case you were wondering. I hate that thought. It eats away at me, beats me down.
I fetched the bottle of sleeping draught from a bathroom cupboard. I made my way back downstairs, entered my slaughterhouse for much-needed solace, and curled up on the wooden floor, now free of plastic sheeting for the first time in days. Three gulps of the sweet, green liquid and I was soon drowsy. Only minutes later, I was lost to my chemically induced slumber. I dreamt of mass execution, all my targets there in one room, waiting to die together. Children were safer in one bold move. As if such things were possible; if only they were.
And then I woke up this morning, cold and aching, my back in spasm. My entire body was shaking as I opened my eyes, recalling the events of the evening before. The television report, the whisky, my racing thoughts, my father’s voice in my ear.
But there hadn’t been a knock on the door. There’d been no sirens disturbing my rest. I reminded myself of those facts as I stretched and stood. It’s important to hold on to hope in this world of ours, to focus on the positives whenever you can. I’m still free, not in handcuffs, and that’s a triumph in itself. Yes, I have hope, which is more than many can claim.
Maybe I can continue to protect the vulnerable as I have until now. And I will, I definitely will if given the chance. As long as there are predators to hunt. As long as there’s breath in my body. As long as I’m not locked up in a cell. Eradicating the dangerous is my reason for living. I’ll keep planning. I’ll keep searching. And I’ll strike again when the time’s precisely right. If the police come calling, then so be it, there’s little I can do about that. And if not, I’ll continue my quest.
16
Over a week has now passed since that evening watching the Welsh evening news, and I’m back at work. Back in an administrative role, but now assisting a senior probation officer, recently promoted, and relatively new in her supervisory role. She rates me, apparently. It’s a temporary post while the usual secretary is on maternity leave. She asked me personally. So, how could I say no?
I returned to work in an attempt to seem ordinary. There’s been no knock on the door, no police interview, and no arrest. So work seemed like a sensible move to continue my subterfuge. It’s a mask of sorts, like that worn by my father. I still jump at ever
y turn of a doorknob, and every passing car, but I think I’m hiding it well. Although, Mrs Breen, that’s her name, Maisie Breen, did ask if I were okay at one point this morning. She looked across her small, cluttered office with a quizzical expression and said those exact words.
That concerned me greatly at first. But I resisted my impulse to panic. I explained that the news of the murder had upset me. It was so brutal, so local, so close to home. I said I lived alone, that I didn’t feel safe in my own bed – quick thinking on my part, something else to be proud of.
Maisie Breen told me that she understood completely and then opened up over a morning coffee. The sharing of personal information can do that sometimes. It conveys liking. It encourages communication. I’ve used that to my advantage more than once. She told me she’s married to a detective; a man called Rob, one of those on the case. The victim had already been identified utilising his dental records and DNA. No surprises there. He was a sex offender in life, one of the department’s many clients.
I feigned surprise, shaking my head slowly when she said that, focusing on the grey carpet at my feet. ‘Really? One of ours? How awful!’
‘Oh, yes, he was a local paedophile all right. And there’s another one missing. The police thought he’d done a runner to avoid supervision. But now they’re wondering if he’s been murdered too. There may be a vigilante on the loose.’
The second man she talked of is buried in my garden at the back of the cottage along with others. Under a rose bed, manure, food for the worms. I like to think of it as a memorial garden dedicated to their many victims’ lost childhoods. I picture those children sometimes when the flowers are in bloom. Happy, laughing children, playing childhood games without a care in the world. As if they’d never encountered a monster. It’s all about them. The monsters are rotting in the ground.