by John Nicholl
It was time for action, and I was fully committed. I’d already decided that Simpson was going to die very soon. I’ve already told you I like to be flexible. He’s at the very top of my list now. The scrote’s my next target, and he won’t die easy. There is any number of tortures for me to inflict. I’m sure you’ll agree that he more than deserves it. I may even enjoy it this time. I’ll take my time and make him suffer because it pleases me to do so. I’m surprised to be telling you that. It feels different this time.
I’m willing to admit that I appear to be evolving. It seems my behaviour is escalating too.
23
Several days have now passed since that child protection case conference that so disturbed and upset me. All the snow had gone, even the dirty slush at the sides of the roads; all washed away by the winter rain. Simpson has been released from prison on licence. I confirmed that with Maisie, who didn’t seem rattled by it at all. It appears that the insanity of the authorities knows no bounds.
I’ve already tracked my new target down with surprising speed and ease. He’s right there on the internet for all to see. It seems he learnt the know-how in prison. He actually did a course which gave him the skills, and all at the taxpayers’ expense – a university for the criminal classes. I’ve heard prison called that. And at least in his case, it’s true. It’s all there in his file for any member of the probation department who cares to look. It’s a scandal. Children should be so much better protected. Are you as surprised as I was when reading his story? I suspect you very probably are.
Simpson is not supposed to have an online presence, but as I’ve already mentioned, he very obviously has. He’s posted several colour photos of a litter of beautiful puppies on a popular social media site. Cute little creatures with black and brown fur that no child could resist. It should be pretty obvious to anyone what the vile beast is up to. And so I created a false profile, something I’m good at, posing as a thirteen-year-old girl this time, the site’s minimum age. My fictional bait’s a little long in the tooth, given the monster man’s past offending pattern. He committed most of his crimes against younger children, the majority under ten years of age. But despite that, I was confident of success if I played my cards right and made no mistakes. The puppy man has been living in a sexual desert, locked up for eight long years with no access to prey. And so I felt sure I could draw him in without too much trouble. He’d take whatever he could get.
It’s only a matter of time until the authorities realise what the disgusting bastard’s up to. And if they do, Simpson will be recalled to prison to continue his sentence, out of my reach. That is the last thing I want. The frustration would be unbearable if he ever escaped me. The very thought is eating away at me right now as I dictate these words. I knew as soon as I found him that I had to act quickly. There was no time for delay. The social media platform offered a simple and convenient way of contacting the monster with a few taps of my keyboard, and so that is precisely what I did.
My first message was a simple one. There was no need for complexity.
Wow, lovely puppies!
That was it, just three words. I felt sure they were more than enough to snag him. And my intuition was spot on. One short sentence was all it took. Simpson got back to me quickly, in a matter of seconds. No surprises there. I would be willing to bet the puppy man was drooling, saliva dripping uncontrollably from his dirty mouth. He didn’t comment on my observation.
He just hurriedly directed me to an encrypted message site. Somewhere he could communicate his lies without fear of leaving any evidence that could potentially be used against him. He knew exactly what he was doing. Or, at least, he thought he did. Ha! The groomer was being groomed. I liked that. There was a poetry to it, a natural justice that pleased me. It felt as if it was meant to be. Simpson was looking to harm a young teenager, a girl of only thirteen. But instead, I was going to destroy him in the worst possible ways I could think of. I can’t undo the tragic past. All the damage he did is done to his many victims. That’s a matter of history; it’s already written. But I can stop more children being traumatised by this particular monster man and his dark ways. And that’s so very worthwhile; such things make my life worth living. I’ll take some satisfaction in that.
I shouted out a torrent of crude obscenities as Simpson’s first encrypted message appeared on my screen. He’d got straight to it. He really was an obnoxious cunt!
Hi there, nice to talk to you, where do you live?
I gave him directions, including the postcode. It’s a well-established protocol. Set the trap, hook the monster, and reel the bastard in.
Do you want to see the puppies?
I let out a visceral scream that hurt my throat as it exploded from my mouth.
‘I hate him. I fucking well hate him!’
That summed up my feelings, although no words can adequately convey the depth of my loathing for this particular beast. Simpson was a man without a conscience, a moral vacuum, a fallen angel from the netherworld. I paced the room, then turned in a circle, gradually calming my breathing, with my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides.
I pictured myself pummelling the puppy man’s face to a bloody pulp, and felt a little better. What came next was a crucial part of the process. He was on the hook. I couldn’t let him wriggle off. I had to focus, concentrate, handle it well. I couldn’t let my hostility get in the way of rational thought. I sat back down on the edge of a chair with my open laptop on the table in front of me and started typing. I told him that I’d love to see the puppies, and asked him where I could meet them?
He responded the very second I stopped typing.
Can you come to Tenby?
I unscrewed the metal top from another vodka bottle and took a swig. How I handled his query truly mattered. The uncommonly pleasant Pembrokeshire seaside resort was no good to me at all whatever its attractions. Everything had to happen in my territory. He had to come to me to die on my property. That was the only way it was going to work.
I used my usual storyline as I had with Big Boy. I’d be alone, my parents would be away, and the rest. And he took the bait, right there with not even a second’s hesitation. I set our meeting up for the following Saturday morning. That gave me more than enough time for planning and preparation. It was going to be a momentous day.
The puppy man said he’d be arriving at 10am sharp. Can you believe that? Sharp! He used that word. As if it was a business appointment rather than a heinous criminal escapade. He’d be leaving his home address at about nine together with the puppies. Oh, and I could keep one too if I wanted one. He even told me to think of a name for the cute little animal. I thought I’d call his imaginary pet Pain because that’s what he’d suffer. The scrote was in a hurry. He really was a devil. I was looking forward to digging his grave.
24
I visited my mother and sister yesterday evening. Or at least, that was my intention. As it turned out, my sister wasn’t in. It was my first visit for… well, let’s just say a very long time. I hadn’t seen my mother since she gifted me the deposit for the cottage. And my younger sister for even longer than that. I’m not proud of that fact. It fills me with shame. But I hope you can understand that it’s hard for me to visit that house so full of bad memories. In a perfect world, I’d never see the place again. And, at the end of the day, neither my mother nor sister have visited me either, now that I think about it.
They’ve never been anywhere near my cottage, not even once. My maternal grandmother came twice despite my reticence. She said she’d always be there for me if I ever needed her, before she left that second time. And I think she meant it too. But no other family member visited. So maybe the distance I’ve maintained wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It seems we’re all trying to forget.
My feelings had changed at least for the moment. Suddenly, I felt I had no choice but to see them, and particularly my mother. I felt driven as I approached that oh-so familiar front door. I’d thought for some days
that the events of my life were coming to a head in some strange way. Nothing specific had happened, not really, nothing I could put my finger on. Maybe my drinking had played a part. But either way, I felt as if I was losing control. I’d been having nightmares of my childhood again. And I think maybe it was that rather than the alcohol which had so unnerved me. I hoped my visit might provide some closure, as our American friends like to say. Maybe then I’d find the peace I so crave.
Despite all that, a part of me hoped I wouldn’t receive an answer as I knocked on the door. Perhaps it was best to drive the past from my mind. But just as I was about to leave, I saw my mother’s silhouette walking down the hall towards me. She opened the door, welcoming me with an unconvincing smile, following which we hugged each other with no warmth at all.
‘It’s good to see you again, Alice. It’s been a while.’
I followed her down the familiar hallway towards the kitchen, memories of the past closing in and threatening. She offered me tea, but I asked for coffee as I sat myself down at the table. The room hadn’t changed, and neither had she. Talking to my mother was like trying to get blood from a stone.
‘Your sister is at a friend’s house.’
I acknowledged her statement with genuine regret. ‘Oh, that’s a shame, I’m sorry I’ve missed her.’
‘Are you going to have something to eat? You’re looking thin. You haven’t been looking after yourself properly.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Just have a piece of toast.’
‘Oh, okay, go on then.’ Anything to shut her up.
Mother put two slices of white bread in the toaster. ‘How is work?’
‘Um, yeah, it’s going pretty well, all considered. I’m thinking of training as a probation officer.’
She responded, still standing at the work surface with her back to me. As if she couldn’t bring herself to meet my gaze. ‘I’d have thought you’d have had enough of criminals, what with your father. Why not do something completely different? Something that makes you happy. Something that could help you forget the past.’
I think my mouth fell open, although I can’t be sure. For the first time in my life, my mother had said something meaningful, something brutally honest that almost floored me. Maybe my visit was meant to be.
‘Where did that come from?’
She told me she was ill. That there was nothing that the doctors could do. And that my sister would live with her maternal grandmother when the time came.
I asked. ‘How long?’
She said, ‘Six months at most.’
And I started to cry. I wiped away my tears. ‘I killed him, you know, Father, I pushed him off that cliff. It was no accident; it was me.’
She turned to face me now, the toast ready but still warming in the toaster. She thanked me for telling her and said she’d known all along.
‘You knew?’
‘Yes, yes, I did.’
My eyes narrowed. ‘Then, why didn’t you say something?’
She hugged me again but with genuine warmth this time. ‘I didn’t want to risk you being caught. If I’d started talking maybe I couldn’t have stopped. I may have blurted something out to the wrong person. I always thought you did the right thing.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes! I hated that man. I wish I’d dared to do it myself.’
I scratched my nose, asking myself if I should say more. ‘Have you… er… have you heard about the recent killing? That paedophile whose car was found on the beach. It’s been all over the news.’
She turned away now, back in apparent denial, and I knew I’d said enough.
‘What are you going to have on your toast? I’ve got some lovely, sweet blackberry jam if you fancy it. It’s nice on hot toast.’
‘That would be perfect.’
‘Is there anyone in your life? Any love interest?’
I shook my head again with a humourless laugh. ‘No, I don’t think men are for me.’
She smiled. ‘What about a nice girlfriend, then? Someone to make you happy.’
I grinned, genuinely touched this time. She did seem to have my best interests at heart despite my past thoughts to the contrary. ‘No, I don’t think that’s for me either. I’m quite happy on my own thank you very much.’
‘What about children?’
‘Not in this life, I couldn’t bear it. Maybe in a parallel universe where men like Father don’t exist.’
We ate toast and drank our hot drinks together for the next ten minutes or so in virtual silence. She stood when the clock on the wall struck six. ‘I need to rest, love. It’s been lovely seeing you.’
I kissed her cheek and said I forgave her.
She said, ‘Thank you, that means a lot.’
I turned away to leave as she stood there, weeping. As I walked towards my car, I knew a chapter of my life had closed forever. I’d never see my mother again.
25
Another weekend arrived with me alone in my remote stone cottage. The self-inflicted isolation of my existence can be hard to take at times. I’m always alone, even in the company of others. I can’t reveal the real me, not my true self, not for a moment. I suffer from a fear of fear, the very feeling of it. The fear of my activities being discovered while there are still monsters in the world to catch and destroy. That burden can be onerous at times. It has a significant negative effect on my life.
I sometimes sit in front of a full-length mirror, eating a meal seated on my slaughterhouse floor. I do it because no one else can be relied on. There’s just me and my reflection, my only real friend. I’ve given that reflection a pet name, but I have no intention of sharing it. She’s the only thing I want to keep to myself. She’s the only company I can truly trust. Other than my guests, of course. They’re the exception to the rule. They come but can never leave. And that gives me solace. I know they can never speak out to betray me like the living.
And so it was time to entertain another gentleman caller. Time to enjoy his company awhile. To introduce him to the dark demons of hell.
I sat in my bedroom thinking the wait was nearly over. He’d soon be arriving, the beast with the fictional puppies in tow. I was prepared; I had everything ready. And I do mean everything, even a new blow torch that I’d ordered online. I looked forward to welcoming the beast in my unique way. And I’d enjoy it this time given the extremes of his abusive behaviour. The shock on his face, his denial, his pleading, and his ultimate acceptance. He’d be begging for death in the end, that hurter of children. I was determined to make the bastard suffer. It’s what he deserved – the price he had to pay.
I checked my watch for the fourth time that morning. He’d be on his way now, only ten minutes away. I had no doubt he’d be feeling excited but nervous, full of anticipation, his vile obsessions driving his actions, his fantasy-fuelled crimes at the forefront of his mind. I could not wait for his arrival. This one really mattered to me. It felt totally and utterly personal. I think he may well be the worst abuser I’ve ever entertained, the king of the monsters, the lord of the flies, a supreme spirit of evil, a plague of misery living amongst us. So, I thought, Come on, beast, travel to my door. Don’t delay. My slaughterhouse is awaiting you, and I’m waiting too.
I watched through that same bedroom window, asking myself how much suffering a monster man could possibly endure before he finally broke down in mind and spirit. I so wanted him in a miserable state of total mental free-fall before death. I wanted him begging me to kill him. To bring his unhappy existence to a welcome end. It would be more fun for me that way. More entertaining, more rewarding as he faced true justice for the very first time. But how long would it take before he breathed his last breath? How much agony could he endure before his heart gave out? Well, I guess, at the end of the day, that depended on what I did to him. I could cut him but not fatally, break his bones, smash them with my hammer. Oh, and I could burn him too, or peel off his skin. Maybe I should sprinkle a little
sea salt on his wounds. That would sting a bit and make the puppy man wince.
There was any number of options I could happily consider. My choices were almost limitless. I remember once reviving a guest when he was very close to death, raising his spirits and then killing him all over again. That was inspired, an act of creative genius. I’m so very proud of those moments when I’m performing at my very best. I gave the monster hope and then snatched it away just when he thought he was going to live to see another day.
I seriously considered following a similar protocol with the puppy man, although I always like to retain some flexibility. I find it works better that way. There’s only one way to determine which forms of punishment work best with any particular offender. Up the pressure, turn the screw and see where it gets me. And that’s what I resolved to do – after a quick swig of vodka and then maybe another. Yes, another drink or two and I’d be ready to go.
I heard a revving engine as the puppy man sped down my stone track a lot faster than expected about five minutes later. The beast skidded to a sudden halt as he hit the brakes on reaching my yard. He parked next to the pigsty before exiting the car stiffly with a fixed grin on his pasty, sun-deprived face. I turned away from the window and ran for the slaughterhouse, leaping down the stairs two steps at a time. Now all I had to do was lure him into the killing room. The room was dark. My mannequin would distract him. He’d be at my mercy. How hard could it possibly be?