by John Nicholl
‘And before you ask, I’m proud of what I’ve done. I executed nonces, monsters in human form. I made the world a better place. The young man with the straw-yellow hair, panther tattoo and sky-blue eyes is my only slight regret. I would have let him live was I able to. That was such a shame. Although I made certain he didn’t suffer, unlike the others, who went through hell on earth. I hope they’re suffering still, burning for eternity. If there is a netherworld somewhere in infinity, it’s full of monster men like them, destroyers of innocence. I’m on the side of the angels.’
The two piggy detectives glanced at each other before DS Lewis spoke for the first time. I’d been beginning to wonder if he spoke at all. ‘We’ll need to go through the details of each killing in turn. And then the probation officer’s imprisonment and assault. We’ll need to talk about that too.’
I relaxed back in my chair. ‘How is Maisie?’
It seemed no one wanted to answer.
‘Let’s start at the beginning. When did you murder your first victim?’
I slammed an open palm down on the table, raising my voice almost to a shout. ‘Let’s get two things straight before we continue this shit. One, they weren’t victims. They were beasts in need of slaying. And two, I didn’t murder anyone. They were executions, justified executions following a trial and sentence. I need you to understand that. I’m not saying another word until you do.’
Lewis took a deep breath, sucking in the air. ‘Okay, let’s start again. When did you carry out your first execution?’
I then spent almost two hours going through each of the killings in turn. The idiot solicitor, the appropriate adult, Kesey, and, of course, my demented father all interrupted from time to time, much to my frustration and annoyance. But the majority of my conversation was with Lewis. And I came to enjoy the sharing. I got the distinct impression that the ageing detective sergeant was a good man, not one of life’s many monsters. I think he would have applauded me if he could have. I talked him through the entire process, starting with my father and ending with my panther boy.
I told my story with pride and passion, as I do to you now. The others sat there in stunned silence as I told Lewis how it all started. Why and how I killed my father and everything that came after. I explained my planning process, how I identified my targets, and how I lured them to my cottage. When I talked of the monsters’ trials and punishments, I saw Kesey shudder. Although, I got the distinct impression that Lewis retained his composure throughout our entire discussion. I think he got it, my reasoning, why I acted as I did. He couldn’t say that, not in that setting. But in different circumstances, I think Lewis would have liked to eliminate monsters as I had if he embraced his true self.
Lewis thanked me when I ended my dynamic presentation with a flourish. He showed me the respect I deserved. And then I was charged, with the executions and with Maisie’s imprisonment and punishment too. They called it GBH with intent.
They even plan to prosecute me for alleged offences against Kesey. I guess that was inevitable. It’s how the system works. Kesey said I’d never see the light of day again after my new sergeant friend switched off the recording equipment. She claimed I’d face a whole life sentence as a serial killer, that they’d throw away the key. It felt almost personal. As if she was heavily invested in the outcome of my case. But only death and taxes are a certainty in this life. I shrugged as I was marched back to my cell. Kesey was in for a surprise or two before my story ended. The future was far from sure.
38
My Crown Court trial was a case of mad or bad. Or, at least, that’s what my supposedly eminent barrister claimed in a pompous, plum-in-the-mouth voice that seemed to define him.
I was vehemently against the idea of pleading not guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility at first. I wanted to stand up in court and take credit for my actions loud and proud.
But then I thought, Hang on, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Escaping from prison seemed highly unlikely. But a hospital, even a secure hospital, now that offered possibilities. Doctors could be easy to deceive. I could use that to my advantage. I decided to play the game.
It wasn’t a case of whether I’d carried out the executions. I freely admitted that I had. I said it in the witness box on oath for all to hear. I told everyone what I’d done and why I did it too. There was a wealth of evidence against me. Both my full confession and the forensic evidence was undeniable. The prosecution barrister even showed the court my framed panther tattoo. It was so good to see it again. The colours were still bright, the frame as striking as I remembered it. It brought me close to tears.
As lengthy and complex as the process was, everything came down to one thing. A jury of my peers, five men and seven women, none of whom knew the truth, had the responsibility of deciding if I could be considered culpable in law. They held my future in their hands. The court process is like a high-stake game of chess, adversarial. I’d been assessed by two supposedly expert witnesses, both consultant psychiatrists, one for the defence and one for the prosecution. Their opinions were dramatically diverse. My defence counsel argued that I was in fact, mentally ill, as stated by our expert. He worked hard to convince the jury of that reality. The prosecution’s expert, in contrast, thought I was exaggerating my symptoms. The prosecution counsel said as much, arguing that I was guilty of multiple murders, that I knew exactly what I was doing and should pay the price for my crimes.
I, of course, knew that I was neither mad nor bad. But there seemed little purpose in me trying to argue that point in the witness box. No one wanted to hear it. The strange thing was that I’d been nothing but honest during the pre-trial interviews with both psychiatric doctors. I know I’m sane. You know that I’m sane. But both experts got it horribly wrong. That introduced doubts in the juror’s minds. I knew that the best I could hope for was a stay in a secure hospital. So that’s what I set out to achieve.
I put on a show in the witness box, twitching, whistling, and giving ludicrous answers to questions asked by both barristers. I talked to my father often, not because I was mad but because he was there. I noticed that those interactions had an impact on the jury. They couldn’t hear him. They couldn’t see him as I could. And so I exaggerated those conversations, still talking to Father even after he’d left the courtroom. I called out to him, I had non-existent arguments, and I threw punches at the air. When I shouted heartfelt abuse at the judge, he ordered that I was returned to the cells when I refused to shut up. And that was a good thing. I played the game and won.
The jury found me not guilty of murder by a majority verdict after over five hours of deliberation. I’d be off to a secure hospital: no prison for me. I smiled as I was escorted from the building. If I could con the court, I could trick the hospital staff too. It would be all about planning. All about attention to detail. I couldn’t be sure I’d succeed in escaping. But deception was something I was good at. I was certain I was going to try.
39
You may have realised by now that I have written the last few chapters of my tale in my new hospital home rather than my much-loved cottage. I have my own room in a secure wing of a faded Victorian building in need of updating. I won’t name the institution, but it’s well known, notorious even. I’m sure you can work it out if you feel the need. It’s in the news often enough.
I miss my cottage terribly and can never return. It saddens me to write those words even now. I only have my memories. The place was put up for sale after the bodies were removed for forensic reasons and later burial. There’s still not much interest from buyers. Some of the locals even want the cottage destroyed, wiped off the face of the earth as if it never existed. There’s even an online petition signed by a surprising number of people. I’ve no idea why. What a strange world we live in, it seemed so very idyllic to me.
I was in the hospital for almost five months before finally starting to write again. It took a good deal of persuasion on my part. But a hospital psychologist I saw tw
ice a week for what she liked to call ‘therapy sessions’ finally agreed. She even helped facilitate the process with my allocated consultant, reasoning that my writing would help me better understand and take moral responsibility for the events that led me to the hospital’s door.
I had to use a pen and paper, no more dictation, regrettably. But I was glad I could write at all. I no longer had access to my computer. That was long gone. But thankfully I’d squirrelled my story away deep in the Cloud where I was sure only I could access it. And so my musings weren’t lost forever.
Dr Sandler, that’s the psychologist’s name, Dr Tracy Sandler, even allowed me to print off my manuscript in the secure hospital’s library, where I was given access to a computer. That sheaf of papers became my most treasured possession. I guarded it with my life. It was all I had left of my quest. I even let Dr Sandler read it a chapter at a time, although, of course, it wasn’t finished then.
Each week I saw Dr Sandler in her comfortable office. And each week we discussed what she’d read. The psychologist claimed she understood why my life had taken the direction it had. Why I’d done the things I did. Why I became the woman I became. And she thought she could help me come to terms with my past. To overcome my traumas to the benefit of my mental health. But for all her paper qualifications, proudly displayed on her office walls, she got everything so very irrevocably wrong. You see, she never understood that my actions were worthy. She failed to comprehend the fact that I’d do it all over again if I got even the slightest chance. And so I used that against her.
I played her misguided games; I thanked her for her input. I said that I was grateful and that I was beginning to understand the gravity of my behaviour for the first time. In short, I worked at gaining her trust, much as I had with Maisie before I smashed her head with my hammer. I shared information with the good doctor because it served my purpose to do so. And it wasn’t difficult to pull the wool over her oh-so naive eyes.
I did as Simpson had with his parole board, and as others have too. I told Dr Sandler that she was helping me. That I was no longer hearing my father’s voice. And that I now regretted my crimes. I actually called my actions crimes. Can you believe that? That almost stuck in my throat. But I had to say it. I had to keep up the act. It was my only way out of there. And that was my sole focus. So, I chose my words with care. I told Dr Sandler exactly what I needed her to hear. And I think she came to like me in the end. I believe she looked forward to our time together. She swallowed all my lies.
I’ve no doubt she saw me as one of her success stories. A woman who recognised the wrongs of her past and wanted to work towards a different future. She even said that one day I might be released. It wouldn’t be soon. I was facing years in that place, not months or even weeks as I’d hoped. The good doctor thought I’d be pleased with that offer of hope. She obviously saw it as a positive. As if she’d told me the world’s most excellent news. But I hated her for that. Being freed one day, in God knows how long, wasn’t nearly good enough for me. I had to think of the children. Of the monster men still free to spawn their horrors while I sat incarcerated for no good reason at all. And so I looked for opportunities – chances to escape. I came up with one plan and then another. But the hospital’s security systems were surprisingly effective. I started to lose hope. And then just when I’d almost given up, it happened, fate smiled on me, the universe conspired in my favour. Maybe there is a God after all.
I was sitting in my hospital room one evening, reading the story of the escape from Alcatraz, when I heard a knock on my door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. I looked up to see Dr Sandler standing there in the company of a male nurse wearing a crumpled uniform, who was stood a few feet behind her.
‘Is it okay if I come in to talk, Alice? I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
I invited her in and told her to sit while the nurse stayed standing in the open doorway.
Dr Sandler stretched out an arm, gripping my hand. ‘I’m so very sorry to tell you this, Alice. But we’ve just been notified that your mother has passed away.’
It wasn’t a great surprise, I’d been expecting it, but the news still stung. ‘What happened?’
She lowered her head momentarily, but then raised it again, re-establishing eye contact. I think that must have been part of her training.
‘It was the cancer. Your mother was on a great deal of pain medication. In the end, her heart couldn’t take it. She died in her sleep about an hour ago.’
And as my psychologist sat there opposite me in that small secure room, seemingly close to tears, I saw an opportunity. Mother’s death would mean a funeral, a service back in Wales, very probably at the same crematorium with which I’d become familiar as a teenager. I began to cry, more for effect than anything else. ‘Will there be a post-mortem?’
She shook her head. ‘No, that won’t be necessary, not in the circumstances. Your mother’s death was expected. She died in hospital. A doctor will have signed her death certificate. I’m so very sorry to give you such bad news. Please accept my sympathies for your loss.’
I rubbed my eyes with the back of one hand. ‘Mother was a wonderful woman. Thank you for your kind words.’
‘Yes, yes, I enjoyed reading about her in your diary. It’s good that the two of you resolved your differences at your last meeting.’
‘I forgave her.’
The psychologist patted my arm, a tear in her eye. ‘Yes, you did, Alice, and that’s to your absolute credit. I feel sure that your mum truly appreciated your generosity of spirit. And I’m certain she found peace before she passed. You will, too, once you’ve had the time to grieve.’
Dr Sandler was so full of shit.
‘Will there be a funeral?’
She raised her eyebrows, eyelids open, brow furrowed. She has one of those faces which only ever mirror what she’s thinking. I’m so very glad I’m not like that. I don’t think she had the slightest clue what I was planning. I needed to keep it that way.
‘Um, yes, absolutely, once the death is registered.’
‘I should be arranging the funeral. I know what she’d want. Who should be there. It’s something we talked about at that last visit.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Alice. Surely there must be someone else who can make the necessary arrangements.’
I was silent for a few seconds, staring into the unseen distance as if I could see through walls. ‘There’s my maternal grandmother, I guess; my sister’s far too young. Oh, God, she’s going to be heartbroken. I really would like to speak to them both. I should be there for them. It would mean a lot to them and to me too. That’s what my mother would have wanted.’
Call herself a psychologist. Ha! She was so gullible, so naive. I was playing her to perfection, steering the conversation at will. ‘I’ll see if I can arrange a phone call. I can’t see it being a problem, what with the circumstances. There are procedures to consider. I’ll need to discuss it with your consultant. But I’m sure I can set something up for tomorrow morning.’
‘I doubt Dr Barnes will object. He said I’m making excellent progress.’
She nodded with a smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right. You are doing well, Alice. Your mother would have been proud.’
I tensed as she stood to leave.
‘There is one more thing I’d like to discuss, Dr Sandler.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘What is it?’
‘I’d really like to go to the funeral. She was my mother, after all. You only get one. The idea of not being there for her fills me with horror. I don’t think it’s something I could cope with.’
She looked far from persuaded, but she didn’t say no. ‘I’ll have to talk to Dr Barnes. Let’s see what he says.’
I felt like cheering but hid it well. She was a stupid bitch. She didn’t have a fucking clue. And that suited me just fine.
‘Thank you so very much, doctor. I truly appreciate your help. You’ve been a wonderful the
rapist to me. Had I met you as a child, my life could have been very different.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll arrange that phone call for the morning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I pressed my face into my pillow, giggling as Dr Sandler closed my door and walked away, the male nurse scuttling along behind her like an obedient puppy snapping at her heels. Soon I’d have my chance. Yes, I’d have my opportunity. Now all I had to do was make it count.
40
I’d had my promised phone conversation with my maternal grandmother by the time I joined Dr Sandler for my next scheduled therapy session two days later. The call was short but sweet and poorly supervised too, by another male nurse who stood on the other side of a glass panelled door, absent-mindedly picking his nose, as I spoke quietly out of his hearing. I said what I needed to say. I told her what I needed her to do. And my grandmother was receptive.
‘I didn’t believe a word they said about you, Alice. It’s a miscarriage of justice. I’ll do all I can to help you. It’s what your mother would have wanted. It’s so good to hear your voice.’
My grandmother was in complete denial, which made life easier for both of us. She’d arrange the funeral at that same crematorium, and she’d look after my little sister. I was genuinely pleased about that. But best of all she’d follow my instructions to the letter. She’d said as much. All was well if I could just get to the funeral. That was the key to my plan. Everything else would almost look after itself.
I hadn’t yet repeated my wish to attend the service, not to Dr Sandler, not to anyone who mattered. I needed to time the request exactly right to maximise my chances of success. And I was nervous. I’m not frightened to admit that. Opportunities like that don’t come along very often. It truly mattered.