Her Final Victim

by NJ Moss

  His smile falters and he lets out a wailing noise.

  The woman inches closer. “Please. Whatever it is, he doesn’t remember. He’s a sick old man.”

  My fingers twitch for the knife. I could do it. Physically speaking, it wouldn’t pose any serious challenge.

  With one fluid movement, I could reach into my pocket and lash the knife out, severing his papery throat, and then, as the cow fled, I’d chase her down and fall upon her and that would be that. But it would surely mean my capture. It’s daylight. I haven’t checked if there’s CCTV.

  I’m not here to kill an old man whose soul has left his body, if he ever had a soul to begin with.

  “Get a new job,” I tell the woman, as the husk continues to wail. “These people you care for, you moronic bitch, you have no idea who they are, what they are, what they’ve done. Just because somebody lives long enough to lose their mind, it doesn’t make them good.”

  Kitty whimpers. “Please go.”

  “Get a new name too, while you’re at it. Kitty? I should throw you off a cliff for having such a pitiful name.”

  “Please.”

  “You’re pathetic.” I stride away from the carer and the wailer and the ducks. “You’re a joke, little lamb.”

  21

  Before

  Clouds moved across the sky and a flock of birds cut a line across them, and the cliffs were like a series of jagged broken faces below. The sheer cliffs were half a mile from the Comrades’ cul-de-sac, separated by fields and pockets of trees, and the fields were verdant and beautiful in the flowering of summer. As the cul-de-sac became closer, the nature became civilisation and there were houses and roads and cars and clothes drying on wires between the Comrades’ houses.

  Before Comrade Charles had bought the property, the Rainbow Room had been the workshop of an amateur carpenter. Charles ordered the Comrades to gut it and make it as empty and nondescript as possible – this so he could flood their minds with its kaleidoscopic potential.

  It sat at the end of the garden and the grass was long and thick and when it was windy the grass blew and waved like countless tiny green arms. The door was made of simple wood but it was scarred with the onslaught of many winters, with wind and rain and hail, and perhaps soon it would need replacing, but for the time being it was an effective seal against what happened within.

  Comrade Philip and Millicent were in there and they were the only ones in there and nobody else was in there with them.

  “Anything is possible.” His voice splintered like weathered wood. “In the Rainbow Room, my angel, everything is possible.”

  The girl said nothing, but she was in there. She was in there and she said nothing. Nobody can blame her, can they, for being silent?

  Nobody can say it’s her fault. She was a child. She was a fucking child.

  “How can something be wrong if nothing is right? You don’t have an answer. Because you know it makes sense. No wrong, no right. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.”

  The talking ceased and something else took its place, and above them, far above them, the clouds continued to drift and drift.

  The grass shivered as a Comrade walked down the side passage of Charles’ home, moving through the shin-high grass. He was a thin man and he was a tall man and he had a pale purple birthmark on one side of his face, from the top of his cheek to the corner of his lip, almost forming a crescent, like a moon, and some of the Comrades called him Purple Moon because of this.

  He placed his ear against the door and his purple moon twitched as he smiled. He smiled and the girl was in there and she said nothing. She would always think about that, for years to come, even after she’d left most of this pain behind: her silence, her complicity.

  He knocked in a very specific way, using his knuckles and his fingernails: rap-a-tat-rap-rap.

  Comrade Philip knew it was Purple Moon and the door opened and, for a brief moment, Millicent could see her house and some of the grass and even a portion of the sky. But then Purple Moon hurried inside and closed the door and the little girl closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see him reach for the buckle of his belt.

  Things happened to her young mind which she didn’t understand, causing her to become curious in ways she had never imagined, to become overly bold with boys: both of the group and of the greater world. She didn’t understand it was wrong, because it happened in the Rainbow Room and there was no wrong or right in there. And yet there was a feeling inside of her, this twisted thing, screaming she was broken, she was rotten.

  She was tied to a chair in the middle of the Rainbow Room, the night cold and the darkness full around her, deep pitch; it was the same if she kept her eyes open, or closed them. She had woken with hands over her body, binding wrists, binding ankles: a strong grip around the zip-ties and they carried her like cattle down the stairs.

  This was Father, she knew, and she knew it was going to be bad. She let out a small whimpering cry and hated herself for it. She was a brave girl and she knew what she had to do: what she had to endure. She wouldn’t let herself crumble, even when she heard footsteps approaching and a man letting out a gruff sigh.

  The door flew open and there were torches in her face, dozens of them, undulating meteors of light smashing into her. She slammed her eyes shut, certain they’d blinded her. All she could do for several seconds was pray she could still see, even if it meant gazing at what they were going to do to her.

  Father’s voice boomed. “Open. Your. Fucking. Eyes.”

  She forced her eyes open and took in the scene, even as her head ached under the glare of the torches. There were a dozen Comrades, more of them filing into the room each second. Millicent cringed away from her father’s brown corduroys and the knife he held in front of him, his hands crossed calmly.

  Mother stood at his side, gripping onto his shoulder, hardly able to keep herself upright with how much she’d smoked and drank.

  “Tell us what happened, Comrade Philip,” Father said, tapping the knife against his belt buckle, click-click-click.

  Comrade Philip stepped forward, looking old and disgusting and like Satan, like the fucking Devil as he stood there with his old face and his fake frown. His eyes were wolfish and bright and evil. How did nobody see that? Or perhaps they saw, and they didn’t care; Millicent belonged to all of them, and thus to none of them. She was alone and perhaps one day she’d learn how to weaponise her isolation.

  But for now all she could do was cry and stare and wait.

  “She touched my son inappropriately,” Comrade Philip said. “He didn’t know what she was doing. When he explained it to me, I was absolutely disgusted.”

  “He isn’t your son if I’m not Charles’ daughter.”

  The words came by themselves, flung from her precocious lips. She was much smarter than him: than everybody in this room. Grown-ups pretended they knew what was going on, but really they just said whatever they needed to. As soon as they got what they wanted, they flipped, becoming evil, like Mother, like Father, like every single person she knew.

  Comrade Philip’s face filled with rage, the real him coming out.

  “Enough,” Father snapped, holding his hand up, the one not clutching the knife. “Is this true, Millicent?”

  She floundered. She couldn’t lie to her father, the Master, whatever he wanted to be called. She couldn’t lie, because he could always tell. Some of the Comrades whispered he had magical powers.

  What could she say? She’d only been repeating what she and Comrade Philip did in the Rainbow Room. The poor girl didn’t yet understand the crime of what he was doing; she only had a vague feeling of the wrongness of it. She would hate herself for that in the years to come, how she didn’t rage and scream and fight.

  But childhood is a prison of the mind.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “Fucking whore,” Comrade Philip snarled.

  Mother sneered. “My daughter, the ugly slut.”

  “You
disgusting wicked girl,” an elderly Comrade hissed, holding up a wrinkled fist and shaking it at Millicent.

  The comrades crowded her with their torches—“You dirty fucking bitch”—and they leaned close and they spit on her—“Let’s rape her”—as they waved weapons in her face, knives and screwdrivers and box cutters—“Act like a slut, get treated like a slut”—and Father stood back with his arms folded and smiled, and sucked on his pipe—“Let me cut this bitch”—and Mother draped her arm across him and laid her cheek against his shoulder—“fuck her up, fucking hurt her, fucking hurt her”—and Mother closed her eyes and smiled.

  The little girl was being beaten, she realised, as though she’d fallen into her body from a distant watching place. She jolted into the physicality of the torture: of the weapons pressed against her flesh, of the pain of their assault, and most of all of their words, their evil fucking words. They tore at her, making her question if she truly was what they were claiming.

  She coughed and she tasted blood. Somebody grabbed her hair in a tangled fist and tugged her head back, snarling in her ear. “You deserve this. You know you deserve this.”

  And then some of them left and some of them stayed, and the ones who stayed did things to the girl: things that made her float up and through the ceiling, up into the sky, which was dark and laden with stars which glittered and sparkled and danced mystically, as if purposefully putting on a show to distance the girl from what was happening beneath them.

  There was a room and there was a rainbow and there was a slice of the sky, and finally the girl found her voice. She begged no, no, over and over – she screamed no. But they never listened.

  22

  Jamie

  I spin in my office chair, looking out the window. It’s raining and the sound of it, tap-tap-bloody-tap, is starting to piss me off. I spin again and look around my office, across my large desk to my cream sofa in the corner, to my plant, a plant I don’t even know the name of. I don’t water it. One of the grunts does that.

  I pick up the photo of me and Hazel on our honeymoon. We’re standing in the shallows on the Maltese beach, the water screensaver-blue. We look happy, my arm around her, a big goofy grin on my face and a sweet-as-sugar smile on hers. This wasn’t one she posted online, which might be why it’s my favourite. She looks so Hazel without her usual Photoshop touch-ups.

  It’s Friday, which means it’s been almost a week since Millicent Maidstone popped into my Bristol life. And three weeks since she set me up in Cardiff.

  And what have I done? Fuck all. Because what can I do?

  I go over the problem in my head, trying to puzzle it out. Normally, in work and life, I don’t give myself much time to think.

  You go, go, go, Hazel said to me once. That’s why I love you. You never hesitate. She was right. I’ve always acted on instinct, but my instincts aren’t giving me any answers.

  It’s not like I can ring the police. Maybe she’s lying about having video footage of me sneaking into Lacy’s bungalow. Maybe she’s lying about recording my confession in her flat. But I can’t take the chance.

  All I can think about is bashing her skull in. I dream about it. I woke up last night hugging Hazel so tightly she laughed and stroked her hand along my forehead. Did my sweet baby have a bad dream? she teased, kissing the sweat from my cheek.

  She knows something’s wrong. She probably thinks it’s work. I can’t bear to think how she’d react if she knew the truth, the whole truth.

  Suddenly, my office door bursts open and Ray walks in. He slams it behind him and strides over to the desk. He looks like shit. His cheeks are proper beetroot-red and he’s sweating. “Why haven’t you sent the Quinlan report?”

  “What?” I sit up, shaking my head. “I did. I sent it first thing. You think I’d let that slip?”

  Oliver Quinlan is one of our biggest clients. I always triple-check everything I do when he’s involved. But did I… no, I didn’t. I didn’t triple-check the email. We’ve been having connection problems lately, something to do with the line, the IT bloke said, as if that’s my goddamn problem.

  I turn to my laptop and bring up the email. “Shit. It didn’t leave the outbox. I’m sending it now. I’m sorry, boss. I don’t know what happened.”

  Ray drops into the seat opposite, waving a hand. “All right, relax. Simple mistake, kid. I was worried you hadn’t done it, that’s all. You need to get your head screwed on. We can’t be having slip-ups like this. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re good, right, Jamie?”

  “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  He shrugs. “You seem a little distracted. You know you can talk to me, right? I might be able to help.”

  Sure, Ray, let me tell you how your new girlfriend is a serial killer who’s set her sights on me for some reason. Let me tell you how I check if I’m being followed any time I step from my car and how this psycho bitch killer – your girlfriend – is becoming friends with my wife. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

  But Ray might be able to help, I realise.

  Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

  I feel like a jackass. I could’ve asked him on Monday. Hell, I could’ve asked at the party.

  “Actually, there is something,” I say, getting excited. It feels good to have a vague plan of attack. “Remember last year, when you had… you know, those problems with your ex?”

  Ray grimaces. “She left a dead rat in my sink. She was nuts.”

  “And you hired that bloke, the private investigator, to look into her.”

  “Private investigator?” Ray chuckles. “That’s not what Tom Brown is. He’s… he’s no one, Jamie. He’s a creepy bastard. Ex-military is my best bet.”

  “You met him through your brother,” I say, remembering. Ray’s brother was in the Marines.

  “Yeah. You want me to arrange a meeting?”

  “Could you?” I can’t hide how eager I am. I should’ve thought of this on Monday, for fuck’s sake. My head isn’t working properly lately. It’s her, Millicent, messing with my mojo.

  “He doesn’t work cheap.”

  “I know. But I need this. I don’t know what else to do.”

  Ray leans forward, placing his elbows on my desk. His hand comes to rest near the photo of me and Hazel. I want to tell him to get his sweaty hand away from her, but I don’t. “What is this? You fuck the wrong woman? You owe the wrong people money? What?”

  “It involves a woman.” Which is true. If you can call that shark-eyed freak a woman.

  “Oh, Jamie.” He nods matter-of-factly. I know what he’s thinking. We’re the same. We can’t help ourselves. Maybe he’s right. “Of course I’ll set it up. It’d be such a shame for you and Hazel to break-up. You two are a rare breed. A happily married couple.”

  We are, aren’t we, happily married? We have our problems, like any couple – or maybe our problems are unique – but when you get past that crap, that noise, we’re genuinely happy. I believe that. I think Hazel does too.

  “Thanks, boss.” I smile. Maybe this is my way of fighting back.

  Ray claps his hands together and then reaches into his suit jacket pocket. “Little tipple is in order, I’d say, to take the edge off.”

  He brings out his leather-bound flask. I haven’t seen it since I first started working here. I was the one who supported him while he quit. He cried in my arms one night, begging me to help him. It was one of the ways we became so close so fast.

  I glance at my laptop, at the clock. It’s just gone midday. “I thought you weren’t drinking before three o’clock?”

  He scowls. “Rationing. It’s not the way to live your life. Some men like a drink and that’s the end of it. What’s next, rationing our love, our kindness, our souls?”

  This is her. This is Millicent.

  I’ve known Ray for half a decade, and he has never once used the word soul with me. I’d be hard-pressed to think of a time he’s said love or kindness. She’s pushing h
im to drink, because… well, because she’s mental. She’s deranged. She likes to make people suffer.

  “Go on.” Ray offers me the flask, a challenge in his eyes. I know that look. He’s deciding if he can still trust me. “Unless you’re going to make me drink alone?”

  “Of course not.” I slug a nasty mouthful of whisky, fighting the urge to gag as I hand it back to him. “When do you reckon I can meet this bloke, this Tom Brown?”

  Ray takes a long sip and wipes his mouth. “Don’t know. Shouldn’t take too long. Maybe early next week. Maybe tomorrow. And kid, I should warn you. He can be a little intense.”

  Intense is good. Intense is what I need to fight back against this bitch.

  23

  Millicent

  Lots of things happened to me when I was a child, but I cannot lament them.

  Much of it led me to find solace in words; there is simplicity in language reality doesn’t possess. With words I can distance myself from what happened when I was a girl, when those greasy men took their pound of flesh.

  I remember the healing that came after the worst of it: weeks in bed, unable to move, Mother reluctantly bringing me a metal bucket to piss and shit in, and every now and then some food…

  But only if Father allowed it.

  Sometimes he let me go hungry so I could process what I had done wrong. Processing, he called it, as though I was a computer. He thought he could program the right codes and make me in his image, but his image was sloppy and amateurish. Instead I used his suffering to make my own image, the predator in the dark, the huntress with the knife or the rock or the piece of wire.

  I sit in a café, near the back, my fingers poised over the keyboard. I’ve got a flat white next to my laptop, and for a second it looks like a photograph, like something Hazel would post online. I feel my fingers twitching for my phone, something I’ve never experienced before. I push the impulse down, but it’s curious, this need I feel to fit in with her.