A Killer Among Us

by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  Charlie shook his head. You’ve done more than enough Perce, thank you. And if my top goes down badly, I know where you live. He winked.

  Correction, you know where I work. Smiling at him. But that’s okay. I’m on the morning tomorrow, I’ll bring you yours and we can discuss. I’ll keep an eye out for visitors too. Anyone you want me to look for especially? he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  Charlie turned away, feeling shy for no reason. No, no don’t go out of the way. I’m sure it won’t be as big a deal as I make it out.

  Nonsense, Percy said, wheeling Charlie out of the bathroom and into his room. A friend of yours is a friend of mine too. And you’ve not had a visitor in—well shit—I can’t recall. His face had scrunched up, then as if realisation where a whip, stung him back to a normal face.

  Thanks, Charlie said. For the shave and everything.

  Percy nodded and went to the door, Well you know how to call if not. Lunch will be in an hour or so.

  Charlie nodded and watched the door close behind Percy. His body then lit up with adrenaline. He counted a full minute in his head before he even put his hand in his pocket to feel the razor. Then like a boy with a secret, he rolled back into the bathroom. Took the razor out his pocket and inspected it. A cheap razor, three blades. More than enough. He placed it on the ground in front of his wheel facing down, rolled up onto it and it and rocked back and forth until it cracked. The broken shaver released it’s three prisoners. He picked them up carefully and placed the razors in his pocket again. He took a roll of toilet paper and wrapped up the broken plastic. Left the bathroom and went to his bedside table, inside the drawer was a book he’d never read. He opened it to a random page, took note of the number, and slid the razor in so that it cut itself a hold. He repeated this twice again and remembered the numbers of each page. If he’d had a pen he would’ve written it down.

  A giddy sense of excitement came over him. Nervous, excited. A similar memory of these feelings came to him. Nervous, excited, scared. Researching for a book, if he remembered correctly? Something about it had made him feel—It was a time before the crash. The memory there but out of focus. He stopped all at once, trying to see it, remember it. He rolled towards the bathroom, took the colourful shirt all the while thinking. Nothing. Nothing about it. He looked again at the mirror, at himself. Wasn’t really sure what to think.

  He had lunch by the window. Dinner there too later. A doctor came at some point, speaking about his medicine. Vitally important for his memory. Something his mother always said came forward, Ask about the drugs they give you. It’s always nice and polite to ask the Doctor these things. So he did and each answer slid vaguely across his awareness. He nodded and smiled.

  Afterwards he sat in the same spot at the window, the gardner now coming towards him. Wheelbarrow of tools. Charlie had the paper open to the crossword, but his brain never focused. It’d already been done anyway. He really couldn’t focus. He felt incredibly tired considering how little he’d done. His frustration grew until he threw the paper into the corner. Then felt bad when it had hit the pictures on his chest of drawers.

  He wheeled over to the corner for the newspaper, and fix the pictures. He found himself looking at his family photograph. The frame had broken, cheap timber. The glass hadn’t. He picked it up and felt it, plastic. Another thing they’d thought of. Anger breathed again into him. Invasion of privacy. But he then cooled himself, he had something they didn’t know about. He smiled. Picked up the paper, then leaned back for the photo. When he picked it up a slip of paper slid off the back. He sat holding the photo, looking at the piece of paper.

  A big door, no blurry thing, solid as fucking houses, opened up in him. The memory clicking on like a light. He saw himself, middle of the night. Hands sweating and heart racing, phone pinched between ear and shoulder while he scribbled on it. Nothing after that.

  Then he was back in his room. Looking at the photo of his family. Eve front and centre, leaning against Harper’s chair, Rachel on Eve’s knee. All smiling big smiles. He stroked the photo. Held onto it, the physical thing and the memory of it. He remembered them just as clear as the memory that had just visited him. He put the photo aside on the bed, didn’t need to go down that road just now. Had to wait until lights out. He leaned forward again and picked up the paper. As he read it he remembered the memory even more vividly. There was more. He knew where he was, when it had been more importantly, and that it had been the most important night of his life. Because it had been the night of the crash.

  Out past the range. At the corner of Precinct and Rains.

  She won’t see again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The phone was ringing and Charlie was waiting for Eve to answer. He really didn’t feel like leaving another message, wasted money. He read

  the graffiti inside the booth, jokes and crude messages. In the corner, Society is vulgar, for a good time killing call… He smirked. Everyone had thought something along those lines in their life. The line rang out and he hung up, fished his money back and left.

  It had turned overcast while he was being interviewed and was now raining. He used the free paper Carl had given him as a cover and dashed from the booth to the covered sidewalk. He was just off Rundle Mall in a side alley. Shops lined the faces of the buildings. He was excited to tell the girls he would now be working. That he, their father, would become a published writer soon in the newspapers. He was already seeing their smiles in his mind, and his own too. Gloating over Eve. All those comparisons to Gary, her best friend. Gary journalist this, Gary journalist that, highest grade in his degree, point average of blah, he did two degrees. Yeah well he’d done a fucking masters, and PhD doctorate. Was a doctor before the accident. They’d stripped it after of course, but he’d been one. He had that over fucking journalist Gary. Now he was practically one too. Given a bit of time, some grubbing, fetching drinks, he’d be filling in a few ideas here and there, practically at the gates. Fucking Gary.

  Charlie saw his stop and wandered slowly towards it, the bus arrived and he ascended along with the other after work crowd. He found a corner to stand in and watch the world travel by as they headed north.

  Fucking Gary, he thought again. For all the glory that was Gary there were still holes. The kids didn’t trust Mister Great. Rachel bawled up until she was three if she was put in his arms. And Harper would never let him take her anywhere. A disabled person sometimes can’t pick who wheels their chair, but she always made it clear she didn’t want, or need, Mister Gary.

  Charlie realised he was smiling, stopped himself looking crazy. Started thinking about the interview again. That he had a job. Would be working again. This made him happy too. Getting out of the house with a specific purpose. Yet he heard Carl’s voice again.

  It was an accident, wasn’t it?

  He got offended by people asking it. But then that would be his burden for the rest of his life. That same old question. People only agreeing to see him to see if he was the real Charlie Gardner. The one and only. It was like he had a cult status. Except there was nothing worthy to it. Nothing like the men he’d been researching for his stories. He took out the book he’d borrowed from the library again. Australia’s Worst Minds. He looked at the back, at the picture of the man that had written it, Tony Schultz. Some professor in forensic psychology. Well someday he’d write a book just as good, or better than Mister Author Schultz. He’d write a fiction that seemed so real, it would scare the people just as much as a serial killer. Then he’d have his own name and title. He opened it to his bookmark and began reading again.

  Ben Hooper, the Sydney Slick, murdered six women before he was caught. After his arrest the public was shocked by his image. His young face and chubby demeanour. A boy more than monster…

  That was another factor he thought to note down for his book, the killer was always the least suspected. The family man. The nice neighbour. The public volunteer. Never the monster in their minds. That was the secret of the killer, to
appear to be the least motivated. But they never did anything by accident. He, a person who’d made the gravest mistake of his life, was always haunted with that one damn question. It was an accident, wasn’t it? Of course it was, he knew what mistakes were. What deliberate action was. Three people dead. What pained him the most was how he’d have to explain it to his daughters sometime. How he barely explained it to himself. How he ran over every detail possible. How he built up the story in his mind, trying to recreate it to explain it. To overcome it. To win the past. Things he knew couldn’t happen, no matter how much he tried to turn his past life’s brain off.

  The practice he’d been working with did a week out at Westington Prison once a month. They met with the inmates in the psych wing. Inmates who were acquitted because of their insanity, yet still deemed dangerous for the public. It was a helpless cause but helpful for the practice. In that, when the court systems needed a reference, the best of the crop was a certain Ken & Robson Psychiatry. It was all a game. It had frustrated how many hoops the world put in front of you. But he’d played the game. For Sarah’s sake he played.

  At the prison he went through a vigorous search and admission of dangerous objects. He had gone through this process for over a year, and that morning, when he’d taken the razor away from Harper’s reaching hands and placed it in his jacket pocket, he simply hadn’t thought. Just in the way he hadn’t thought that Jesse, the girl he’d been seeing for over six months, hadn’t been the compulsive liar and manipulator that everyone thought she was. He felt he’d made a breakthrough. That he had the ability to reach her. Maybe there’d be a book deal in it? Maybe he’d write something that would become a classic in universities and the psych circles? But he’d simply not thought. During the session, when after a crucial moment where Jesse realised who she was and what her lies had cost, he still didn’t think. He didn’t believe that tears like that, that a story like that, an admission more than anything, could be false. He simply didn’t think. So when full of gratitude and joy she hugged him, must’ve felt the razor press against her body. After deciding to take a quick break, he left his jacket on the seat and headed to the toilet. He simply hadn’t thought.

  The next morning his pager was roaring, the phone ringing. Where the hell was he? What did he have to say for himself? The police were on their way. And he, he would have to explain how Jesse the compulsive liar and manipulator who’d murdered her husband, four children and dog, came to be in the possession of a disposable razor. How the security footage showed her taking it from his pocket whilst he’d been pissing and whistling mere metres away. Had he forgot that patient and doctor contact was prohibited? The next part he could easily describe. She used the razor to kill not only herself, but her two roommates. The amount of blood in the room had broken the guard and made him scream blood and horror. How? He simply hadn’t thought.

  Charlie came from his reverie on the bus and looked outside. Shit, he’d passed his stop. He pressed the button for the next and got off into the rain. Holding the newspaper above his head, he was grateful for the job. Every other paper had kicked him out the door, without as much as a wave or goodbye.

  When Charlie opened the door he heard the calls. Rachel coming down the hall. Harper calling from the kitchen. He closed the door and shook off his jacket, hung it on the hook. Rachel barrelling into his legs, hugging and giggling.

  You’re home! We’ve been waiting forever.

  Charlie freed himself and bent down to pick up Rachel. I’ve been waiting forever too. But it’s because I’ve got news. Or at least I’ll be working for the news.

  Really?

  Charlie nodded and they came into the kitchen. Eve standing by the cooker, mixing a tomato sauce and watching the pasta cook. Harper at the kitchen table, a colouring sheet in front of her. Daddddyyy!! Hello Pumpkin, he said leaning down and kissing her. My little artist. Harper’s hand waved back and forth across the page, she smiled full teeth at him. He blew her a kiss and moved to Eve. Gave her a peck on the cheek.

  So did I hear something about the news in the hall? she asked.

  You did, Charlie said, playing with Rachel as she tried to steal the nose off his face. I got the job. I start Monday.

  As a journalist?

  Well not straightaway. I’ll be an assistant first, but in a position where the writer is retiring soon. So I’ll then take over. Eve said nothing, her flat mouth saying it all. She stirred the sauce. But it is full time, Charlie went on. So it’ll be money coming in. Which means I won’t get to see you two as much, Charlie turned to Harper now. Rachel still in his arms.

  Miss you, Harper said.

  I always miss you. But, I’m here now. So what’ve you been drawing? Charlie looked over the scribbled pages, full of colour and expression. While she would slowly lose more and more control of her limbs for fine motor use, expression and expressing herself would still be important. The act more than the result. I see a lot of beautiful colours here, he said.

  I did colouring too, Rachel said, sliding down from Charlie and moving to the other side of the table. Rachel’s pictures were completely different from her sister’s, intricately filled in, shading on the colours, a palette visible, she was an artist in the making at half her sister’s age. Charlie loved them both as much as he could, even if he knew he favoured his first..

  Eve still wasn’t speaking, just stirring the sauce and pasta. Watching him in the window. Probably wondering if the better for worse part of their vowels would be this long. Seventeen years she’d been faithful to him, ten through the shit. The seven years before the accident probably seemed like a holiday. Of course there had been the stress of Harper’s birth and her disability, but they’d been strong. Stronger together. But these ten years had been hard, he couldn’t work for a long time. She was the breadwinner, which he didn’t mind. He didn’t feel emasculated by it. In fact he’d believed it better for her given the circumstances with Harper, he knew that her unsaid fear was that her disability was her fault. They’d simply not known she was pregnant until over three months in, but the damage was done. The damage had already been done, the doctors told them, but Eve never heard. But his accident, his actions, had brought the spotlight on them. On Harper, and ever since she’d been different to him, to her too. Then Rachel provided some normalcy. A normal child. Normal growth. Normal everything, and he knew the comparison was unhealthy. But it couldn’t be helped, he supposed. They were human.

  He looked again at the window, at Eve, and he saw her tears.

  Charlie lay awake. Staring at the ceiling. At the black mass sucking up into the paint. His anger and thoughts. Something he’d done since he was a kid, try and deal with and deny. He knew that denial was on the sticky slope to worse problems, but he used it. Something to keep himself busy whilst he didn’t sleep.

  The ball was rotating, trying to sink. He wondered if it would ever come back? If it would begin again. The episodes and hallucinations. But those thoughts never held too much sway. She wasn’t here anymore. So he just lay there imagining and then evacuating. Up onto the ceiling. Away from him and his life.

  He turned onto his side, facing Eve. She was asleep. Slept like rocks and fell asleep just as quickly. She breathed deep and he watched her, counted the seconds of eternity between the inhale and the exhale. He loved her. He loved her even if she didn’t love him anymore. Even if she wished she’d picked Gary over him. He wondered if she ever knew it. If it was just him and his overly busy imagination. An unspoken thing. It was the only way he could think she pushed Gary’s life on him and made him see his own failures in her glaringly obvious preference.

  He remembered telling a patient once, it had been Jesse in fact, that in the end happiness was a choice. Something he believed. Not that happiness specifically was the choice, but pessimism versus optimism. You could choose, if you really worked at it, to see the positive or the negative. She’d been a liar and manipulator as a way to see the positive in her life. To make the positive. But how she made it
was a pessimistic action. She hurt others to achieve her happiness.

  So when Eve told him about Gary, or compared him to Gary, he really tried. He squeezed his fists until they were white and his nails cut flesh. He chewed his tongue and chose. But it hadn’t always been like that. She’d loved him at one point. Before the accident. Before the media. Before she saw him the monster he’d been painted as. Before when he’d had control over the black mass on the ceiling. He only let it go for a second.

  He turned away and looked at the wall. The window on her side. He stared at it until he felt his eyes burning, and tried to feel happy. Tried to see the day as an achievement. That his working career could start up again, that all their troubles in the past could be left behind. But try as he might he couldn’t. Sarah wouldn’t let him.

  He wasn’t going to go there, not at this hour. He opened the bedside table and took his sleeping pills out. Searched quietly for some heavy hitters. Took a few Temazepam. Ten minutes tops he’d be gone. It was no good thinking the way he was. He especially didn’t need to think about the first and last person he’d failed. The reason why he’d become a saviour, as he’d originally seen the calling. But ten minutes was a long time, and in that time he had plenty of memories to remember and revel in the horror of his childhood. Of the death of his sister. Her suicide because of what had happened to her. And how it affected him. And how it affected them all. And how two men could get away with it because the fear in the teenage girl was so palpable that she could be made to feel embarrassed of it. And how that shame and guilt had only found one outlet from the world.