A Killer Among Us

by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  Charlie watched the cab driving away, turned the opposite direction and began walking. He needed time to be alone, not even to think, to just wander. To listen to the streets and himself. Of course in the back of his mind a raft of techniques were rattling off for him to talk it out, to seek help, to build the communication bridge. He knew that both he and Eve hadn’t really talked about it, they’d been two arguing adults on the ledge, encouraging the other to jump. But it was what it was. Had to just leave it. Let the wound bleed.

  He crossed Greenhill at the lights and made his way towards the stream of lights dotting the long path crossing Victoria Park. He jogged over the grassed area separating him from the path and paused once he was in the small area of light. It was good, the light blocked out the darkness, making him feel more alone, more closer to his source. The darkness seeping in, he could see the blackhole in his roof in his mind’s eye.

  A quick thought about the PK Killer passed, he’s only killing women, nothing to worry about. He smiled, then felt terrible for smiling. Grudges and dark emotions were dangerous. He had two daughters, it wasn’t funny. A wife. Wondering if he still had her after tonight? There’d probably been many signs he’d missed, it was always the case.

  The path was a straight arrow, shooting towards the south east of the city centre. It would bring him to the restaurant-meet-bar streets and alleyways. Revellers pissed silly on the sidewalks, passed out in their chairs with the smell of italian, greek, and steakhouse cooking in the air. A wave of nostalgia took him, hoping for a yiros of his twenties. Garlic sauce dripping out of the foil packet, his hands a mess. Waking the next morning hungover and wondering if it was sick or sauce on his shirt. Maybe he should just get blind drunk? Forget about Eve with Gary jamming his tongue down her throat. Get fucking macked.

  He came to the middle island in the park. It had been years since any serious horse race had taken place at the parklands here in the city, with its slow death had been the slow conversion. Where stables had once been was now a big meeting area, tennis and basketball courts, barbecue areas, lots of seating, and payphones.

  One of them ringing.

  He drew towards it like a doomed bug. Watched it ringing from outside the door. Opened it. Picked up the phone.

  Nothing. He put it back.

  Ringing again.

  Hello?

  Good evening Charlie. Quite the night for a stroll. Hope you’re careful, there’s a killer on the loose. Charlie didn’t say anything, he couldn’t think of anything. Now then, where were we last time? the voice asked.

  Who are you? Charlie asked. How do you know so much?

  All in good time Charlie. You’ll get there.

  But how do I know?

  Because we have so much left to do Charlie. I have such a beautiful gift for you. A way out. A book to save you. What a bestseller it will be. Those secret yearnings you thought went unnoticed will be fulfilled. You won’t have to grovel to that Gary anymore.

  I don’t grovel to Gary.

  No, you don’t. Charlie could hear the smile in the voice of the killer. Are you ready for your life to change?

  I think it already is.

  Good boy. Now, what’s happening at the paper? I’ve read a few theories on me. The PK Killer I’ve been dubbed. Tell me, what does the PK stand for?

  Charlie was licking his lips, watching his reflection. He wished for someone, anyone to come walking through the park. He wished for someone to save him from this call.

  Nothing? Okay then, what about the girl? I heard you saved her life. A hero you were dubbed in the paper. If only you’d been at the store the journalist had said. Again the smile in the voice. Of course both of us know that you pushed her into paranoia. It’s okay. I’ve done it. It’s scary the first time, isn’t it? To feel so vulnerable, yet so powerful.

  You, you don’t know, Charlie said. That’s not what happened.

  Isn’t it? asked the voice. You chasing her down, calling out. Or what about Jesse Mullins? There was no power there?

  That was an accident.

  The voice sighed with satisfaction. What a beautiful word. Accident. But come on Charlie, we’re friends.

  I don’t know you.

  But you do Charlie. More than you realise.

  Again Charlie couldn’t think of anything to say. He could be having psychotic episodes again for all he knew. He could be crazy.

  Let’s take a different path then, the voice said. These women I pick, they’re all terribly sad. Terribly destroyed. Wasted in their youth. They never even had a chance. Just like Sarah.

  Don’t say her name, Charlie said. You don’t deserve to say her name.

  What about you Charlie? These last ten years, how’s life been for you? Or your sister, who you’re afraid to say her name because of what it might bring up, what about her? She decided that she’d had enough when someone took her chance away.

  Stop! Charlie screamed. Just stop, whoever you are.

  The smile in the voice stronger now. Make me Charlie. Play with me and I might. But when you follow me, you’ll learn why I can say it. By the end I’ll even get you to say it.

  What is this? Charlie asked. All he had to do was let go of the phone, walk out of the payphone, leave this hallucination behind. All he had to do. Why should I eve listen to you? You aren’t real. I don’t even know if you’re real. How can I know—

  Because revenge isn’t a hallucination, the voice spat. This is vengeance. This is payback for the scum and the defeated. But maybe I’ve been wrong about you. Maybe Gary was right in his article.

  A stab in Charlie’s chest. Even he could remember the whole piece word for word. He felt stupid now. As if for years Gary and Eve had been laughing at him behind his back. Probably laughing at the article. She was probably there as he wrote it.

  Ten years can feel so short, can’t it? Just the same as thirty years can feel quick. I know you remember. I know that seeing those dead girls, Sarah’s name spelt out, I know you remember. I wanted you to remember.

  Why? Charlie said, he felt tears gathering in his eyes. Saw them in his reflection.

  Because she deserves to be remembered. If all she becomes is forgotten what will her sacrifice have been?

  Sacrifice? Charlie said, more to himself than the caller. He said the word again, sounding it out. Sacrifice. Three syllables. Then the thought plunged into his skull unbidden. The killer. The person. Ethan Burke? He said the name out loud.

  The smile there now. Yes, Charlie?

  Are you Ethan Burke? The Ethan Burke?

  Just as you are the Charlie Gardner.

  But you’re dead!

  Am I? I appear very much alive. I’m sure the women I’ve met would agree as well.

  But you’re dead. Or you died. Disappeared. You—

  Escaped, Ethan finished. Out of a life worth it. But that is getting too far ahead of our story. Most importantly, no new bodies have been found. He sounded hurt. Well I’d like to remedy that.

  Charlie’s chest was tightening, panicking flooding his core. Blood crawling along to a halt. He kept repeating the name in his head. Ethan Burke. Ethan Burke. Ethan Burke. Ethan—But you’re dead, he blurted. You are dead. I know.

  Oh I know you know Charlie Gardner. But that’s a bit mean, Ethan replied. I’m very much alive.

  But how?

  Now, Ethan said, changing subjects. If you head towards the city, as you are, veering off to the right is the pond and island that the children in summer play at. The bridge to the little island is very interesting. Just as the goblin of our childhood stories hid beneath, so too is something hiding there. Why, what could it be?

  Charlie was feeling clammy now. Sweating and cold. A-another body? he asked.

  Another body, Ethan replied. She’s one of the five, don’t worry. But is it her face you have? You’ll have to find out.

  But why? Charlie asked. Why are you killing these women for my sister? How does it even make sense?

  Charlie you are offen
ding me now. You’re not listening.

  No you listen to me, Charlie snapped. You can’t go around saying that you’re killing these women for my sister when—

  Big words for someone that just put his wife in a taxi alone. Do you know the number plate? Do you know the driver? Of course everything was so quick after leaving Gary’s, you were shuffled out so quickly you missed what was happening inside. I’m sure that’s been eating at you too, but you don’t know the truth do you? Or what about this, while you’re out wandering the streets your wife is arriving home alone. All alone. No one there to stop me. Or why don’t I head to your parents? Little Harper and little Rachel.

  Charlie’s heart was fluttering, tickling the back of his throat. You can’t, he said weakly.

  I can. I will, if you don’t play by the rules. I am giving you a gift Charlie. Go get it.

  The line cut out and Charlie felt that his clothes were soaked through. He was shaking. He exited the booth and tried walking forward, his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. The bitumen biting and scraping through his pants. He vomited then. Bringing up all the alcohol and food. All the sickness and darkness. Soon he was empty and dry retching, breathing heavily. Stringy lengths of spittle hung from him. He was still thinking the name of his past. Ethan Burke.

  The boy that survived the Burke Killings. The boy that was spared being kidnapped when his sister was taken. The boy that stayed in police care until he was put with his biological father. All the while his sister was being raped and beaten. Being chained up in a cage and left beside a road.

  Charlie pulled himself to his feet, sheer fear pushing him on. The evening had disappeared in his mind. The argument, the images of Gary kissing his wife, all of it was replaced with bodies. Writhing women, his sister in the tub, the faceless women, the heartless women, the small brown haired boy who had visited him not long after his sister returned called Ethan Burke. And how he seemed so sure of knowing everything.

  He was running before he knew it. Cutting from the path and heading right for the island. He could see the bridge. See the lights on the island, the lights on the bridge, the shadows. He plunged into the water, cold and waist deep. Wading forward towards the bridge. The noise of the water exploded in his ears, his skin crawled and despite wanting to be sick he had to know. Was this voice real? Was this episode true? Was he still hallucinating? He hoped to God that he was. He hoped to God that he was crazy, that he’d broken down again, just like during the incident.

  Under the bridge now. In the shadows. Kicking about. Spinning and looking. Desperate. The shadows. The shallows. The darkness. There was nothing. Nothing here. He began to laugh. Joy exploding from his chest. God it was untrue. He was crazy. All of it. Just a figment of his imagination. His brain cutting together splices of his past and present, imagining a joining thread. He spun around laughing. Arms raised. Dancing.

  He hit something heavy underneath and tripped, falling back into the water. He came to spluttering, spitting water out. Felt around with his hands for what had tripped him. Pushing with his feet. He could feel some sort of plastic. Rocks. Something rolling. He got up and began feeling around. Pulling the rocks off the plastic, picking up the lighter weights. Felt the air in the plastic, buoyancy. Felt it wanting to rise. He pushed the heaviest weight off and the plastic gave and rose.

  No longer in shadow, no longer in water, the plastic wrapped body had risen. Air escaping the body had inflated the bag, bacteria and death expanding. Strange shapes inside. The joy left him, the smile and happiness turned to fear and emptiness. Where the laughter had been was now breathlessness. The body rotated slightly in the water and he saw that she was faceless. That her heart had been removed too. Then, in her chest had been carved the letter S.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Charlie was looking at the piece of paper, remembering everything. Sitting there in his bed, looking at his lap. He saw it all. Remembered it as clear as day. He could see his Dad working on the FJ, him playing in the dirt and grass with his army figurines, he remembered opening the letterbox. Staring at the paper. Taking it out and reading it. Then screaming like the world was ending.

  Except the world wasn’t ending, it was beginning again. His dad rolling out from under the car, grabbing him and holding him while he lost his head. His mother coming out, asking what was happening. Him showing them the paper. The paper the paper the paper! His dad read it a few times, muttering over and over, then swore. Gave it to Elaine and ran to the FJ. Cranked the engine. They followed.

  They sped through the neighbourhood, cutting off cars, rushing rushing rushing. They sat on edge, their hearts squirting adrenaline around the body in a mixture of their nervous blood. They felt thin, vulnerable, yet incredibly alive. Full of hope. Sarah. His mother saying the name, rising and falling in tone, in pain. By the time they got onto Precinct Road she was screaming it. Sarah over and over. They counted off the roads until they saw Rains. Then they saw the small abandoned building.

  Paul Gardner pulled the car onto the shoulder and they slid to a stop. Poured from the vehicle and fled towards the small shelter. Even as he sat there thirty years on Charlie could still hear his mother’s scream. Joy and pain all wrapped in one. They looked upon Sarah’s weak body in the cage. She was crying as her dad pulled the sheet metal and timber from it, struggling as he took her to safety, screaming as her mother hugged her. She was free but forever imprisoned now.

  Charlie flipped the paper over. Nothing on the back. He’d done this hundreds if not thousands of times, looked at the paper. Tried to understand it. To see more than the message. He wanted to see the culprit. He wanted to see the killers behind the writing. It was neat, well formed, a beautiful cursive. It’s message deadly.

  Charlie sighed and looked away. Unsure what to make of it. Why had he had it out? Why of all things had he brought it to his rehabilitation? Or had someone else brought it for him? It was odd that he could remember certain things and not others. His doctors had informed him that following the crash, the head injuries he’d sustained would impede him making new short term memories. He would be relying on long term ideas of self and lifehood. Yet, he could remember that his family had passed away in the crash, even if he didn’t remember it. This, the Doctor Rawlson, had said, could be because it is such a large event. Because the brain must make sense of all given situations, that one answer could remain, even if it didn’t make sense in other areas.

  He looked then at his family portrait. There was him and the girls. Eve squatting down besides Harper, Rachel on his lap. It was a happy picture in a not too happy moment of their lives. What was it, a couple years ago? Last year? A voice rose up in him and compared the likeness of Rachel to his departed sister Sarah. He couldn’t agree more. While she was years younger than when Sarah had passed away, Rachel was already a spitting image. The long hair shaping the face, the straight smile and button nose. Her eyes shining brighter than any of their smiles. It scared him. Always had. A living memorial reminding him everyday of the past. His mistake.

  He turned to Harper, his safety. She was the opposite of Rachel and Sarah. Had her mother’s short hair, eyes, face, everything. She was a small Eve, except that she was born with severe cerebral palsy and other mental deficiencies. He bit his tongue. Deficiencies. He’d spent every waking moment trying to rid that word from his vocabulary. To not see his daughter as a missed chance. He had tried not to see her as a burden as other parents had seen her as, said in looks that failed to be hidden. He knew what people thought because he’d thought everyone of those thoughts too, hating himself every moment. Except that when he paid attention, when he only let love in, he saw his daughter for who she was. She was Harper. She was different, but she was a beautiful person that loved painting. She made him stop and look at the world in a different way. Noticing too, where society had chosen to overlook it’s gaze. He discovered the shadows of love. The corners of truth that were hidden in a round room. He discovered his daughter, and for that he’d be eternally g
rateful. It made him miss her all the more.

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Tried to picture the crash. Wanted to see it. He didn’t care how horrific it would be. He didn’t care how awful it would be to relive it, he just wanted to see it. To see them again. To know them again. But he couldn’t. There was nothing there but a blank image. His brain offering other memories of cars crashing, of people dying. Footage from the news of the devastating civil wars in the Americas, the Africas, the Eastern Europes. He saw death in every moment of his mind, yet none of what he sought.

  To seek death is to seek life, he remembered reading somewhere. Some bullshit phrase that sounded deep but was about as shallow as a puddle. He sought death not to want it, he sought the deaths of his family to know. It was all that plagued him these days, these long windows of nothing. Of not knowing. That’s how he felt. That’s what he knew to be consistent. Maybe he had tried to commit suicide? Maybe he’d taken those razors as a way to escape the not knowing. To escape the weight of the past. But then he looked at Harper, smiling slyly at the camera, and he knew it would only offend her memory.

  It was a while before he realised the phone in his room was ringing.

  Hello?

  What an exciting evening you had yesterday, said a voice. Soft and calm. I hear they’re changing your medication.

  Who is this? Charlie asked. Percy?

  No, not Percy, replied the voice. You know me though.

  Charlie frowned. I’m sorry you’ll have to be more specific. I’ve had a crash and can’t remember anything. I struggle to retain—

  I know your state Charlie. I helped to make it. I have to say I’m a little offended that you don’t remember me. Considering all the help I gave you.

  I’m sorry, Charlie said. But a nervousness had entered him. Helped to make it? I honestly don’t know your voice, he went on. Maybe you could tell me your name and—

  And ruin the fun? Never. Neither spoke for a moment, Charlie wondering what in the hell was going on, his caller letting the silence become drawn. You know Sarah loved games. Of course you remember that. Games. Playing games. Playing games with me.