Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  None of it ever happened.

  9

  DI CARMICHAEL

  FRIDAY 5 JANUARY 2018

  I’ll never be the man I was, not after what I allowed myself to be party to. I’m a filthy rapist, plain and simple.

  I do not remember my part in their twisted game, but I’ve been forced to watch the footage.

  I was inebriated and unwilling, yet I still had non-consensual sex with a stranger.

  The girl on the tape haunts me. I see her desperate face on passers-by, custody detainees, even on corpses in the morgue.

  I do not know her name, all I know is what we did to her, which was vile and unforgivable.

  Cronwell won’t even tell me if she’s dead or alive. He insists I need to drop the matter or face exposure.

  The threat of the members leaking footage to Annabelle hangs over my head; my face recognisable.

  Should I attempt to confess, and expose the game players, I’ve been warned that she receives an edited copy, implicating only me. I can’t let that happen.

  I’m riddled with shame, the sensation akin to a ribbon tape‐ worm infesting my gut.

  I want to override the past and try to forget the unspeakable things we did to her, but I’ll never erase it.

  I took to the Internet to understand my memory loss. According to scientific experts, large quantities of alcohol can produce a ‘blackout’, an interval of time varying from minutes to hours, where the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events.

  During such time, they may drive a vehicle, have non- consensual or unprotected sex, cause vandalism, injury, and even death, but the recorder in their brain is turned off.

  Quadruple murderer Conner Schierman, and Higinio Salgado, who killed his boss, both claimed to have carried out their crimes during an alcohol-induced blackout.

  High alcohol concentration causes the hippocampus, part of the brain responsible for long-term memory, to shut down. Therefore, blackouts do not result in forgetting what happened because the memories never existed in the first place.

  There are two types. Fragmentary, a spotty memory that can be jogged, and en bloc blackouts, defined by large chunks of time.

  In this instance, the sufferer is unable to recall any events, and no clues from others will assist.

  This is where I sit, disgusted with myself at having no recollection, or the ability in the first place, to say no.

  Do people know what I’ve done? Is it written all over my face in neon letters radiating shame?

  I’m sure everyone stares; maybe it’s paranoia.

  I considered the coward’s way out; killing myself. If I did, I’d only be punishing Annabelle.

  She would blame herself. She has no clue what the man she is due to marry is capable of.

  I was a decent man. I didn’t imagine bad blood flowed in me. Maybe we all have a switch, and one trigger turns us from good to bad.

  I’m meant to abide by the law. It’s my duty to serve and protect others from harm. I took an oath to enforce the law, not break it in the most atrocious, despicable, way.

  I can say, hand on heart, that prior to that horrendous night, I always took the moral high ground. I was proud of my achievements.

  I despised dirty cops, then I became one.

  I’m living my own jail term trapped inside their inner circle, obeying orders.

  I’ll never be allowed to escape or be free from my crime; not while I’m still breathing air.

  10

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 3 MARCH 2018

  Life was perfect until I was raped and beaten by monsters for kicks.

  In the weeks that followed, the days were unbearably long as I dossed around in pyjama bottoms and a hoodie.

  I was dead inside, living in an emotionless stone world, and made constant excuses not to see Mark, Amy, or my parents.

  It was as though I was inside my own coffin, the lid nailed, and the air dwindling in the confinement.

  I felt paralysed, unable to lift my arms and claw my way out, to a point back in time before it happened.

  I barely ate or slept. Solitude was my only safety net. I became a mere sliver of the girl I was; skeletal and empty.

  To wash their hands off me, I showered three to five times a day. I scrubbed my skin with a nailbrush and bleach until the surface eroded and I bled.

  The stinging sensation was agonising, but I had to stop them crawling over my skin like a cockroach infestation.

  I asked myself why I was targeted. Did I talk or look at my attackers in the wrong way? Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time? I didn’t have the answers.

  I never told a soul; it was too painful to relive the brutality. Instead, I wrote a diary to offer my mind relief.

  Documenting it on paper lifted the burden. Though when I read over the entries, I cried, and my heart, laden with sadness, sank further to the depths of despair.

  I even wrote countless entries to my attackers, telling them what impact their actions had on my life.

  It must sound puerile and pointless, but it was the only way I could vent my anger.

  I’d hoped it would bring closure, but my wounds continued to fester and wouldn’t heal.

  Nothing could soothe the unbearable rage I felt. I feared it wouldn’t subside and my world fell apart.

  I decided the only way to forget the past was to abandon my old life and start over with a clean slate.

  Without any explanation, I cut ties with Mark. I deleted his number, my social media accounts, and I left town.

  If I’d stayed, Mark would have seen my scars and asked questions. He could never learn the truth, his perception of me would be altered forever.

  I didn’t let on to my parents that I’d separated. I didn’t want them asking questions. I’d tell them in time.

  I found an apartment in Portishead, 20 miles away, where I could start again with a blank canvas.

  Once I’d stopped wallowing in self-pity, and realised I was no different to the thousands of other women who are raped every year, life started to move on.

  I gained a job at St Peter’s Primary, which my parents and Amy accepted, they saw it as a promotion.

  When I stood in my new classroom, looking at the children, I wondered how each of their futures would pan out.

  Statistics suggested one would commit suicide, one be abused by a family member, and one would die from a sudden condition. One might even become a killer.

  It was a morbid thought, but my mind had warped like rotten wood. I saw the world differently since that night.

  I soon learned, however, that a change doesn’t fix things. Moving didn’t erase memories, they ate away at me like gangrene.

  I came to realise that not reporting my rape was a monumental mistake and felt hatred brewing.

  11

  DI CARMICHAEL

  SATURDAY 17 FEBRUARY 2018

  Not only did I wager my wedding fund that night, I gambled my life away.

  I played with high rollers; the stakes catastrophic and there is no going back to my normal life.

  This is how I must exist from hereon; I must obey DCI Cronwell and keep my mouth shut. I do as I’m told, like a good puppy dog.

  I’m fully aware that he would kill me to prevent exposure of their demented game. There are too many active players and too much money at stake to risk the truth surfacing.

  “Are you coming out to play tonight?”

  Cronwell stares from beneath his furrowed brow, illuminated by ceiling strip lights.

  My cheeks scald and I remain silent, not wavering via a single blink.

  The whites of his eyes leak blood vessels enduring the after- effects of another bender.

  “You will join us ... won’t you? Usual venue.”

  Thick mucus plugs the corner of his mouth.

  “It’s expected of you.”

  I feel nauseous, knowing that he wants me to join him and the other callous Cipher Game players at Caesars Palace, a gentleman
’s club in affluent Clifton, Bristol.

  He shifts his weight forward, leaning over my desk. I inhale whisky.

  I cannot find my voice, it’s as though I’m suffering locked-in syndrome and my facial muscles are paralysed.

  I’d love nothing more than to tell him to go fuck himself, but that isn’t an option.

  “Nice blonde this time ... a figure to die for!”

  He offers a wink. I remain tongue-tied and stare vacantly.

  “It’s an order ... not a request.”

  Cronwell’s lips twist into a snarl. He unglues his glare and exits the Incident Room.

  His bourbon scent lingers, adding to my nausea. I’ve not touched a drop of alcohol since the rape. It’s poison on the soul. I wouldn’t be in this situation had I not become intoxicated in the company of sinners. I’m shackled to this life with no chance of parole.

  12

  EMILIA

  SUNDAY 8 APRIL 2018

  “Feisty bitch this one!”

  A fist smashes into my jaw. Metallic iron bungs my mouth, choking me.

  “Now play nice,” a gravelly voice instructs.

  “Please stop ... I can give you money,” I beg.

  He ejects a baleful laugh, the others participate.

  “Stupid bitch. We don’t want cash ... just kicks.”

  He stares at me with contempt.

  “We all have our sins, and you are my game changer.”

  A belt buckle clangs.

  “Viewers are paying good money to watch, now open your mouth like a good girl.”

  My eyes bolted open. It was 3:30 a.m – the same time I always woke when the nightmare revisited to haunt me.

  I lay covered in sweat and urine. My pyjamas fused to my skin like cling film where I’d wet the bed again.

  My body trembled. I slowed my breaths, absorbing my terror and all the disjointed memories.

  I tucked my knees against my chest, safeguarding myself, and closed my eyes.

  I felt crushed by the silence. That familiar emptiness I endured in solitude every night, trapped by invisible restraints.

  My fingers cradled the blade handle under my pillow; placed there for protection. I’d slept with it ever since the attack. I lay cowering, curtains shielding me in my own prison cell.

  Cocooned under the damp duvet, I observed the crack under the door. I’d always lie motionless after my nightmare, waiting for their footsteps to appear.

  My mind told me they couldn’t find me. There was just a tiny part of me that believed my ordeal was far from over.

  I didn’t defend myself that night. I always assumed if I was ever put in a violent situation, I’d resist. I should have punched, kicked, scratched, and bit, to stop their onslaught.

  I was weak and immobile, too afraid to move, feeling skin on skin, breath on breath.

  Instead, I blocked my mind, watched the sky above while they tore at my underwear and bared their teeth like a pack of wolves. They were savage beasts and took turns.

  When I tried to muster an ounce of energy, I was dealt increased violence.

  I was gagged. Cotton plugged my mouth and fused to my tongue, preventing my screams.

  I felt utter despair and unrelenting terror when their hands pinned my ankles and wrists.

  The camera captured it all. I recall lights shining on my face, spectators’ absorbing the terror in my eyes.

  “Smile for the camera!”

  The words plague me. Not only did they rape me, they filmed it, and knowing that footage exists haunts me.

  This will never be over.

  13

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 28 APRIL 2018

  I tried to salvage my life, what was left of it – it ended in my attempted suicide.

  For weeks I’d sat alone, thinking of Amy, recalling our girls’ nights, us getting ready amid a mist of Coco Mademoiselle. I missed our friendship terribly.

  I mastered the courage to reunite, having rejected far too many of her social invites. I didn’t want to lose her.

  During the bus journey, I was a bag of nerves. If I’d driven, I would have turned back, but I was stuck.

  As the bus pulled into Weston, I swallowed vomit. I didn’t want to be anywhere near my nightmare.

  Amy screeched like an excited child. She wrapped her arms around me, and I thought she’d never let go.

  “God, I missed you!” she yelled.

  “You too,” I replied, offering a nervous smile.

  It was as though we’d never been apart.

  I longed for things to be different, for THAT night to have never happened. I missed my old life, Amy, and I missed Mark. It all seemed so unfair.

  Amy didn’t stop chatting as we walked to the seafront, passing tourists eating fish and chips, seagulls squawking overhead.

  I could feel nerves simmering as we crossed the road and entered Jacks Bar. It was the first time I’d been out to a pub since the attack.

  Taking a deep breath, I painted on my smile, but as we stood at the bar alongside a group of ogling men, I regretted my decision to go out.

  Perverted eyes x-rayed me, and flashbacks hammered my mind. I wanted to scream. And I wanted to run.

  Life could never go on. I’d never forget, and I couldn’t keep a secret of such magnitude.

  Francesca joined us. I tried my best to socialise, and be me, but I felt lost and soulless.

  After an hour, and a few drinks in, I snuck away to the ladies. I sat in a cubicle crying, knees huddled to my chest.

  I didn’t want this life.

  In a split second, I emptied and swallowed an entire blister packet of Tramadol to end my torment.

  Amy found me, having seen a discarded stiletto under the cubicle door.

  Paramedics arrived. Amy hadn’t allowed me the necessary time for the tablets to take effect.

  I hated her for putting me back in hospital, instead of on a mortuary slab.

  I never admitted the overdose was of my own doing. I led Amy to believe that my drink, the one that she gave me, was spiked.

  Amy was racked with guilt for allowing a stranger to buy us a drink. I should have told her the truth, it’s unfair she carries that burden, but I did so for her own protection.

  The moment I tell anyone the truth is the moment I’m dead. My attackers warned me that if I told anyone, they would target my friends and family.

  I’d only one choice – to keep living a lie.

  14

  DI CARMICHAEL

  SUNDAY 18 FEBRUARY 2018

  Caesars Palace lived up to expectations. Women peeled off skimpy underwear for punters’ pleasure.

  I gain no gratification from seeing a girl being stripped of her modesty for cash.

  Truth is, I can’t bring myself to look at the girls; equally, I no longer enjoy sex with Annabelle. Each time we become intimate I have flashbacks to the footage.

  Our life was perfect, and I destroyed it.

  I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love Annabelle and we are only weeks away from our wedding.

  As the days pass, I find it more difficult to contain my emotions. I offer her constant reassurance; the lies slip off my tongue. If I pledge my life to her, I’m letting her marry a monster.

  The members do not force me to physically participate but do insist on my attendance at their gatherings to keep a close eye on me.

  They maintain the upper hand to make me aware of their hierarchy and what they have on me.

  Dancers gyrate in thongs with jangling breasts on display, while the Cipher members drink bourbon and Champagne.

  Each Cipher member stuffs wads of cash into their scant panty line. They grope the girls’ breasts or slap their buttocks, but the dancers allow it because they know they’re rewarded with a generous tip. Their behaviour sickens me but the minute I refuse to attend, I’m dead.

  Dr. Whitehall split his time between the group and the private booths. He’s addicted to young women.

  Without a doubt, he was the most
brutal attacker. They insisted I watch the entire footage.

  It was horrific, my eyes watered as my remaining soul disintegrated, replaced with shame, guilt, and remorse.

  Despite Whitehall refraining from acting out his full fetishes inside the private booths, I’ve witnessed naked, stiletto-heeled, girls fleeing his clutches in tears.

  Roxy, the club owner, turns a blind eye, silenced by a monumental bribe. She hires fresh meat, just the way he likes it. I’ve seen him handing over a wad of cash, belly laughing, and saying ‘variety is the spice of life’.

  Whitehall is always top of the leaderboard, but the ranking had shifted, with Judge Peterson taking top spot.

  I was forced to watch the latest footage. A young girl being raped and tortured, with an accompanying price tag of £8,000. Unknowingly, I watched my first snuff movie.

  The Grand Master in control of her fate paid 3 bitcoins, just shy of £23,000, to order her decapitation.

  Peterson was the one clutching the bloody axe. He dangled the head by her hair and swung it like a dismembered Barbie doll.

  Afterwards, my mind couldn’t focus. I tuned out of the conversation while they discussed potential targets.

  I can’t listen to them. Their words sicken me. It is better that I’m not aware of their targets so I cannot warn the girls. The moment I intervene is the moment I take my last breath.

  15

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 25 MAY 2018

  Fate didn’t want me to forget. It wanted me to come face to face with my past.