Kill List

by Vicki Fitzgerald

  Such practice is dangerous, even when performed with care. It has resulted in a significant number of accidental deaths.

  We’ll leave his trousers undone, puny sausage in hand. The police will believe he was trying to arouse himself and simply died.

  The forum members will suspect it was a sex game which went wrong. Only this isn’t his game. It’s mine. My killing game.

  47

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 29 SEPTEMBER 2018, 12.18 AM

  Geoffrey knows there is no escaping from the bag in my hand. Death is coming for him.

  I will shove it over his head and watch him snatch his last breath before his soul is delivered to the gates of Hell to suffer for an eternity.

  “Please,” he begs ruefully.

  “Geoffrey, don’t be undignified. It’s not masculine to plead like a pathetic child.”

  His face is chilli-red. Blood raging and pounding the surface with simmering rage.

  “Good always triumphs over evil. You must be punished for what you did to me.”

  I pace across the tarpaulin we have laid out. He’s rendered silent by my words, searching the labyrinth of his wicked mind for answers.

  His breathing slows, eyes firing vengeful stares. He’s fully aware I have the upper hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes ... don’t do this,” he stammers.

  ‘I can give you money?’

  I see red and howl an uncontrollable laugh at his expense. Dad joins in.

  ‘I offered you money. All of you laughed in my face. You told me you didn’t want my money, just kicks.’

  My face feigns a mocking glare while my fingers draw quotation marks.

  ‘Now, I’m having my kicks, Judge Peterson. You are in my courtroom where I decide your punishment, which you richly deserve.

  ‘It’s simple, I made my decision long ago. You are dead to me, and soon to the rest of the world. Don’t worry, Daddy agrees with me. He knows what you did to his daughter and he doesn’t approve of your wicked game.’

  Geoffrey’s eyes flicker like a dart to the bullseye, encountering Dad’s steely stare, anger bubbling beneath the surface. He wants to kill him even more than I do. I see it in his face.

  Geoffrey’s eyes become watery as though he’s fully realised the gravity of his situation.

  ‘Geoffrey, I’m passing down your sentence and you know damn well it isn’t life without parole. You haven’t long until the devil comes for you. Good men go to Heaven, bad men go straight to Hell.’

  Dad hands over a new bag. I beam with delight as I shove it over his head, creating an air-tight vessel. His mouth sucks the sheet, nostrils flaring with panicked breaths.

  He attempts to breathe as the air dwindles. With any luck, he’ll be unconscious within two minutes.

  Dad stands, arms folded, as though he’s losing patience. I realise I took it too far re-enacting with the other bag, but we remain a team, partners in retribution, exacting revenge against the partners in crime.

  I have learned so much from Dad in such a short space of time. I’m thankful I have him in my life as my mentor and best friend, offering encouragement.

  I never wanted to be bad and didn’t believe I had it in me. None of us know what we are capable of until pushed.

  I cock my head, examining my inmate. Legs twitch against the cords, lungs taking laboured breaths.

  ‘Geoffrey, this is your own doing.’

  He can’t speak. His speech is impaired by the lack of oxygen in his confinement.

  ‘You should have finished me off when you had the chance. Instead, you left me to die in the wilderness, but I found my way back from the brink. I’m a survivor. You’re pathetic. The only way you could get a woman was by paying for it, or through sinister means.’

  His chest rattles, death coming for him. Eyes snaked with blood vessels, veins popping on his temples.

  ‘I found courage and inner strength to come back fighting. You’re lucky, if you ask me. The other two beasts died an agonising death.’

  His face looks stricken as vomit erupts from his lips into the bag. Chunks of vinegar-like food matter flood his neck. I giggle, comparing him to a funfair goldfish prize.

  ‘You never suspected a girl could slice a man like she was preparing a roast dinner. It’s your fault I turned. You ruined my life. So, I’m taking yours.’

  He gasps, entrapped air dwindling. I smile, witnessing him fall from his pedestal.

  ‘The only reason your death is not vicious, is to avoid detection and to cover my back. You did it, not me. You committed accidental suicide, Geoffrey, while enacting your sick fantasies.’

  I approach him, gloved hands undoing his belt and trouser button. His head cocks to one side, eyes watching in astonishment as I pull down the zipper.

  It’s as though I’m studying a latex balloon with a slow puncture, the air creeping out until he’s limp, and lifeless.

  Dad and I hold hands watching him suck air through pursed lips until they turn purple. Death does nothing to save him, it only accentuates the monster inside.

  This is the least satisfying murder. I knew it would be if I was to protect myself as his killer.

  I stare into his eyes one last time, taking some small contentment from the fact that my face was the last thing he saw.

  I knew I’d be strong with Dad by my side. I’m winning my game. The Cipher monsters are being eradicated.

  I close my eyes and imagine I’m crossing over his photo‐ graph with a red marker pen.

  We untie him and remove the bandages from his wrists, his arms dangle, devoid of life.

  I panic for a split second that he’s faking, and his hands are around my neck, strangling me. I gasp, shuffling myself backwards on the tarpaulin.

  Dad rushes over, places a comforting arm around me as though I’m a frightened child.

  “It’s OK, Emilia, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

  I know he’s dead. It was a mere flicker of an image, the one that you see in films when the villain comes back from the brink of death, and it scared me.

  I look at his bagged face one last time and I blink to ensure that the image is real. His black eyes stare, haunting me and boring into my soul. I imagine his whispers.

  “The others will make you pay for this. You won’t get away with it, bitch.”

  “Emilia, you need to focus. We must clean up and get the hell out of here,” Dad instructs.

  I force a smile and imagine my Kill List. I cross through the names in my head.

  Hugh Baldwin - DEAD

  Piers Whitehall - DEAD

  Geoffrey Peterson - DEAD

  It hits me. Realisation that I’m nearly halfway through my mission. I’m three targets down with four players remaining. Everything is in hand; it is all falling into place. I’m burying Cipher.

  I close my eyes once more and savour the moment, adding the image of Peterson’s corpse to my mind to override the memories of him attacking me.

  Dad continues to clean, removing any final trace of us. He folds the tarpaulin as though he’s folding bed linen and places it into the duffel bag with our tools.

  “We need to go, Emilia.”

  His outstretched hand takes mine. I follow his lead, duck under the door and wander back into the shadows where we do not exist.

  48

  EMILIA

  SUNDAY 30 SEPTEMBER 2018

  I’m a serial killer. I’ve killed three men and have blood on my hands. Sweet Emilia is a murderer.

  When I stare in the mirror that’s not who I see. I observe a brave soldier, one battling an army of enemies.

  I’m a warrior, killer, and schoolteacher, living a triple life, and it isn’t as difficult as anticipated.

  During daylight hours, perfect, fictional, ‘Miss Honey’ operates, educating my pupils to the best of my ability.

  After school hours, I continue practising my dark hobby, one which is quashing the taunting memories.

  The warm, inviting sce
nt of roast dinner hits us, as Dad and I return from our stint at the food shelter.

  Mum is cooking lamb with all the trimmings; she knows it is my favourite; Tom’s, too.

  Our weekend bonding time is back to normal, Mum and Tom cook for us, while we help feed the homeless.

  Dinner is running late; the potatoes need to crisp, and Mum isn’t happy with her, ‘always perfect’ gravy. That gives Dad and I time to continue our game of chess.

  I sip from a glass of blood-red wine, comparing myself to the King, the most important piece, who must always be protected.

  Dad is a Rook; the second most powerful piece in the game. He is my mentor in our secret ‘killing game’.

  I make a strike, sliding a Knight forward, attacking two places at the same time. Dad smiles.

  “You’re certainly getting all your pieces into place,” he mocks, blatantly referring to my process with Cipher.

  “It’s all about strategic moves, Dad. Sometimes sacrificing pieces for the bigger game!” I reply, with a wink.

  We’re pawns in a game, our ‘killing game’, which is progressing fast, unlike this game, which has lasted for four weeks.

  “Dinner is in 20 minutes,” Mum says, popping her head around the door. She smiles and disappears.

  A vision pops into my head. I’m at the table confessing to murder, and she’s staring at me, eyes full of revulsion.

  “Emilia, how could you? You need to confess. Let the police deal with matters officially,” she screeches.

  I blink the image away. The truth would destroy her. She’d never forgive Dad and their marriage would be over.

  A part of me also believes she would disown me and pretend to her friends I was dead.

  Deep down, I’m still a little girl, wanting my mum to tell me that everything is going to be OK, but how can it be? I’m playing a dangerous game; one that could cost me my life.

  49

  DI CARMICHAEL

  WEDNESDAY 7 NOVEMBER 2018

  I’m living a lie. I’m lying to myself, and to Annabelle.

  We have been together for five years. I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her at a friend’s BBQ.

  She looked elegant, in a blue dress and kitten heels, with blonde hair draping across tanned shoulders. She glanced over, cheeks blushing, and then smiled. In that moment, I knew I’d spend my life with her.

  In a matter of weeks, she’ll become Mrs. Carmichael. How can I let her marry a monster?

  Annabelle has sensed a change in my behaviour and eyes me often with an inquisitive stare. Lies fall off my tongue with ease.

  Hand on heart there is not black blood in my veins. I’m appalled by my actions and overwhelmed with guilt.

  I wouldn’t have knowingly engaged in non-consensual sex. Had my mind not been drugged, I wouldn’t have touched that woman, please believe me.

  It wasn’t in me naturally. I’m not bred from darkness. They forced me to cross the line and now I’m ruined.

  Annabelle asked yesterday if I wanted to cancel the wedding. I enveloped her hand and assured her of my love.

  It’s true. I’ve never met anyone like her and couldn’t imagine life without Annabelle. I don’t deserve a happy ending, but she does.

  Everyone lies. We all wear a mask to conceal what’s going inside our heads and hearts. The mask only slips when we are content with nothing to hide. In my case, I’ll always be a monster behind the jovial mask.

  My mind harbours all the faces of the dead I’ve encountered. They haunt me, along with the girl from the tape. The one with no name, who could be dead, or alive, and hunting me.

  Annabelle thinks I’m depressed and has suggested I seek counselling or change career. But I’ll never be free from Cron‐ well or Cipher. Not unless I’m dead, or we abscond; but I’m certain Cipher would hunt me down.

  Goulding would kill me and make Annabelle watch. Worst still, she would murder Annabelle to make me suffer. There is no easy way out of this life.

  I’ve been keeping a low profile, as has Cronwell. The others, I am not so sure. They still believe I’m being paranoid and that both deaths are a coincidence.

  Hugh’s murder is down as an unsolved case. Cronwell is not investing any time or resources into solving it. He wants it to disappear.

  With no loved ones demanding justice, Hugh’s death slipped into the background. No one cares.

  People die every day and he is one of many murder victims whose case is closed. It’s the way we need the case to stay, if we’re to keep Cipher off the radar.

  Piers’ case, on the other hand, is high profile. The pure depravity of his death has sparked mounting attention.

  We still have no leads or forensic evidence. Sand Bay has been combed over by search teams to unearth the rest of his body, but the efforts drew a blank. I wonder if he’s decomposing at the bottom of the ocean.

  I’ve been putting together the pieces of the jigsaw, but it remains incomplete. We’ve no way of progressing the investigation further, without drawing attention to us.

  In private, I’ve revisited all of the Cipher video clips, to ascertain the number of victims who died, and those who may have survived.

  I’m adamant both murders are linked, and the killer is a survivor seeking revenge. This nameless, faceless woman wants payback and is bringing Cipher down.

  I have created a log of their first names, indicated by the clip titles. Goulding may keep records of their identities should she need to clear up any loose ends.

  There are around 29 girls who could still be alive; nine of them attacked in the past year.

  I don’t know who the killer is, but I will expose her and make her realise, while revenge is good for your soul, it has deadly consequences.

  50

  DI CARMICHAEL

  THURSDAY 8 NOVEMBER 2018

  Peterson is dead.

  White wiggling maggots chew on his flesh, the stench of decay is overwhelming.

  He has been dead for some time. His body leaking fluids and undergoing active decomposition.

  Muirhead’s camera snaps incessantly, capturing macro shots of his body. His face is shielded by a plastic bag.

  The grim discovery was made by his cleaner, having followed the scent escaping from his death chamber.

  My heart hammers, fearing Cipher has been attacked, again!

  “Self-suffocation, sir,” Cardy informs, while taking note of the room temperature, and that of the body.

  “You’re certain his death isn’t suspicious?” I ask.

  Her face conveys a look that says, I know what I’m doing, you arrogant arsehole.

  “This was an accidental suicide. Death by auto erotic asphyxia.”

  Her mouth strains into an awkward downturn, gloved fingers pointing to Peterson’s exposed manhood. I hadn’t noticed, my gaze was transfixed on his bagged head.

  I look away. I’m fully aware of his addiction to sexual pursuits.

  “How long has he been dead?”

  “Several days, given the state of decomposition.”

  Despite my feelings toward Peterson, which verge on hatred, I have an ounce of sympathy as I watch Cardy tease maggots from different areas of his mottled skin. She seals each of the maggots in separate test tubes.

  “An entomologist will study the maggots and deduce time of death,” she adds.

  I welcome the surge of relief that her findings offer. I can inform Cronwell, with complete certainty, this wasn’t murder. Peterson died playing one of his sick games.

  Camera crews arrive in hordes and gather at the tape perimeter. I should have anticipated the media spotlight.

  I turn my attention back to Peterson. He now resides in a body bag, the clear bag removed from his head.

  There’s a look in his eyes; one of terror. His soul has departed, yet there is a presence telling me we’ve got it wrong.

  Petersons’ cause of death does not sit with his chaotic expression, set rigid by rigor mortis.

  I crouch to the
ground, shielding my nose and mouth from his pungent stench. He’s as undignified in death as he was in life.

  Metal glistens on his suit lapel. It lures my attention. My eyes fix on a double infinity intertwined pin. Fear swells - it’s a calling card. Peterson was murdered.

  51

  EMILIA

  SATURDAY 10 NOVEMBER 2018

  The birthday gift is perfect. A double infinity silver knot pendant hangs on a delicate chain.

  My lips twitch into a smile, face beaming. It warms my insides and repairs my fragile mind.

  “It’s stunning, thank you.”

  “I saw it and thought of you,” Dad says.

  “I love it.”

  Mum looks dumbfounded by Dad’s gift. She’s annoyed, having not been consulted.

  I lift my hair and allow Dad to fasten the chain around my neck. It rests on my chest against my icy heart.

  Mum doesn’t share our joke and its significance. It was Dad’s idea to leave double infinity pins on my victims, going forward, to signify two individuals joining fates forever.

  The infinity pin would act as a clue. The police will piece it together and realise their deaths are about revenge.

  Now I have my own infinity, as if confirming my new identity. I’ve a new-found excitement for the future, and how I’m going to end this game.

  Mum hands me a box with a red satin bow. I tug the fabric and lift the lid - it’s black Michael Kors stilettos.

  “Do you like them?” She quizzes.

  “I love them, thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I wrap my arms around Mum in an embrace, close my eyes, and pretend, for a split second, life is normal.