Prosper Snow Series

by Shaun Jeffrey

  It would be nice to be asked, though.

  Moths flitted around the streetlights overhead, their flickering shadows dancing on the floor around her feet.

  Betty increased her pace as much as she could. I don’t want to miss the bus.

  Shops lined the road, their windows full of goods she could only dream of affording. She stared at a new television so large it would nearly fill the wall of her terraced two up two down. And as for the price – that much money would keep her fed for over a year.

  Dark side streets led off the main road, and Betty hurried by whenever she had to pass one, their entrances like gaping mouths of brick, the contents of the murky maws indiscernible. Gone were the days when she felt safe on the streets. Only the other week, an old man had been attacked on the High Street, robbed of his pension when he left the post office and left bleeding in the gutter. And that was in broad daylight, and not one person stopped to help him.

  What is the world coming too, she wondered. There was no respect for the elderly these days.

  “Blind ninety. End of the line, Betty.”

  Betty froze at hearing her own name tagged onto the familiar bingo term. Eyes wide, she peered into the shadows between the buildings at her side, frail hands shaking.

  “Who’s there?” she said, clutching her bag to her chest.

  A figure rushed out of the alley and grabbed Betty around the throat, clamping a damp, pungent cloth across her nose and mouth before she had a chance to scream, and pulled her into the dark.

  “Seventy eight, heaven’s gate,” the figure whispered in her ear before darkness bled into her eyes.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Oracle heard muffled thumps from the boot of his vehicle, indicating the effects of the chloroform had worn off. Although there was little chance of anyone hearing anything untoward from the moving vehicle, especially out here in the country, the fact he still hadn’t managed to work out how long to administer the chemical annoyed him. Some people were rendered unconscious for minutes, others for hours. It seemed to depend on the height and weight of the victim. Betty had been unconscious for around an hour.

  He had gagged her and bound her ankles and wrists with plastic ties before putting her in the boot, and she would no doubt be disorientated and terrified. Hopefully she wouldn’t vomit; otherwise she could choke to death, and he didn’t fancy clearing up the mess if it seeped around the gag.

  The car sped into a tunnel created by its headlights. Either side, hedgerows zipped by in a blur. A cloudless sky and lack of streetlights meant that the stars overhead seemed to shine brighter.

  Taking a left turn in the road, he drove through a dense wooded area of oak trees. After a short while, the building where his victims were housed came into view, the headlights creating twin portals across the front of the imposing structure, glinting from the high windows in the square outline. The adjoining outbuildings skulked against the trees that had grown around them during years of neglect.

  After parking the car, he switched the engine off. Betty’s urgent thumps were louder now without the engine to muffle them.

  The Oracle exited the vehicle and proceeded around to the boot. He opened it, reached inside and hauled Betty out by her thin, frail arms. Moonlight accentuated her pale features, all colour having drained from her face. She stared at him with a look more of disgust than fear.

  That will soon change.

  The leaves of the surrounding trees rustled and in the distance, an owl hooted. The heat of the day had dissipated, leaving a mild chill in the air. Overhead, the new moon provided faint illumination, but not enough to see very clearly.

  He crouched down and lifted Betty over his shoulder, her angled bones digging into him like blunt knives. She struggled harder as he carried her into the building, the aroma of spoiled meat now stronger than ever. He picked up a camping light hanging ready by the door and turned it on, holding it at arm’s length to illuminate his path. The harsh light didn’t radiate very far into the large room, and it seemed that he was trapped in a luminous bubble.

  He took forty steps across the floor, his footsteps echoing around him, then dropped Betty on the ground like a sack of coal and placed the light beside her, watching as she bucked and thrashed against her bindings. He stood up straight, rolling and massaging his shoulders to alleviate some of the discomfort caused by her bony frame.

  The Oracle glanced at a pile of newspapers on the floor. They were full of stories about the recent killings, the reporters jumping to conclusions, trying to analyse the perpetrator. He had been promoted from a monster to a beast. That was good. Obviously none of them knew there was a reason for everything he did. One very specific reason.

  The implements he had purchased earlier in the week were stacked against the wall. Along with a hacksaw, there were a couple of solid steel poles each about two feet long with grooves on the end for wheels to snap onto. He walked across and picked up the hacksaw, then approached Betty.

  With her being old and frail, he doubted she would survive long. He tugged the gag out of her mouth.

  “Why?” she croaked.

  “Retribution,” he replied.

  “P-please. Please don’t hurt me. P-please.”

  He smelled urine in the air. Hopefully Betty hadn’t wet herself in his car, but he didn’t think she had, otherwise he would have both smelled and felt it before when he lifted her out of the boot. The Oracle pursed his lips before turning his mouth upward into a tight smile. Although there was a motive for his killings, there was something empowering about them and he found that he was beginning to enjoy carrying them out more than he thought possible.

  He stared at Betty as though she was a specimen under a microscope. Life was such a precious thing, easily broken. He knew that better than anyone now.

  Betty looked around, wide eyed as though hoping to see some way to escape. Then he guessed she saw the bodies visible at the limits of the light, their bloodless features looking ghostly in the illumination, because she started screaming, a high pitched wail that made him wince. Not wasting any time, he pressed his knee into her scrawny chest and started work with the hacksaw, drawing it backwards and forwards across her shoulder, and the screaming increased in pitch. He felt the blade bite through flesh, sinew and muscle before gnawing through bone, the reverberations juddering along his arm. Blood sprayed out in great geysers, splashing him, the walls and the floor.

  The screaming stopped, but the sawing continued.

  CHAPTER 10

  As he drove, Prosper alternated between chewing his fingernails and puffing on a cigarette.

  It must have been nearly twenty years since he last travelled along

  Thunder Road, probably pedalling for all he was worth to keep up with his friends if his memory served him right. He grimaced at the thought of how fat he used to be. A succession of trees held dominion alongside the road, and Prosper almost missed the left hand turn, the years of neglect allowing nature to construct a barrier of foliage across the lane. He absently noticed that some of the foliage was broken, indicating someone had used the lane recently.

  Probably a new generation of kids using it as a playground.

  Braking hard, he negotiated the turn and eased his car along the potholed track that wormed its way through the woods. Dappled sunlight weaved patterns through the trees, creating a majestic scene, but looking at it didn’t help calm his nerves. He pressed the button to lower his window a fraction and lit another cigarette, exhaling a furious cloud of smoke that was sucked out of the gap.

  Up ahead, a faded sign peppered with air pellet holes informed him that he was on private property, and that trespassers would be prosecuted. Another sign below it read:

  Thunder Road Pumping Station, built by James Watt & Co. Soho Works, Birmingham and London, 1846. Steering around the worst of the potholes with one hand, Prosper flicked cigarette ash through his open window and blew another cloud of smoke that combined with the dust kicked up by his vehicle. What possesse
d Jerel to want to meet here?

  He absently watched a white butterfly skitter over the ferns carpeting the forest floor. Although the sun provided onerous heat, a slight breeze blew and the trees offered a little shade. Too hot for any other attire, Prosper wore his blue shorts and a light blue, short-sleeved shirt with a dragon stitched up one side. He didn’t usually wear shorts, too embarrassed by his white legs, bony knees and the scar that split his thigh, but the heat made today an exception.

  After receiving another photograph from the Oracle the morning before, he didn’t feel particularly overjoyed to be meeting his old friends, at least not like this, not when he knew what they might request of him.

  Poor old Betty Granger. They had run an advertising campaign in local newspapers to find out who she was; using a snapshot of Betty’s face from the photograph the Oracle sent them that he titled, PERPETUAL MOTION. They obviously couldn’t use the picture in its entirety, not when the killer had chopped her arms and legs off and replaced them with wheels so she looked like an obscene tortoise. Luckily, an old woman called Doris Hall came forward after recognising her.

  The killer’s latest photo featured the same incongruous serial killer portraits as the first two. This time they comprised: Donald Harvey. Patrick Wayne Kearney. Jane Toppan (twice). Henry Lee Lucas. Jack Unterweger and Mack Ray Edwards.

  Prosper glanced further down along the lane and noted a high fence had been erected around the Pumping Station. So he parked on a wide verge and switched the engine off. He absently noticed that although the chain used to lock the double gates was rusted, the padlock appeared shiny and new. It didn’t surprise him. Property developers and builders seemed intent on buying any old buildings with the intention of doing them up and selling them as residential abodes.

  Red lettered signs on the fence informed him again that he was on ‘Private Property.’

  The car’s engine plinked as it cooled, and Prosper opened the door and stepped out to stretch his arms and legs. He stared through the trees, always comparing the forest with a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde character: beautiful during daylight, at night the place would assume a sinister atmosphere.

  Birdsong from nature’s feathered choir filled the air, the cheeps and twerps resonating through the trees.

  Prosper listened to it until the rumble of an engine caught his attention and he stared back along the sun-dappled lane to see a Range Rover with blacked out windows approaching. He watched the vehicle churn up a dust ghost in its wake; the dust descending like a shroud as the vehicle pulled up behind his car.

  Prosper couldn't see the occupant until one of the windows descended to reveal Paris’ grinning face inside.

  “Prosper. How you doin’?”

  “Sweating like a pig, but things could be worse. Another new car? Didn’t you have a Porsche last time I saw you?”

  “Yeah, you know me. I like to swap and change,” Paris said as he cut the engine and stepped out of the vehicle.

  Prosper sucked on his cigarette. At thirty-eight, Paris Gray was two years older than Prosper, and one of his oldest friends. Oakley sunglasses held his blond hair back. He wore a white, short-sleeved Levi T-shirt that hugged his muscular frame and showed off his permanent tan, acquired through regular sojourns to the Caribbean where, because of his successful banking career, he owned a holiday home. A gold stud glinted in his left ear. Despite all his wealth, his pale blue eyes always looked sad, as though dulled by painful memories.

  “Never thought we’d be back here again,” Paris said. “I see they’ve fenced off the pump house. Seeing this place brings back some memories. Didn’t you pop your cherry in there with what’s her name…Marie Crouch?” He winked.

  Prosper nodded, the memory bringing a wry grin to his lips.

  He leaned against the bonnet, jumping away with a shout as the hot metal burned the bare skin below his shorts. He rubbed the back of his legs to ease the pain, and noticed Paris glance quickly at the scar on his thigh, and then turn away. If it wasn’t for the attack on that fateful day, things would be far different, and he knew Paris and the others probably felt the same.

  The memory made him shiver and a ghost took him by the hand and led him back in time to Kingswood High School. To the day everything had changed forever.

  “Hey, you fat shit, get out of my chair.”

  Prosper bit his lip and looked up at Kevin Conner. “It’s not your chair.” He regretted it even as he said it and he started shaking, making his jowls wobble.

  “It’s my chair if I say it is, you fat fuck. Now get out!”

  Prosper bent down and picked up his school bag. He fought to hold back the tears, not wanting want to look like a baby in front of the other kids. He waddled across the classroom to a vacant seat near the front of the woodwork class as the other students threw insults like rocks. Prosper seated himself and buried his head in his hands, trying to ignore the taunts ringing in his ears.

  Prosper hated being fat. But the more he hated it, the more he ate. At times, he wished he could curl up and die. One time, he’d sat in his bedroom with a tub of pills and a bottle of whisky taken from his father’s drink cabinet, but he hadn’t been able to go through with it. It wasn’t through weakness and it wasn’t because he was too strong to succumb: he just didn’t want to upset his parents. They would be heartbroken if he killed himself, and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let his mother walk into his bedroom to find her only son dead. It would break her heart, leave them both inconsolable, wondering where they’d gone wrong. That’s why he’d ripped up the suicide note, and continued to put up with the abuse.

  “I dare you to go up and punch the fat piece of shit,” Kevin said from his seat behind Prosper.

  Prosper rested his head in the crook of his folded arms and stared at the wall. He wished they would all die. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was one or two of them. He could cope with that. But it was almost the whole class, boys and girls alike. The bullying had no gender boundary.

  “Go on, punch him,” someone added. “Let’s see if his flesh wobbles.”

  Prosper heard footsteps approaching from behind, and he squeezed his eyes shut and wished they would leave him alone.

  “Hey, lardy... Hey, look at me when I’m speaking.”

  Prosper’s cheeks burned like hot coals, and he sensed the eyes of the class on him as he raised his head and looked up at the speaker. His eyes watered, blurring his vision slightly, but he recognised Kevin’s friend, Gary Smith, hovering over him. A feeling of dread settled in his stomach.

  Without warning, Gary punched him below his left eye, knocking Prosper’s head back. Pain flared across Prosper’s cheek, and he bit his tongue, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood. Tears rolled down his smarting cheek.

  “Big cry baby,” Gary taunted. “Get up. Go on, get up, fatty.”

  Gary punched Prosper’s ear, causing Prosper’s head to bang painfully into the desk.

  “Leave me alone,” Prosper whimpered as he rubbed at his scalp, looking away.

  “Leave me alone. Leave me alone,” Gary mimicked.

  Prosper stood up, wiping tears from his eyes. Although Prosper was twice his size, Gary wasn’t intimidated.

  “Fight, fight,” someone chanted.

  But Prosper wasn’t going to fight, and everyone knew it. That’s why they picked on him. He slung his bag over his shoulder and made for the door.

  Why of all days, did the teacher have to be late today?

  “Don’t let him get away,” Kevin said.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Gary snarled, grabbing Prosper by the shoulder. “Going to tell teacher, are ya?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Well, if you do, remember this...”

  Pain shot up Prosper’s leg, a blinding, white-hot pang like molten metal poured into his veins. He gritted his teeth, dropped his bag and fell to the ground, clutching the wound. Looking up, he saw Gary standing over him with a bloody chisel. />
  “Tell anyone, and I’ll kill ya. Understand, fat boy?”

  Prosper gritted his teeth, fighting back nausea and nodded his head. Gary backed away, a smug grin on his face. Prosper swallowed hard.

  Somehow, some way, somewhere, Gary Smith will pay for this. They all will.

  Prosper looked down at his leg and saw a blood stained rip in his grey trousers. He lifted the fabric aside and winced at the vicious wound. The sight caused a sick feeling to rise into his throat and his cheeks prickled.

  When the teacher arrived some minutes later, Prosper professed to have fallen while playing with the chisel, and despite her sceptical expression, he kept to his story and she led him to the school nurse, who then drove him straight to the hospital.

  Prosper didn’t venture out of his house until a month after the attack, but after being cooped up in the house for so long, he wanted to catch up with his friends. He knew they would either be hanging about around the tree house they’d built in the large horse chestnut tree in Paris’ mum’s garden, or they’d be holding a band practice in the church hall.

  Unable to find them at the tree house, he waddled to the church, sweating profusely when he was only half way there. Even from a distance, he heard the music, a guttural, muffled sound loud enough to wake the dead in the surrounding churchyard. He often wondered if the kindly vicar would allow them to use the hall if he knew the lyrics of their discordant songs paid homage to the devil.