Sweet Oblivion

by Rhiana Ramsey

  She jogged up the stairs to flat number 6 on the third floor. Another uniformed officer stood at the door holding a scene log and controlling a cordon. Through the door, Elizabeth spotted Robert sitting in the living room with a handsome looking man with thick dark hair, tanned skin and chiselled features.

  Robert caught Elizabeth’s eye and waved her in. She identified herself to the uniformed officer at the door, gave her details to be noted on the log and walked in to the living room towards where Robert was sitting, dropping her gym bag by the front door as she did so. Robert stood up and met her half way.

  ‘We’ve got another one. This is Peter Reiley and his flat mate, our deceased, is Mark Faversham. I haven’t got much out of Peter yet as he is still getting over finding the body. Apparently they have known each other since they were kids. I haven’t looked at the crime scene yet either, or at least nothing further than a cursory glance through the bedroom door. Looks pretty fucking messy.’ Robert spoke quietly, not wanting Peter to over-hear him.

  ‘And this is definitely the same killer?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Looks that way. Peter told me that the body is tied to the bed in the same manner as David Saunders.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Yeah I know. Elizabeth, I’d like you to take Peter down to the station and get his statement. He won’t be able to come back to the flat for a while, and I’m sure he’d rather not stay here anyway, so once you’re done see if there’s anyone else he can stay with.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks. Once you’re done, go home and get some rest ok? I still want us to visit The Garden at some point, but obviously that won’t be tonight now. If there’s any change, I’ll call you.’

  Elizabeth smiled at him in acknowledgement then went over to Peter Reiley to introduce herself and talk him through the process.

  Robert left her to it and went over to the front door where he could see the scenes of crimes officers putting on their white investigation suits. He walked over to Becca and asked for a suit for himself.

  ‘I’m coming in this time Becca. I need to get a feel for this killer,’ he said by way of explanation.

  She simply nodded and handed him a suit which he quickly put on. He walked back through the living room towards the bedroom, noting that Elizabeth and Peter Reiley had left and wondered how they had managed to slip by without him noticing.

  Becca entered the bedroom first and gave a running commentary as she did so, her comments being noted by another crime scene officer who stood on the threshold. As she proceeded through the room Becca placed round plastic steps onto the floor to mark the path that she was taking into and around the room; this path would be used by anyone who entered the room from now on so as to limit disruption to any potential evidence. This was known as the common approach path and would demarcate the most unlikely route the suspect would have taken to enter and move around the room. It was as a simple as passing over the threshold to one side instead of straight through the middle, sticking close to the walls when navigating the space and approaching the bed from the bottom instead of the top or sides. Of course, it wasn‘t perfect because you never knew where a suspect may have been, or what they may have touched, but it provided a starting point for entering a crime scene.

  Robert followed Becca in, scrutinising the scene as he went. The room was large and masculine. A big black wardrobe with glass-fronted doors was positioned on the left side of the room, taking up most of the wall space; the window next to it was covered with heavy black and red curtains. Under the window was a black plastic laundry basket and in the left-hand corner, there was a chair with a high back, black in colour, with clothing slung over it.

  Next to this, pushed up against the back wall was Mark’s superking bed, grey sheets and pillows stained red from dried blood; to the right of the bed, a bedside cabinet complete with black shaded lamp and reading books.

  Propped up against the right-hand wall was a conspicuously clean mountain bike and gym weights; also to the right of the doorway was a chest of drawers supporting a sophisticated stereo and what appeared to be family photographs. Above the bed there was a large black and white photograph of New York city.

  Robert mirrored Becca’s steps and moved towards the bed to look at the body. The smell was atrocious, the body bloated and pale. He looked at the face. Again, the right eye was seriously damaged, but on this occasion remained within the orbital socket. Dried blood caked the right side of Mark’s face and his mouth hung open. He had bruises and cuts around the sides of his mouth. His hands were tied to the bed headrest, his wrists rubbed raw and bloody where he had tried to break free. Again the torso appeared unscathed. As Robert’s eyes descended down the length of the body, he mentally prepared himself for what he was going to see.

  Mark’s penis and testicles had been removed in full; all that remained was a bloody, gaping, circular wound, with jagged edges and flaps of skin hanging loose in places.

  As Robert stood there, regretting the pasty he had grabbed on his way to the scene and which was now doing pirouettes in his stomach, he tried to visualise the killer, tried to imagine the setting.

  He saw a man, a professional man, allowing and wanting himself to be tied up for sexual thrills. A man who trusted an apparent stranger enough to allow her to render him totally powerless and vulnerable. Why did he trust her? From what he’d read trust was paramount in S & M. You had to be sure the person you were with would stop when asked and not go beyond the agreed rules. How could you guarantee a stranger wouldn’t turn out to be a deranged killer? Enough said.

  Robert visualised a killer, a female, standing proud over the prostrate figure on the bed, beautiful, strong, athletic. If these men allowed themselves to be lured away by someone, she would have to be pretty damn spectacular he mused. These were not stupid men, they were successful and both David Saunders and Mark Faversham appeared to take care of themselves physically. Both would have been considered attractive to the opposite sex and would, therefore, be able to pick and choose the women they wanted to spend time with.

  He saw her standing over Mark, a dark, faceless form taunting him, a blade in her hand, enjoying his fear, enjoying his pain, relishing his impotence. He could feel Mark’s fear.

  This murder hadn’t been reported until Monday evening when the body had been discovered by Mark’s flatmate, so presumably no one had heard any screaming at the time of the murder. Robert liked to think that people would still call Old Bill if they heard the cries of a person in need, so working on that assumption, he could assume that no one had heard anything, or at least nothing they felt worthy of note.

  The neighbours were being spoken with by officers to establish if they had indeed heard anything out of the ordinary, but Robert already knew the answer. They wouldn’t have heard any screams because Mark had been gagged, the cuts and bruises around his mouth evidenced this theory. He suspected that in keeping with the alternative bondage lifestyle the killer had been able to easily gag Mark under the pretext of sexual play, the real motive being much more sinister and deadly.

  Robert looked again at the gash between Mark’s extended, stretched legs, the removal of the male organs rendering his body disturbingly androgynous. Was that the killer’s plan? There was no doubt that if you wanted to emasculate a man, removal of his dick was a pretty fucking effective and sure fire way to do it. So, what was this killer’s problem? What was her motivation? And why did she damage the eye? What part did it play in her scenario?

  As the questions tumbled around Robert’s skull like dirty laundry in a washing machine, he watched Becca, tweezers in hand collecting fibres, hairs, anything she could find from the bed around the corpse. Collecting fibres, collecting hairs, collecting… souvenirs, just like the killer.

  Robert had seen enough. He could feel the tension building behind his eyes, a dull throb beginning to knock gently from the inside of his skull. He signalled to Becca that he was leaving and exited the room. He removed the paper
suit he’d been wearing and bundled it up, placing it in a plastic disposal bag brought by the SOCOs.

  He walked out of the flat and gave the uniformed officers their instructions, leaving a uniformed inspector in charge of the scene. He also left them his phone number in case they needed to get in touch with him.

  Ordinarily he would have stayed at the scene until the SOCOs had completed their examination but he needed to get out of the flat, get some air. He was confident the officers remaining behind were more than competent to manage the crime scene.

  Robert was acutely aware of how desperate they now were for a break in the case. And they needed one fast, or the body count would only continue to rise. Maybe something would arise from this latest crime scene, although Robert doubted it. This was a clever, meticulous killer. He began to make his way in the direction of the police station then changed his mind. The club would be open in a few hours. It was time to go hunting.

  ************************************************

  The smell of sizzling steak filled the kitchen, the crackle of the burning oil forcing Louise and Ben to talk loudly as they stood by the hob, Ben cooking, Louise looking on.

  The kitchen was large and chic with black granite work tops, chrome handled red units, state of the art appliances and pale grey mock-stone flooring. Louise loved it; it reminded her of a show home she had once seen, modern, sleek and un-lived in.

  Although Ben did of course live in this house, it was obvious he was scrupulous with his cleaning efforts. What else does a single-man living on his own without so much as a pet cat do of an evening? Don the marigolds and have a good scrub of course. Louise chuckled at the thought.

  ‘What now Ms Jackson?’ Ben asked amused, giving her a sideways glance, one eye trained on the steaks he was poking.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She smiled sweetly and raised her wine to her lips feeling better than she had in weeks. She wasn’t sure if it was the company, the wine or the fact she had discovered some kind of explanation for the weird things that had been happening to her lately. She didn’t even feel that bothered about Steve tonight.

  ‘Should you be prodding the steak like that?’ she asked, peering into the frying pan.

  ‘I like to keep moving them about so they don’t burn. I let the oil get really hot before I put them in. Brown on the outside, nice and pink on the inside.’

  ‘I see. Is that a technique the gourmet chefs use then?’

  Louise leaned one hip against the work top her arms folded beneath her breasts, right hand clutching the stem of the wine glass. Ben ignored her jibe and carried on cooking.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be sorting out the potatoes? Scoop out the centres and mix them with the cottage cheese,’ he ordered.

  Louise placed her wine on the counter and began to do as he bid. She was struck by the ease with which they were cooking and preparing dinner together, the picture of domesticity.

  ‘So, Louise, you still haven’t told me what the doctor said,’ Ben looked up from the steaks, one eyebrow arched quizzically, ‘any reason for that?’

  ‘No, no reason. Just thought I’d wait until we were sitting down for dinner.’ Actually, I don’t want you to be pissed that I didn’t go…

  ‘Well, tell me now. I was trying to call you all day to find out how you were.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. You see the thing is I didn’t actually go to the doctor’s today, or rather I went but I didn’t stay to see the doctor,’

  The truth is always better than a lie.

  ‘Oh Lou, why not? You promised you would.’ Ben stopped poking the steaks altogether and looked at her, unimpressed.

  ‘It’s ok Ben, I went to the library and did some research. I think I know what it is that’s been causing these hallucinations, visions or whatever they are. It’s just simple sleep deprivation.’

  ‘Sleep deprivation? That sounds like bollocks to me.’

  ‘No honest, I spent hours looking it up. You’d be surprised how many books there are on the subject,’ Louise said earnestly.

  Ben looked at her as if she had just declared that she was in fact a man, his expression a contortion of cynicism and scepticism wrestling with amazement and disbelief.

  ‘Louise, you cannot just read a few books and self-diagnose. This could be serious,’ he began.

  Louise held up a placating hand and said: ‘Look, I know what you think and I understand what you’re saying but Ben, I am fine. Honestly. I was a little perturbed by it all at first but now I understand it’s nothing more than over work, lack of sleep and too much pressure. I’ll go down the chemist tomorrow and get some sleeping tablets, herbal ones at first and if they don’t work I will go to the doctor and explain that I can’t sleep.’

  ‘I just cannot, will not, explain to a doctor what is happening or they will think I’m mad. You know what I told you about my mother. I will not have them cart me off to some loony bin too. I will not let them poke and probe around inside my head, bouncing around their theories. You know they have to formulate some sort of diagnosis to put on your record and which doctor is going to say it’s only sleep deprivation? They’re always so scared of getting sued that you just know they would run tests ‘just to be on the safe side.’’ Louise used air quotations to expound her point. ‘And you just know they’d find something wrong. They always do! Nobody has a perfect upbringing. They‘d be all ‘so tell me about your childhood? Tell me how you were affected by the death of the pet goldfish.’ She waved a hand in front of her face dismissively, her eyebrows drawn together in a tight frown, lips pursed in annoyance.

  ‘It’s all crap that psycho babble you know? There is symbolism and meaning in anything and everything if you want there to be and of course, it is all subject to personal opinion and belief,’ she finished, sounding somewhat like a petulant child.

  ‘Not a fan of doctors are you?’ Ben stated after a brief pause.

  ‘No I’m bloody not. Look what they did to my mother? Fucking wankers!’ she concluded.

  ‘Ok. I won’t mention it again. Let’s just enjoy dinner and talk about things that won’t set either of us off. How does that sound?’ Ben extended his hand and Louise shook it.

  ‘Sounds like a bloody good idea to me.’ she smiled wearily, feeling like she had already had to justify herself to one sceptic and wondering how many others she would have to convince of her sanity.

  As the conversation moved onto more trivial matters and their laughter filled the kitchen, neither of them noticed the man standing in the shadows beyond the kitchen window, collar upturned, darkness enveloping him in her impenetrable embrace. He stood watching until the pair moved into the dinning room and turned off the kitchen light.

  Then he slowly turned and walked away into the night.

  Chap XX

  From the outside the club didn’t look particularly special. The tall, imposing entrance revealed no clues as to what could be going on inside. It certainly didn’t look like a ‘den of iniquity’, which is how Robert was sure Janet Saunders would have described such a place.

  The front door was grand; a high, wooden, studded door with a large brass knocker on the front. It was open, and led into a small vestibule where a further, equally grand door prevented nosey parkers like Robert from glimpsing the inner sanctum.

  There was a large bouncer on the inner door wearing a full-length leather coat over black slacks. He reminded Robert of a character from the Matrix. All he needed were the frameless rectangular glasses and the look would have been complete.

  As Robert stood there, he wondered how people knew to come to this place. There was no sign, there was no audible music, there wasn’t even a venue name over the door. In fact Robert had only worked out that this place was indeed the Garden when he had checked out the neighbouring buildings and discovered that they were all commercial premises that operated in the day.

  He leant against a lamp post, watching the entrance to the premises, a true personification of an old-fashioned
detective cliché. Now all he needed to complete his look was a Columbo-style mac and a cigar. He didn’t have a cigar but he did have a cigarette, which he lit with his cheap throw away lighter. If he didn’t have expensive smoker’s paraphernalia he could just about convince himself he wasn’t really a smoker.

  A few people had emerged from the venue and a few had gone in since Robert had commenced his vigil fifteen minutes earlier. Most had been dressed in keeping with social expectations, regular clothing seemingly concealing the fetish apparel beneath, but a few had chosen to be more overt with their garb, sporting PVC trousers and tops, the women exposing swathes of cleavage and leg. Club-goers had presented a form of invitation to the bouncer and this appeared to be enough to secure them entry.

  Now, where does one get an official invite?

  Robert wasn’t really sure what he was looking for as he stood there, leaning up against his trusty lamp post, a cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping his head. He should have been at home with his wife, but instead he had chosen to stand in the street like some sort of naïve voyeur, sneaking peeks of a practice with which he was unfamiliar.

  He shook his head to himself and was about to turn way to go home, when he heard the club door open. He looked towards the door, the portal to the other side, and saw a tall, well-built male step out into the street.

  He had waist-length, black hair, pale skin and the sort of rugged features one expected of a rock star. He was wearing a short, black leather jacket over a deep red t-shirt and shiny, black trousers. He had an immense presence about him, the type of energy that would cause people to look at him and take heed when he entered a room, which was probably why Robert felt himself being drawn to him.

  he man drew a cigarette from a pocket of his jacket and put it between his lips. He checked his pockets repeatedly searching for something to light it with. Robert could just make out whispered expletives as the man continued to fumble through his various pockets for a lighter. As if sensing Robert watching, the man looked up and then, noticing Robert’s lit cigarette, strode towards him. As the man approached, Robert extracted his own lighter and offered it to the man. The stranger took it and nodded appreciatively.