by Ryan Casey
He held the power button. The phone had to work. It had to be ready-charged. He needed to know they were okay. He just needed to hear their voices. Nothing else mattered.
The phone vibrated. A blue light emitted from the screen. A little Pear logo appeared in the middle. He waited. He had to know. He had to know—fast.
When the phone started up, a message was present on the home screen. “Searching for Network,” it read. Fuck. Search the fuck for network already. Hurry the fuck up and search.
Still nothing.
“Fuck,” Jonny said. He punched the cold, hard ground with his free hand. Dust clouded up in the air. He’d have to find a pay phone. Or use somebody else’s. He was a wanted murderer—what fucking harm would stealing a phone do now?
The “Searching for Network” message changed to “Orange.”
And he had full signal.
The moment he saw that it had changed, he keyed in his landline number. The first few attempts he hit the wrong numbers, his fingers were shaking that badly. His hands were like claws. It was like he was trapped in a nightmare where all his motor functions had abandoned him. Fuck. Deep breaths. Stay calm. Stay cool.
He found himself sucking at his bloody finger again.
After he had, he entered the numbers successfully. Just.
He pulled the phone to his ear. The wait for the dialling tone to kick in seemed like forever. It didn’t usually take this long for a phone to start dialling, did it? Usually, the familiar monophonic ring of the dial would have kicked in by now. What was he doing wrong?
Then the dialling tone started.
His stomach churned up. He held his breath.
One ring.
Answer. Please.
Two rings.
Please.
Another ring. And another. And another.
He felt something damp dripping down his cheek as he waited and waited and waited.
When the dialling tone hit its fifteenth ring, he realised that the dampness on his cheek was a tear.
Jonny cancelled the call, then tried again. He couldn’t try his mum or dad’s mobile because he didn’t know them by heart. All he had was his landline.
And nobody was answering the landline.
Another tear rolled down his cheek. He wanted to believe that they were just at work. Because that made sense, didn’t it? Dad was always at work. And when Mum did go into work, she’d sometimes be in by this time.
Right?
The dialling tone cut out again to a crackling static. A crackling static beyond the deathly silence of the disconnected call. His bottom lip quivered. He sniffed back as more tears poured down his cheeks. His mum. His dad. They were gone. They were gone and it wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him. Even the hunger… it hadn’t done this. He was sure of it. So sure.
Why was this happening to him?
He rose slowly to his feet. He pulled his green rucksack over his shoulder. He had no choice but to move on. The hunger was stronger than ever now. His vision was blurred. His head throbbed. He needed to feed. He needed nourishment. He needed something to make him understand. Something to help him.
Or maybe all he needed was prison. Maybe that’s where he belonged now. What was all this for, anyway? All this running away. What was he hoping to achieve? Because, sure—he could get lucky and cross over to France. He could swim the fuck to Australia if his body allowed him. He could outrun the authorities.
But the hunger. He couldn’t outrun the hunger. One day—one day very soon—he’d feed again, whether he liked it or not.
He could outrun the authorities, but he couldn’t outrun what he was.
Maybe maximum security was the safest place for him after all. The safest place for everyone. A place where he’d rot away and die, his HIV finally finishing him off. That’s what he deserved—a horrible, painful death for all the pain he’d caused. Because he’d killed Rebecca. He’d killed that Cub Scout guardian. It didn’t matter that he’d seen Rebecca alive in the water when he’d gone back—she’d changed. She was like him. Hungry.
And being cursed with the hunger was a much worse fate than death, he knew that now.
He pulled open the metal door to the garage and stepped out into the February sunshine. Birds tweeted on the leafless trees around him. A few more cars were driving down the road. At the opposite side of the street, a couple of students laughed and joked as they walked in the direction of the university.
He had to give up. There was nothing left for him now. Nothing left to fight for.
He reached for his phone. Hit the first 9. Then the second. And then the third. His heart pounded as he moved his finger over the dial button. He just had to be honest with them. Tell them the truth about what he’d done. They wouldn’t believe him. They’d just claim he was wracked with guilt, or something. They wouldn’t understand the hunger. Nobody would.
Not yet.
He lowered his shaking thumb over the dial button. He was tired of running. Tired of running away from what he was. Tired of denying the beast inside him.
His phone buzzed.
He frowned. “One New Message” popped up. Unknown number. Probably just a welcome message from the network. Fuck—even the mobile networks were getting in his way of doing the right thing today. Even they wanted him to suffer just a moment longer. He opened up the message just to clear the notification from his home screen.
But it wasn’t a message from the network.
It was a picture message. Two pictures, actually. The first one was the photograph from the newspaper. Only this time, the faces weren’t blurred out.
It was his mum and his dad.
Both of their necks were covered with blood. Their heads were tilted to the side, as a gaping wound of flesh and tendon in the same spot on each.
The spot where the blood was ripe. Rich. Where the meal was most satisfying.
Jonny felt no emotion. He felt complete detachment from the world around him—from the birds on the trees and the sun in the sky. Complete and utter detachment.
It was when he saw the second picture that his detachment and apathy changed to anger.
It was a picture of his friend, Brad. He was sitting in a chair. His hands were bound to the chair arms—a chair Jonny recognised as being in Brad’s house. His eyes were fearful and the skin around them was bruised. Around his mouth, he had a gag, which was drenched with blood.
Jonny exited the message. He looked up at his surroundings. He knew the sky was blue. He knew it was a pleasant winter’s day. But all he saw was red. Red sky, red houses, red birds in red trees. Red everything.
He dropped his phone. Smashed it repeatedly underneath his foot.
And then he ran.
He couldn’t contain it anymore.
He was going to tear whoever had done this to pieces, and he was going to enjoy every single bite of them.
He closed the lid of the laptop. He wouldn’t be needing it, not anymore. Initially, the plan had been to track the subject via GPS and hunt him down. That’s usually how his jobs went.
But not this job.
He slipped the laptop into a black bag. The kitchen he was in was dark, even though it was light outside. He’d been sure to shut the blinds. Couldn’t risk anybody seeing.
Not that it mattered now anyway. This case he was working on was rather large. He figured he had a lot of leeway when it came to collateral damage.
At least, he hoped so, as he stared down at the bloodbath beneath his feet.
Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. Their son, who was called Brad, apparently. He didn’t need to know this. In fact, he’d rather not know it, staring down at them huddled together like that. Gunshots in each of their foreheads. Round, gaping holes that looked like they went on and on into a bloody, brainy cavern.
Tiptoeing over the blood on the tiled kitchen floor, he reached for a blue tarpaulin and covered the scene. He’d deal with it properly later, and have his cleaners do their work around here. But for now, as long as he
was going to be here, he didn’t want to have to stare at them.
Not that staring at dead bodies fazed him. He’d just rather not. Who would opt to stare at dead bodies, really?
He pulled over a wooden chair from the kitchen table. It scraped across the tiles, leaving behind it a path of blood. He perched it by the kitchen door, then sat on it, leaning forward against the rear of the chair—a way he’d always preferred sitting, even in restaurants and other public places. He stared at the front door. He knew he’d be here soon. If this went to plan, then the subject—Jonny Ainsthwaite, no point pretending he didn’t know who it was anymore—would barge in through that door fuelled with rage. Rage at losing his parents. Rage at his best friend being “held captive.” If only poor Jonny knew that his best friend was already gone. Sleeping. Finished. If only he knew.
His superiors had warned him that this Jonny was dangerous. That he was to be treated with exceptional care.
But he was a professional. He’d dealt with worse.
He reached into his pocket. Inside, beside his Smith & Wesson, there was another gun. A smaller gun, which had a toyish feel to it. He lifted it out. In the top of it, there was a cartridge of sedative. And in the front, sharp darts that would pierce the flesh of this Ainsthwaite kid and put him into a long, deep sleep.
All he had to do was take the shot. Take the shot, then deliver him. He didn’t care too much why they were after this Ainsthwaite character. Or rather, he wasn’t allowed to care. His case didn’t seem too strange though. Kills a girl, kills a kid, then does a runner. Guilt got the better of him, like it did most humans.
He leaned forward on the wood of the chair, aimed the gun, and waited. For that was all he could do now. All he was paid and hired to do.
Wait, shoot, deliver.
And he always delivered.
30.
He ran and he ran and he ran and he ran.
Motorways passed by him. Cars zoomed by. Buses and trains and people and birds and flies and shit.
Shit. Filth. Fuck them. Fuck them all.
His vision was blurred, but he was focused. His heart raced. Thumped. Bashed through his chest. His blood boiled. He couldn’t get the taste out of his mouth. The longing—oh the fucking longing for that sweet, succulent flesh and blood down his throat.
No point even resisting anymore.
No point.
Mum, dead. Dad, dead. Brad, in grave danger.
No point resisting.
Devour whoever did this.
Devour and fuck and beat and kick the shit out of whoever did this.
He didn’t know how he was doing it. He was taking directions in—signs pointing to Preston, places near to Preston. Just as long as he headed north. Just as long as he kept on running. He knew he’d keep on running no matter what. His legs, they were moving without thought now. Functioning independent of his mind.
He was going home. He didn’t care what was there—what police bullshittery was waiting for him. He was going home and he was going to make them pay and he was going to be nourished.
That was all he needed. He needed it to see more clearly. He needed it.
On his way, he noticed people speaking to him. Looking at him with concerned faces. Asking him if he was okay. But he ignored them. Bolted past them. Disregarded them. No time to waste. No time.
He had no idea how long he’d been running. He lost track long ago, even though he’d not been keeping track at all. Just focus. Focus on the signs and follow the roads. Go home, get home.
Out of nowhere, he saw it. Saw the familiar grey block of flats in the distance. Saw the familiar floodlights of the football stadium. He was still some miles away—a good hour or two’s walk—but he wasn’t walking. The hunger was walking—running—for him.
He took a deep breath. He realised he’d stopped, right there on the hard shoulder of the motorway. Car horns were honking at him as they drove past. Concerned faces. Scared faces.
After all, he was Jonny Ainsthwaite. Jonny Ainsthwaite, the killer of a young woman and a Cub Scout. Jonny Ainsthwaite, the parent murderer. He wasn’t that person. Deep inside, underneath the rage and the hate and the fuck-it-all, he wasn’t that person.
But to them, he was. He was that monster.
They just didn’t realise that he and the monster were separate things. And right now, the monster was winning.
He turned to his left. Fields led right up towards the city of Preston. Fields, void of people, of animals, of life, except for one man in the middle of the field, riding a tractor, wearing a high-vis jacket, a burgundy hat atop his head. Fields that would lead Jonny right where he wanted to go.
He climbed over the low metal fencing at the side of the hard shoulder.
Then, when he’d descended the muddy, grassy hill, he ran.
He was almost there.
Almost home.
Almost nourished.
He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there facing the door of Mr. and Mrs. Cooper’s house, but his arms were starting to grow numb.
He found his vision wandering. Wandering around the hallway. Family photographs lined the wooden radiator cover. On the flowery-wallpapered wall to the left of the door, a model ship, sliced in half and stuck up for decoration. He started to get a sense of the life of the family he’d just shot in the head. He started to get a sense that they were decent, harmless people.
But weren’t they all?
He sighed. He could smell them now. It didn’t usually get to him, but perhaps it was the fact that he had been sitting here for the best part of two hours and he was just going stir-crazy. Or maybe it was one of those days. He didn’t have them often, but when he did, they always followed a similar pattern. He always doubted what he was doing. He knew he was carrying out his acts for the betterment of the greater population—he got that.
But this family. The fear in the boy’s eyes as he’d punched him across the face, bruising and gashing his right eye. The fear in his eyes and his voice as he’d strapped that duct tape across his mouth and taken the photograph. The fear in his eyes when he’d walked back over to him.
And then the relief. The hope. The hope returning to the boy’s eyes as he removed the tape. The hope returning to his face and his voice and his actions as he’d pulled the rest of the tape from his wrists and released his feet from the chair. The gratefulness—how curious the gratefulness was. Was it legitimate? Could somebody really thank a person for not killing them?
The hope and the relief were still in the boy’s eyes when he lifted the gun and fired a bullet through the front of his head.
He died with that hope in his eyes. At least he hadn’t understood. At least he’d never understand.
He blinked a few times. Readjusted himself to the room. He needed to focus. Yes—focus. That’s what he needed. All he needed. Focus, don’t ask questions, get the job done. Don’t think of them as humans or families. That’s dangerous.
The thought of his little girl, Penny, entered his mind.
No. Get rid. Don’t associate—
But it was too late. It was the scene he always pictured whenever he was having one of those days. Holding her hand as they walked down the Coney Island promenade, the sun blazing down on them, a light, warm breeze in the air carrying the smell of fried food and hot dogs across the beach. Somewhere in the scene, Shirley was there too, but she was blurred out. When he turned to his left to look at her, she was always looking in the direction of the beach, her dark hair shimmering in the breeze, blocking any sight of her face.
But his daughter. Penny. Face covered with vanilla ice cream. A red balloon in hand with a picture of Pluto from Disney embossed on it. The smile on her face. The joy in her voice.
He wondered how she was. How they both were, actually. He had an idea where they lived, but that wasn’t the point, not really. What he did now—his profession—it was too dangerous for them even to be associated with him. As much as the knowledge pained him, when he’d been forced to cho
ose between his family and the high-profile government job, he’d bitten the hand off the job opportunity. Because he figured he’d get the chance to go back to his family one day. He figured he’d get the chance to live a normal life again, some time. He’d been killing and striking fear into people for years before this job came up. Only now, he was doing it for a much more respectable breed of client.
It just so happened that those respectable clients were some of the most dangerous, vindictive, bloodthirsty motherfuckers he’d ever had the displeasure of working for.
But they paid him. They paid him a lot. So he earned his wage. Didn’t ask questions. Had a large portion of his wage put in a safe savings account for his wife—ex-wife, whatever she was now—and his daughter. And one day, when he was gone—because he would be gone one day, that was another certainty of the danger of his job—they would receive that money and they would be sorted for life.
Dad’s final gift.
What he did wasn’t ideal, but in the long run, it would be for the best.
A movement up ahead.
He jolted. He’d been daydreaming. Daydreaming really badly, in fact. But there was no denying it. No denying the shadow at the window. No denying the clear form of a head behind the frosted glass of the front door. He was here. Finally, his subject was here.
He raised the sedative gun and pointed it at the door. He’d hit him in the heart. He was a good shot, so it would only take him a fraction of a second to work out where to aim and fire. The Ainsthwaite kid would be on the floor and sleeping before he had the chance to scream out. He’d led him right where he wanted him. He’d thrown the bait at his subject, and that subject had come running right at him, just like they always did when family and friends were involved.
He kept his focus on the door. The shadow was still there. Why wasn’t he trying to open the door? He hadn’t even turned the handle. Had he seen something? Suspected something? The car—he’d parked it far enough away, hadn’t he? Yes. Calm it. This is no big deal. Just calm, and focus. Always focus.