What Lies in the Dark

by CM Thompson

  Elizabeth hears the noise first. The constant drip, drip, drip, combined with the buzz of a refrigerator. Drip, drip, drip. Her eyes begin to adjust to the gloom. The sink is filled with rotting plates. Another overpowering smell hits as she creeps closer to look through the dirty window and sees that the plates in the sink are covered in a thick layer of green mould, she thinks she can see things … wiggling. The smell is overwhelming, the deaths of a thousand take-aways waft through. Drip, drip, drip. She turns, that sound is definitely not coming from the rusty taps. She imagines blood dripping, almost hopes it is, as that means she can leave and call the police. She moves closer to the sound, drip, drip, drip. A cold wet dot falls down on her cheek.

  Claire shrieks in a high pitched fury, “Oh get off your high mountain Aaron.”

  Fletcher’s parents, when they were naming Aaron Fletcher, did not know that Aaron meant High Mountain. Unfortunately, Claire does. Fletcher sometimes wishes that Claire meant daughter of the dog or lopsided cow.

  Fletcher takes a deep breath and tries to assure himself that they are both adults, they can talk this through calmly and rationally. “I just wish you would consider this.”

  “I said no. I am not going.”

  “You would be safer, it will only be for a little while.”

  “A little while? Do you have any idea what a little while would do to my career? Do you?”

  “You could still commute in.”

  “No Aaron.”

  “Claire.”

  “Don’t you ‘Claire’ me. I am not going to stay with my mother.” A cup, still half full of coffee, twists dangerously in Claire’s hands. Her brown eyes flush with anger.

  “It’s for your own safety. There is a killer out there.”

  “I don’t care. I am not going.”

  “Claire, please just consider this. Be reasonable.”

  “You be reasonable. For all you know this guy could have left the city by now.”

  “He hasn’t.”

  “You don’t know that.” The cup is twisting dangerously, small drips of coffee add to the already stained floor.

  “I just want you to be safe.”

  “That’s not what this is about, is it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, you don’t want me around anymore, is that what you are trying to say.”

  “No, Claire.”

  Why on earth would she think that?

  “Yes it is, this is why you have been working overtime isn’t it? You don’t want me to be around anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” Dear lord, where has this come from?

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I just want you to be safe.”

  “Are you having an affair?”

  “What? No.”

  “Liar.”

  “Claire, you know that’s not true.”

  Is she trying to manipulate him? Over-exaggerate the situation so he would give in to her? Or did she genuinely think that this is what it is about? Sometimes Claire confuses him more than anything.

  There is a fierce stony silence. Fletcher decides it is just best to compromise now. He is beginning to wish he hadn’t said anything.

  “Look, I just want you to be safe, if you don’t want to go then fine, stay here. I am just trying to protect you, that’s all.”

  “Oh sure, that’s what you want isn’t it? For me to stay here, like a good little housewife.”

  He isn’t going to win this one, no matter what he says. “Claire.”

  “Fuck you, Aaron.” The cup is flung in his general direction, splatting coffee over the cream walls as Claire triumphantly storms out the house. Fletcher sits among the shards, trying to figure out just where he had gone wrong.

  Elizabeth Mitchell’s heart trembles as the drops continue to slither down her face. Her eyes see a dark patch slowly growing on the ceiling, dripping down into the sink. Elizabeth’s skin crawls, the whole house seems to be oozing suffocating dirt. How could someone live like this? She moves across the kitchen floor, her feet sticking with each step, not daring to think about what she is stepping in. Peering out the dirty windows she sees the neglected back garden. Old Arnie’s prized shed is barely visible through the thick grass. No one had been out in that garden for a long time. No, that isn’t his lair. It has to be somewhere in here. Somewhere in the house is evidence that he killed those girls.

  Elizabeth had first become suspicious after Fran Lizzie’s death. He had come home that night roaring drunk, shouting that it wasn’t his fault over and over again. She had thought little of it at the time; such antics were not unusual for him. Then she had seen that picture of the poor girl. There had been something not quite right about that young man, she had seen it since the day he moved in. Something not quite right at all. She started watching him more closely then. Back in March, he had been quiet, no more drunken nights … for a while anyway. Just sitting in the front room, smoking cigarette after cigarette. She has monitored him for months, carefully recording his every coming and going, waiting for him to slip up. Even waiting with the video camera, just waiting for him to lose it again. Something so she could prove her suspicions to the police. He must have known that, as he was being careful. But she knew she would get him eventually, he would pay for what he had done. She had almost given up when he started drinking again, back in July. Literally stumbling home to collapse on the grass, singing satanic songs to the sky.

  Then from 20 August to 1 September he had not come home at all. For nearly two weeks he had not returned. She had first thought he was on some kind of holiday until she heard about what happened to those three women. It had to have been him, he must have been hiding somewhere, scared that the police were coming by. Had to have been him. His drinking had got worse when he came home in September. Elizabeth observed that he was leaving for the shops every single day for more cigarettes and beer. He was a man falling apart, she had decided, couldn’t live with himself after what he had done. But she wasn’t going to let him get away with it, oh no. She has been waiting for the right time to come in and snoop. The proof is somewhere in this house and she is going to get it. That just leaves upstairs. She isn’t so good with stairs anymore. Each step will bring a jab of pain to her ankles. She has to take stairs very slowly at home – she doesn’t know if she will have that much time. Sudden panic overwhelms her, no one knows she is in here. She hadn’t even told her husband. He had already denounced her suspicions as mad, if he knew she had come in here alone … should she go upstairs? If he comes home suddenly, she won’t be able to get downstairs. She will be trapped in the house. He would notice the front door unlocked … her mind starts screaming that she should get out of here, get out now. She is crazy to be here, in the house belonging to a man she suspects is a serial killer. No, no she can do this. He won’t be home for a while, she is sure of that. It could be days until he comes back, she is being stupid for no reason. She has to do this despite her knees. Slowly she starts to creak towards the stairs.

  Bullface is spending her day off alone. She has told her husband she is working. Not that he really cares where she is. None of them care, she had been happier with her first husband but he can’t stand the sight of her any more. That’s why she ended up marrying Mr Bullrush, her second husband. If she hadn’t married him she wouldn’t have gained that stupid nickname. No one would call her Bullface if she was still called Mrs Tanner, Mrs Victoria Tanner, mother of Pippa Tanner. Instead of Victoria Bullrush, mother to two large hairy bastards – Cain and Abel reincarnated. Bullface is spending her day off alone, with a near-empty bottle of brandy. A second bottle is waiting faithfully by her side. She just can’t be bothered to do anything else today. So what if she needs to buy Christmas presents for her boys, it isn’t like they are four any more. Christmas is just an excuse to them now, an excuse to extort more money out of her. In another year or two they might move out, hopefully, then maybe she will ask for a divorce, or maybe they should stop pretending now. Oh fucking Christ
mas! Pippa would be twenty-two now. Just like Fran Lizzie Taylor.

  How could she celebrate Christmas? There is another fucking one of them on the loose. No matter how hard she works, they keep coming back. Keep coming back for more and more lives. No matter what she does, they come back. She is supposed to keep them off the streets. She isn’t doing her job properly if they keep coming back. She is trying so hard to stop them, worked as long as she could, as hard as she could but it means nothing, he is still out there. It’s been months now and he is still out there. Just waiting, he is going to kill someone else. He is going to kill someone else and it will be her fault. She gulps back another glassful of the light amber liquid, amber like Pippa’s hair. Quietly, alone in the empty house, Bullface begins to cry.

  Elizabeth Mitchell stares up. The stairs are littered with empty whiskey bottles. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming. One little flame, her mind suddenly thinks, one little flame. That’s all it would take, just one little tiny flame. No, that isn’t right. None of this is right. Maybe, maybe, he knows she has been watching him, maybe he has booby trapped the stairs. Maybe he is expecting her. He is smart, smart enough to elude the police for this long. Maybe he has been smart enough to booby trap his house. Maybe he is just waiting outside, smiling to himself. He doesn’t like her, she knows that much. He doesn’t really like anyone. Killing her would mean nothing to him. All it would take is one little match, one little flame. No, she is sure he has gone. He wouldn’t have set a trap, he doesn’t know she has a key. No, it is safe. She takes a deep soothing breath, inhaling more of the acidic whiskey aroma, trying to calm herself. She needs to do this, prove to her husband and to herself, that she isn’t crazy. No, she isn’t crazy. It is him killing those girls, and she knows it. Has to be him and he has to be stopped.

  If the house burns down, no one would know that she is in here. They might not ever find her. All the evidence would be gone too, maybe he has planned this. Maybe it isn’t her he is planning to kill. Her mind races with possibilities. He hates cops doesn’t he? He killed that special constable. Maybe he has called the police already, planning to send a group of them down in a funeral pyre of flames. No, no, she can’t let that happen. She is over-thinking this, overestimating him. She just wants to get out of here now, but can’t. It is as if the upper floor is beckoning to her, flashing his secrets at her. The answers are upstairs, she needs to go upstairs. Nothing will happen. Defiantly she begins to climb the steps, slowly and painfully. Her hands shaking, just waiting for the one little flame.

  The café is quiet. There is a faint buzz in the background as one of the waiters tries unsuccessfully to flirt with a lone waitress. But she is far too old to be flirted with. She used to like this restaurant. Used to come in here all the time to meet her daughter. The café has been designed with a Mexican theme. The walls are a warming reddish orange and cactuses are dotted in strange places. Her daughter, the traveller, said that they served the best coffee she had ever tasted. The coffee that tastes so bitter now. Jennifer tries to disguise the lone tear now falling down her face, quickly with the cactus-shaped napkins. When she looks up again, she sees two men sadly staring down at her. She clears her throat softly, motioning for them to take a seat.

  “Thank you for joining me.” Jennifer Taylor says quietly, still stabbing at traitorous tears.

  The bathroom makes the rest of the house look like a palace. Elizabeth Mitchell knows that she can see things moving in here. Little black dots amidst the shallow dirty pools of pungent water and the abandoned stained towels. Bigger dots than what she thought she saw in the kitchen. A faded white sink is miserably overflowing, spilling more dirty water over the sides and through the kitchen ceiling. Nothing will make Elizabeth venture any further into this bathroom. Her skin crawls. No, she doesn’t need to look in this room and she won’t look in this room. That just leaves two other rooms. She continues along the filthy hallway, one room has the door wide open, letting rays of light into the otherwise gloomy hallway. Old Arnie would have been depressed to see how his house has been abused, depressed and disgusted. Her ears imagine they can hear skittering noises or scratching, did he have a girl here? She pushes open his bedroom door and gasps.

  Chapter Ten.

  The heating has never worked quite right in Kain’s house. As Kain sits at the computer, Kain can feel the cold spreading to fingers and toes. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter that the only thing that is actually exuding heat is the lit cigarette. Kain has another five hundred cigarettes, packed neatly alongside sixteen jars of instant coffee. Kain will be safe here for a little while longer. It will be safe soon, it will be safe soon, it will be safe soon.

  Bullface’s mobile shrills through her drunken glaze. Breaking through the thick cloud of alcohol induced depression. Her first thought is just to ignore it. This is her day off, why are they contacting her on her day off? Can’t she just have one day away from them? It isn’t like she is able to help them anyway, she is just useless. But, there are several things that would make them call her on her day off. First, there has been an accident involving her family. Second, there is someone requesting to speak to her. Third, there has been another murder, specifically another murder involving a victim with a number carved into their hand. The phone continues to ring impatiently. With shaky hands she finally presses answer. A voice buzzes through the line, sobering Bullface with every tone. Finally she smiles.

  “We are just visiting the grandparents at the moment, I am three hours away but I will leave now.” She lies. Three hours should be long enough to sober up, she decides as she heads for the shower. Enough time to get rid of the evidence.

  Constable Jayman gazes up at the downtrodden house. They have had a number of reports about this house and he has been assigned to “keep an eye on it.” Well so far he has patrolled this area several times and seen not so much as a speck of light through the barred windows. He notices though that in the last few hours, someone has graffitied across the door, a warning sign blaring out to the whole street. Jayman looks worriedly across the road, towards the park. It is not a word he wants the children to read. Maybe he could ring the doorbell, see if the elusive Krill is home. See if maybe, despite the rumours, it will turn out to be a non-threatening entity living in there. Someone who wouldn’t mind painting over that word before the children see it. Jayman’s hands actually tremble as he reaches forward, his hands trying to avoid the sprayed word. Nervous about meeting the person who has been branded a “murderer” by the accusing red paint.

  Aaron Fletcher is called shortly after Claire had stormed out. He sits stunned amid the shards of crockery. He can hear his mobile ringing, but doesn’t really care. Fletcher doesn’t feel like moving. His mind is still going over the argument, trying to figure out what he had said wrong. Had he said anything wrong? He was just trying to shield her for fuck’s sake! Just trying to show he cared about her, that he loved her. He was just trying to protect her. What had he said that implied any different to that? Why did she do this to him? Fletcher’s phone continues to ring, distracting him from his marriage. Fletcher feels a gleam of hope, it could be Claire ringing, maybe she realises that she overacted and is calling to apologise. Yes, it could be Claire. Fletcher springs out of his seat and begins hunting for his phone. It could be Claire.

  But then he pauses, one couch cushion held high in his hands. Does he actually want to talk to Claire now? After what she said? She could just be calling to yell at him some more. Fletcher can picture her now, she is probably in her car, pulled in at a petrol station. So angry she can’t focus on her driving and wanting to yell at him over and over before hanging up. Typical childish behaviour of her. No, maybe he doesn’t want to talk to her, maybe he didn’t do anything wrong. The phone pauses for a moment as the answer phone kicks in, then begins ringing again. Someone definitely wants to talk to him. A cold shiver runs down his spine. The last time someone had so determinedly rung him like this, they had found another … Finally he finds the wretched
device and presses answer.

  Chapter Eleven.

  Kain hears the door bell ring and freezes mid-click. Looking up the dark dank stairs, Kain’s heart starts pounding. The bare light bulb illuminating Kain’s deep red scar and sallow features. Is someone trying to break in? Kain grips the machete tightly and swallows the urge to flee. Kain waits. The doorbell rings again. Kain wishes that they would just go away. Kain does not want to see anyone, it isn’t safe. It isn’t safe. The doorbell rings again, a voice calls through the letter box.

  Go away, go away, go away, go away.

  The police have questioned nearly 10,000 people in connection with the murders, have searched around 30,000 vehicles and 8,000 homes. Nothing. So maybe they are frustrated and, of course, angry. So they could be almost forgiven for the zeal with which they search the house. Everything is documented and photographed, everything. Not even the rotten festering garbage bags are left untouched. It doesn’t take them long to find Isobel Hilarie’s wallet on the dresser upstairs.

  Elizabeth sits in the interview room, revelling in her role as hero of the hour, a smile plastered across her wrinkled features. In fact the whole police station has a lighter, happier feeling to it. We have got him! It’s all over, we are safe again. We have done it! I can walk on the moon sort of feeling, except in one small dark corner, where Bullface sits, nursing a hangover, pretending to supervise. This whole situation is leaving a bad taste in her mouth and she doesn’t know why.