I AM HERE TO KILL YOU

by Chris Westlake

  Glancing down, the evidence is already there that he is a man. I've never seen it look so big. Bernard is bigger, of course. He is a dark horse. Heck, Bernard is like a horse. Nobody would expect it of him. But still, this will do. It is already a pole, straining so it doesn't explode. He rests his body next to the folded clothes. I merely pull my panties to one side and then I lower myself down onto him. His body trembles. This isn't going to take long.

  "Fuck me, you horny bastard," I say, writhing on top of his youthful, naked body. "Don't stop until I tell you to. Do you hear me?"

  Moisture from his upper lip trickles down into his mouth. His eyes stare into my skull, like he is reading my mind. His wonderful hands grope and thumb my buttocks. They slide over the fabric of my blouse. I'll let him cup them this time. I'll let him have one last, cheap thrill. His arms straighten. His hands open. Up to my breasts. They move past them. They move higher.

  His beautiful, delicate fingers grip my throat. The stupid little bastard does stop before I tell him to. He flips my fragile body off him like I'm a ragdoll. Pushing my head down into the depths of the ground, his spare hand grapples with his clothes. Staring down at me, his white smile taunts me. From the corner of my eye, I'm blinded by the reflection of the blade he holds above his head.

  "You silly little bitch," he says.

  He lunges down with the knife. Both my hands reach up, grip his wrist. The blade sinks into the grass, an inch from my ear. His dumb face pauses for just a moment. I reach down and cup his naked balls. My teeth clench; I squeeze hard. Raising my knee to my chest, I push out with the sole of my foot. He stumbles back, placing his flat hands on the floor. His beady eyes don't move away from the knife.

  I'm not interested in the knife, though. That would leave evidence, wouldn't it? Momentarily, I turn my back to my attacker. I take quick, assured steps away from him. Then, kneeling down, I lean forward and drag a heavy device from underneath the bush. I removed it from our garage a few nights ago, and I carried it here in a black, plastic bag. For once, I didn't want to draw attention to myself. It is just one of Bernard's gadgets that he never uses. He won't miss it. I'll try and return it when I find the right moment to do so.

  I turn around, eyeing the knife.

  "You call that a weapon?" I say, smiling. Holding the handle of the chainsaw with my left hand, I pull the chain with my right. The engine growls. "This is a weapon."

  Rob isn't interested in the knife now, either. With both his feet and his hands flat against the hard, unforgiving ground, he scurries backwards, reminding me of a crab. He moves towards the edge of the river. Perfect. His eyes don't move for one moment from the metallic, jagged edges of the chain saw. The noise is so thunderous, so empowering.

  "Put your head under the water!" I shout.

  Just for a fleeting moment, he jerks his head towards me. What? I don't say anything. I merely lower the vibrating, metal cutter a few inches from the pulsating, blue vein in his neck. His eyes become perfect circles. Lowering the back of his head into the water, he stares up at the beautiful, fading August sky. I read his thoughts; he weighs up his options.

  Which is the better way to die?

  His face disappears underneath the surface of the water. Bubbles float upwards from his mouth and from his nose. His flailing arms and his kicking legs are soundless beneath the surface of the water, drowned out by the vibrant howl of the chainsaw. His movements slow. Pressing a button, the noise dies down. I place Bernard's gadget safely down on the grass behind me. So it did have a use, after all.

  Squatting, I push both of my hands down against Rob's chest. I hold his fading body underneath the water until I am sure it is completely motionless, until I am sure it is utterly lifeless...

  Sheena

  I'm not used to waiting. I don't like waiting. Call it a power thing, if you want. This time, however, I have to accept it is inevitable. I had to be here first. I have no idea how long it will take, how long I'll be waiting.

  The light vanished an hour or so ago and an evening chill has descended. My cardigan is zipped to my neck. I wrap my arms around my legs; my knees push against my chest. With the street lights to the front of the church, the graveyard is just outlines and shapes. I can just about make out the church's sloping slate roof and the moss growing on the walls. The leaves of the trees outlining the yard shimmy in the wind. Apart from the dead bodies scattered underneath the ground, I'm alone with my thoughts.

  From what people told me, I assumed I'd loathe Bernard. Who did he think he was - a character from The Great Gatsby? What a silly old buffoon! Once I did some digging, I discovered that he lived in an ivory tower on his dead father's money. But then reality struck. It was like looking in the mirror. I didn't earn any of my money. That was yet another thing I had Daniel to thank for. I considered myself better than the minions I surrounded myself with, too. Egotistical? Arrogant? In this respect, I felt I was merely acknowledging the truth.

  I quickly realised Bernard was a man of routine. Most of the human race is. They like control. Some people are merely more organised and capable than others. I knew what time he'd turn up at the pub.

  "Didn't think you smoked, Sheena?" he asked. His blue jeans were torn at the heel. Holes were dotted around his white polo neck shirt. His attempts to fit in were laughably transparent.

  "Oh, I have plenty of dark secrets, Bernard," I said, blowing a ring of smoke from my puckered lips. "Seriously, though. I just treat myself every so often. Life is too short to deprive yourself of little pleasures."

  His face broke into a nervous smile. He was just about to pass me and head into the warm, claustrophobic pub, when something caught his eye.

  "I got this for you," I said. "I've caught you outside before. Thought I'd surprise you."

  His blue eyes gleamed. His usually strained, programmed smile blossomed.

  "Oh my," he said. "I don't know what to say. That's really touching. Thank you, Sheena."

  He prodded my arm with his hand, wanting to get close but reluctant to appear inappropriate. Of all the men who touch themselves thinking of me naked, this one probably suffers the most guilt.

  "I just wanted to say it was amazing what you did to Rob," I said.

  His cheeks reddened. He stabbed at the floor with the tips of his shoes. Clearly, not many people had complimented his masculinity before. Maybe his was a childhood thing? Judging by the clothes he wore, the unnatural words he used, the way he tried too hard to fit in, he obviously had issues with this.

  "Oh, it was nothing," he said. "I had no choice really, did I?"

  He glimpsed me staring at him in wonder; he looked away.

  "So she told you then?"

  I flicked ash onto the floor and dabbed it with my shoe. "She tells me everything, Bernard."

  He thumbed the pockets of his jeans. "So did you know about them? That they were engaging in a sordid fling?"

  My hand gripped his arm. He needed to know that we were both victims. "I did. I'm so sorry. The more I got to know you, Bernard, the more I despised what she was doing to you. I wanted to tell you. You need to believe me. But how could I? She is my best friend..."

  He shook his bowed head. "It wasn't your fault. You had no choice. Did she tell anyone else?"

  I stared at the vacant road. "We don't have any secrets in the group, Bernard. We are like a sisterhood. Of course, they blamed you-"

  "Blamed me? What did I do?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all. The women in the group have developed an unhealthy hatred of men, in my opinion. I'm torn whether to stay in the group or not. They were always going to be on her side. I try to tell the women to be more objective, but they just don't listen. Sometimes it is scary how much they seem to hate men. Jesus. Some of them see you as the enemy. I try to set the right example, tell them I mingle with you in the pub and everything, but they believe what they want to believe, don't they? Sometimes I long for them to open their eyes to the real world. It doesn't help that Apinya said you hit her-"


  "What? Hit her? I've never hit a woman in all my life!"

  "I know. I know. Don't worry, the women weren't shocked by that. They're of the opinion that all husbands hit their wives, that it is their divine right or something-"

  "We don't! I don't!"

  "I'm on your side with this one, Bernard. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry-"

  "No. You should have. Thank you."

  "Believe me. I'm as mad about this as you are. The question is, what are you going to do about this mess?"

  I absorb his bloodshot eyes. He holds my look. He says nothing.

  "Well, you've taken revenge on Rob. But what are you going to do about Apinya?"

  "Apinya?"

  "Yes. She's got away with all of this mess really, hasn't she? And now the women in the group think you beat her. Because of her. That doesn't seem right."

  "When you say it like that, Sheena, it really doesn't."

  "If it was me then I'd be seeking revenge..."

  My thoughts are interrupted by a shadowy figure heading towards me. This isn't a surprise. I arranged to meet here after it was done and dusted.

  There was one question I didn't have an answer to, though.

  Which one of them would meet me?

  "Apinya," I say, standing up and taking her in my arms. Her icy cold body shivers. I remove my cardigan and unravel it over her shoulders. She barely seems to notice. I sit her down next to me on the bench. Planting her hands flat against her thighs, her back remains rigid and straight. Her unblinking almond eyes stare straight ahead. I could click my fingers an inch from her face and she still wouldn't flinch.

  "How are you?" I ask.

  "I killed him," she says.

  I crane my neck. "What did you say?"

  "I killed him."

  "Who?"

  She robotically turns her head. "Rob."

  "What? Why?"

  "You told me to."

  I hold up my outstretched hands. "Hold on right there. I never told you to kill anybody. Just who do you think I am? What sort of a person do you think I am?"

  "You said I should sort him out-"

  "Yes. Sort him out. Not kill him."

  She doesn't seem to listen. She digs inside her pocket. A metallic blade shines in the dark night. My throat tightens. I didn't expect to see the knife I gave to Rob again.

  "Is that what you used to kill him?" I ask.

  I lean closer. I look closer at the sharp edges. Where is the blood? Has she already cleaned it?

  Apinya shakes her head.

  "Then how did you kill him?"

  "He drowned."

  "But how? Why?"

  "I forced him to."

  I pull back my head. How deluded is she?

  "Apinya," I say, "you couldn't possibly have forced him. Rob is bigger than you. He is stronger than you. How on earth did you overpower him?"

  Apinya's tone remains perfectly neutral. A cold shiver runs down my body. What happens if the monster becomes more powerful than its creator? I dismiss the thought. Push it out of my mind. She'll never be shrewder than I am. "I threatened him with a worse alternative. I guess you could say he drowned himself."

  Her hand unfolds. The knife drops to the floor. I glance at her accusingly. She doesn't move. Leaning down, I pick the knife up. Put it in my pocket.

  "It was self-defence," she says. "He tried to kill me. He was a crazed madman. If I didn't kill him then he would have killed me. One of us had to die. It had to be him."

  I shuffle closer. "Nobody will believe that, Apinya. What reason did he have to kill you? We need to think fast. Did you strangle him? Hit him? Did you leave any evidence that you killed him?"

  Apinya shakes her head. She turns to me. "You do believe me, Sheena?"

  I take hold of her hand. Her fingers are rigid. "Of course I believe you. You're my best friend. I love you. I need to protect you. We need to make sure you don't get in deep trouble. Clearly, this wasn't your fault."

  She nods.

  I release her hand. Rotate my right arm. Tighten my fist into a ball. And then I punch my best friend - the girl I love - hard in the face.

  She squeals like a pig. She eyes me accusingly through the gaps in her fingers. I push her hand away and plant a soothing, wet kiss on the bubbling, blue bruise.

  "What did you do that for?" Apinya asks. "You crazy bitch."

  Ignoring her comment, my finger tilts the underside of her chin, so she looks straight at me. "Listen to me, Apinya. The detectives are going to come knocking on your door. Do you hear?"

  She nods.

  "We need to make sure that when they do knock, they're coming for Bernard, and not you..."

  Monday 29th July 2019

  DI Hunter

  My black soles stick to the flimsy brown carpet, speckled with holes. Resting my elbows against the desk, my thumbs massage my temple. The rain outside spits against the rattling windows. I promised myself I'd go for a morning stroll, but the grey outside is even darker than the grey inside; I'm not sure I can face it. I look around the office. Is this my life after nineteen years on the force?

  Gripping the levers on the side of the blue swivel chair, I raise myself about three inches. I sit still for a couple of seconds before lowering myself about two inches. In years gone by, my paperwork stared at me from an overflowing plastic tray. Now my work stares at me from my computer screen.

  Glancing around, I unbutton my navy flares. Nineteen years ago I still had room to slip a hand inside my size eight skirts (my boyfriend at the time proved this point a few times). The men on the force joked that I had hollow legs, that the fizzy pop and fast food seeped out of me. Where does it all go, Debbie? Well, I disproved that theory good and proper, didn't I? Case closed. No suspicious circumstances. These days I don't put my legs on display, and I'm almost bursting out of my size sixteen trousers. The men don't joke about my hollow legs anymore. Whilst my Match.Com profile enticingly says I'm a Big Beautiful Woman (BBW), I don't feel beautiful. Just big. I used to be quite an attraction around this place. The men used to say my olive complexion and long black hair made me look exotic. Now they ask what time the kebab shop opens.

  Poking my nose inside my empty coffee mug, my upturned eyes glance at the clock on the wall. Can I really justify a fourth cup before 11am? The doctor said the caffeine and Standard American Diet (even though I live in Wales) added to my anxiety. It was like pouring petrol on a fire, apparently, and I know all about arsonists. The doctor said boredom didn't help, either, so I'm caught in a cycle, aren't I? I decide to pass the time (and relieve the boredom) by pouring coffee straight from the jar into my mug. After all, I've already had three. One more won't hurt. Besides, I need something to counter my throbbing head (probably caused by too much caffeine). I'll make up for it by drinking a glass of water later, probably after lunch. My thought-process is interrupted by a dark shadow appearing at the side of my desk. Holding out my open palms, I roll my chair backwards.

  "Welcome to my metaphorical office, DC Jordan," I say. "What's up? Whatever it is, I'm here to help."

  I make it my business to run my eyes over his gym-toned twenty-four-year-old body. Why? I don't really have any interest in his hardened pectorals or abdominals or whatever they're called. It merely reminds me of long, wasted hours in the gym. I do so because that's what all the men did to me when I joined the force, when I was young and attractive. And slim. I make it my duty to ensure there is no fucking sexism in this office. I add a wink, just to ensure he is left in no doubt about my inappropriateness. What can he do about a wink? I'll tell HR I've developed a squint, brought on by too much caffeine. I glance at the cup. I hope he isn't going to be too long - I'm desperate for that coffee.

  "Debbie," he says. "There's been a death."

  Pushing my buttocks forward, I sit up in the chair. My hands grip the handles. This news is greater than any caffeine kick. "A murder?"

  Jordan shakes his head. "No signs of anything suspicious at the moment.
It is most likely a suicide."

  I loosen my grip on the handles. My pumping heart slows. "What is it with this world? Do you know when the suicide rate is at its lowest, Phil? During a World War. Do you know why that is?"

  His shoulders loosen. He looks over my shoulder.

  "Because citizens are focussed on staying alive. In today's risk-averse world we are obsessed with staying alive. But do you know what I think?"

  "No. I don't know what you think, Debbie."

  "I think we're living longer, but more miserable lives. What is the point in that? Whilst we're obsessed with staying alive, more people than ever are killing themselves. Do you see the contradiction here?"

  "I do."

  I pick up my coffee cup. Stifle a yawn with my forearm. Whilst my metaphorical door is still open, there is a time limit. "So I'm guessing it's a man? Young. Usually is. Did you know suicide is the biggest killer of men under the age of forty-five, Phil?"

  "It was a man. Under the age of forty-five. Under the age of twenty-five, by all accounts."

  "Cause of death?"

  My eyes follow Jordan's shuffling. He's on edge. Maybe I should keep this door open a little longer?

  "Drowning-"

  "What did you say?"

  Jordan takes a step back, stunned or bemused that I'm suddenly on my feet. "I said that it was a drowning. Could have been suicide or possibly just an accident. The body was found in the early hours this morning by a local walking his dog..."

  "Where? Where did this happen?"

  He holds up his hands, indicating for me to slow down, to calm down. My heart stops beating, waiting for him to reply. Please, please tell me what I want to hear.

  "Pontbach-"

  "The river?"

  His eyes crease with suspicion.

  "Goddamn it, Phil. Was it the river at Pontbach?"

  "Yes. Yes it was."

  His eyes follow my retreating back. "Get your coat," I say. "We've got a murder to investigate."