When Lou came for his next appointment, I noticed a healed scratch down the side of his face.
'Damned cat,' he said. 'I had it put down. I won't tolerate that sort of defiance.' He looked at me again.
I put concealer on it and continued with my work. I had made my plans and had everything ready. I didn't want him to notice anything different.
'Now, just close your eyes,' I said. My heart pounded but my hands and breath were steady. If he noticed anything different he did not mention it. I worked quickly and carefully and was soon finished. When he left I wondered if I had made the biggest mistake of my life, and if so, how I would pay.
It was in the newspapers the next day: Killer Caught: Woman Fights Off Attacker. There was a photo of Lou, details of how he dressed as a woman, went to girl bars to pick up his victims. How this time the girl had realised his ploy and screamed, got help. No mention of my - contribution; but I guessed that certain information would be kept secret for purposes of the trial. But after he was convicted and put away, there was a long piece in the Sunday newspaper, talking about his childhood, analysing why he did it and so on. How he was motivated by a twisted, savage prejudice against women in general and lesbians in particular, a prejudice that drew him to imitate those he wanted to destroy.
There was an interview with the young woman who had fought him off. 'It was weird,' she said in the article. 'He had gone to all that trouble to look like a woman. But then when he closed his eyes to kiss me I saw 'RUN' and 'NOW' written in red across his eyelids. And I saw a line down the side of his face, like a stripe, with no makeup, just this coarse skin and bits of stubble. It freaked me out completely. I jumped up just as he was reaching to grab me.'
The woman was strong and fit and, with the advantage of a bit of forewarning, had fought Lou off until help came.
The article went on to talk to psychologists and so on about why he would do this. Was it to give his victims a last chance, or to taunt them, or to justify himself? I was a little put out that they thought he was doing such a good job with his own makeup and never bothered to check if he was seeing a professional. But I didn't bother to correct them, or talk to the police. He was caught, and done away with, and that was all that mattered. As I said, I prefer to remain discreet.
You may think I am worried about when he gets out. As he himself pointed out, my little cottage is dark, and isolated. But 25 years is a long time; in one way or another, I doubt I will still be here. And, one thing is certain. By that time, I will look very, very different.
PSYCHO MAGNET
Tara Moss
What do you do when no one believes you?
What do you do when you're a girl like me?
Stalked.
Hunted.
A psycho magnet.
I go to the police and what do they say? 'We can't press charges until an actual crime has been committed.'
'Like when someone gets attacked, or killed?' I ask, as only a girl with experience can, but a young constable like him doesn't know how to respond to a question like that. Truth is, we're just as much paperwork dead or alive and, were it up to the system, I'd be just another statistic. We must fend for ourselves.
It is late evening as I return from work, and there is another one following me. He is tall, very tall, and he walks with long strides, supported on strong legs cased in fitted jeans. From the corner of my eye, I watch his malevolent reflection shift across darkened shop windows. He walks with his head down, slightly hunched at his wide shoulders, wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket. I cannot see his face.
It has been five blocks now, with only myself and my faceless escort to inhabit the road. I have no jacket to protect against the cool, summer night air, and certainly, I have no defence against this man who follows me. My purse is empty, save for a sharp set of keys and a bit of cash. Were it up to me, I would have a capsicum spray, perhaps even a Saturday Night Special. But it is not up to me at all. It is up to the system, and they say I cannot have such protection.
My high heels click on the pavement beneath me, echoing off the empty buildings while his steps are soundless in pursuit. For a man of such immense physical stature, he moves with feline stealth. But though he is wickedly quiet, I know that I would sense his presence even were he invisible. He emits evil as he moves through the night, leeching the freshness from the air.
My heart is racing, and my legs feel stiff and useless with his eyes crawling over them. Walk. Just walk. I concentrate and, with effort, my pace does not change. But, nor does his, and eventually I decide it is time to cross the street, to administer the first test.
Dim street lamps flank the road on both sides, and I pass between them with purpose. I walk with great strides, held tall in my blue dress, my fists clenched as if to say, I'm ready when you are.
There is no traffic to require me to look both ways, but I do anyway, to catch a glimpse of my stalker. I allow myself only a split second to take him in; his face is long and pale, crowned with light, strawberry blonde hair.
He is quietly observing me, and I quickly turn my head the other way, as if to check for cars.
There.
I see you.
You know that I see you.
I step over the curb on the other side and wonder: Will he follow?
I pass a lamp post, then another, glad of the space between us. My side. Your side. Slowly my heart begins to relax, to unclench just a little, because he is not following. With that reassuring distance, I steal occasional glances, to see what he will do. He is walking on his course, not even looking my way, and my heart slows, adrenaline retreating.
I see the intersection only a block away, and my house just beyond it. The faulty lighting on my porch winks, welcoming me home. I am almost there. As my legs propel me steadily forward, I imagine the safety of my abode, the sanctity of what is familiar and mine. Should I circle the block to make sure I am not followed? I am aware that I appear attractive and vulnerable, and I don't wish this tall man to know where I live.
From the corner of my vision comes an unwelcome movement. The man is changing pace. He is crossing the street. Oh God, he's crossing!
Over the curb, past the median and moving in fast, his long legs transporting him swiftly to my side of the road. Quickly, he bridges the gap, closing in on my space, intimidating me. He is so close now that if he reached out, his hands would be on me.
My heart pounds mercilessly, fear beating against my temples. The hairs stand up on my neck, and every inch of my skin tickles as it rises in goose-flesh. My knees start to give, to succumb to his command for collapse, but by a thin thread I hold myself up. The chaos in my head grows louder, screaming, until I cannot even hear my own shoes on the concrete as they slow down.
I cannot succumb to panic. I cannot, will not be the prey. Not again.
Never again.
I will my heart to slow as I change pace. My breathing becomes deliberate, controlled. My blood cools. I feel myself transform.
I am not the prey.
Strike the first blow. Take control. Play on my terms.
I stop in my tracks and turn to him, only steps from my front door. In one of his long strides he is upon me, less than an arm's length away. He looks down on me and smiles with a crooked, sinister grin. He is a full six inches taller than I am, which means he must be very tall, indeed, for I am no petite girl. I can see now that he is strong and no older than thirty. His reddish hair is slightly greasy, and his long, ghostly white face is horribly disproportioned.
I say nothing, only stare with a level gaze into his pale eyes. They are so intense; they seem to glow an iridescent blue. Unfeeling. Psychopathic. He has eyes like Bundy, I think. Eyes like Dahmer. Eyes like a predator.
I dare him to act, to complete what he has started, but he only steps a foot closer, towering over me. I tilt my head up to hold his powerful gaze. The porch light flickers.
On my terms. We play on my terms.
He is so close that I can smell
him. He has a sick, malignant reek that threatens to throw my senses into panic again. But I do not allow it. My heart is ice.
Invulnerable. I am in control. Like a savage animal, I know that he can sense fear, but he will not sense mine, because my fear has fled.
I am not the prey.
'Would you like to come inside?' I ask, and offer a cool, thin smile.
He hesitates. A thought flickers past. Then his rough, eager hands go straight to my waist, to squeeze the young flesh of me, and the game begins. Together we take the final steps to my front door. One step. Two steps. Three. I remove the keys without fuss, and slide carved metal into the lock. It turns on command, the door creaking open. In silence we enter the house. My house. My playing field.
Once inside he wastes no time. I find myself thrown against the wall, his body pressing hard, grinding me up. The keys are flung from my grasp, falling with my purse in a clatter on the floor. His hands are greedy and brusque, pushing, pulling, claiming my body with no intention of anything mutual.
I accept his angry kiss, his poison tongue. I am emotionless. A machine. No panic here. Control.
He works at the back of my dress. Fumbling. His passion rises firmly through tight jeans, eager with violent desire. My dress is torn, my smooth skin exposed, devoured by crude, slobbering jaws.
I am a psycho magnet.
I am bait.
'A drink?' I propose, pushing away from his rough, unshaven face.
He pauses, his body unyielding, and raises a hand to my slender throat, teasing in a strangler's grip to hold me fast. He stares me down, craving control with eyes that are wickedly consuming. But I am unaffected. Gradually, he allows me to pull from his hold, and I leave him to venture to my kitchen.
When I emerge a minute later with two brandies, I find him on my couch. His pants are undone and his shoes and belt scattered on my floor. He accepts his glass, then stands, and grabs me again.
I do not panic.
'Please,' I say. 'Can we drink this first?'
I take the first sip, and as I drink he smiles a predator's grin, not realising that he is now the prey. He seems to mock me as he tips his glass back, his mouth opening greedily to receive my gift in impatient gulps. I am the one in control, and I step back in anticipation.
Suddenly, his face contorts, and he breaks into a confused sweat, grabbing his own throat as he gasps for air. His empty glass crashes to the floor, shattering into hundreds of razor-edged shards. A graceless creature, he jack-knifes violently backwards, hitting the coffee table with great force and knocking its contents to the floor. His powerful physique seizes and trembles, savage convulsions consuming him. He flounders like a fish out of water. Pathetic.
I walk away, dispassionate, and put my empty glass in the kitchen sink. I fill it with soap and water, and calmly, I clean it. It's a shame the matching one had to break. When I return he is twitching. My catch is unconscious, internally asphyxiated, his long, ugly face grotesquely contorted. Finally, the massive dose of cyanide sends him into one last death throw, and his heart stops.
I will tidy the room and dispose of him in my own time. My house. My rules. They will find his poisoned corpse cherry pink, with a blue, shocked face, his pale eyes unseeing. Powerless.
I am a psycho magnet.
I am bait.
I weed them out and kill them.
The half read newspaper has fallen off the table, and I pick it up. The front page headline is bold:
Sixth Cyanide Murder Victim
Police Suspect Serial Killer is Loose
I shake my head, because clearly, I am no serial killer.
Bundy, Gacy, Brudos, Kemper; they were serial killers. But not me. They have it wrong.
Why won't anyone believe me?
I am a psycho magnet.
HABIT
Cate Kennedy
I've never been much good at reading the fine print on cards, and least of all after a 28 hour flight. But now that I was actually carrying three kilos of cocaine, I read the Customs declaration form with, you might say, a whole new vested interest. Any illegal or contraband goods? Well, you'd have to be pretty jetlagged to fall into that trap, wouldn't you? Tick 'no'. Any weaponry? Any exotic flora or fauna?
'They must think we're idiots,' says the person next to me, an insufferable bore in black leather pants that have squeaked ever since we left Singapore.
Well, no, they don't think we're idiots. It's the only way to nail us if we're carrying anything, otherwise we can plead ignorance of the law. I don't tell him this, of course. It would be open provocation to continue talking to me, and the last thing I want is another instalment of his failed marriage. I seem to be inviting confession and disclosure, and I wonder why; people have been doing it to me since boarding the first plane in Bogotá. My silence seems only to encourage them.
I am also steeling myself for the three questions, the three biggies they hit you with as your suitcase hits the examination table. 'Is this your luggage?' 'Did you pack it yourself?' 'Are you aware of its contents?'
Then they pull open the zip and all bets are off; you're cactus. Foolish couriers, in these intolerably stressful circumstances, take a couple of tranks to settle their nerves for this ordeal. Personally I can't think of anything that would give me away more than pinhole pupils and a Mogadon stupor.
I suppose I should say a few words about the cocaine.
'An illegal drug, certainly, but a word in my defence, Your Honour.' I have, I suppose, a habit - if you can call three snorts a habit - because they instilled in me a craving for the drug that surpasses mere physical hankering. Three years ago I tried some street coke and the hit was just enough, through the glucodin and speed percentage which seared into my nasal cavities, to make me make a vow to myself . I decided that, if I ever had the chance, I would try the real thing: the purest, whitest, Colombian cocaine available to the casual buyer.
As I said, that was a few years ago now, at a party where most people were on the nod around the room with alcohol and dope. With narcotic drugs, in fact. Ridiculously, cocaine is also classified as a narcotic drug, and that evening illustrated for me that misnomer, the vast gulf between cocaine's effects and alcohol's effects.
Me and a few friends mashed the grass down in the back yard with our dancing. I went straight from the party to work and put in a good day. When I got home and pondered on my energy, rapier-like memory retention and sparkling intellect, I made the decision that, if one day I had nothing to lose, I'd make the trip myself and take the risk, to buy enough coke to last me the distance.
And it's not long to go now, that distance. I have a trusted doctor, Dr Mick I-won't-tell-you-his-last-name, who'll keep me out of jail, if it comes to that, on humanitarian grounds. He'll show the court the x-rays, the images of 'the shadow' and its advance and the judge's heart will be wrung with sympathy. At least, that's what I'm banking on. A year - 18 months or whatever it is - I want to spend it full of energy and memory and sparkle, not dry-retching into a bucket after pointless chemotherapy.
So, here I am on the plane, inviting intimate disclosures from the squeaker, with my pen hovering over the box that could seal my fate: Have you anything to declare?
Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I declare that if I get out if this airport intact, undiscovered, I will put one bag of cocaine aside and savour the rest slowly, sit up at night feeling awake and powerful and not sick, and write letters to everyone I need to, to be opened at the party at which my will, will be read out.
My will, for what it's worth. My spotless record as a youth worker has left me with no assets outside a VCR so ancient that no-one can repair it and no-one in their right mind would steal, a flat full of furniture that may as well go straight back down to the St Vinnies, and a collection of books that friends will find are mostly theirs, anyway. Not even a car. I sold the car, to pay for the airline ticket to South America. So, sue me. And, as for the cocaine, I cashed in my super. Hell, you may as well spend it while yo
u've got it; you can't take it with you. No, indeed.
I've read up a lot about cocaine. A wonder drug, mistreated cruelly. More sinned against than sinning. More maligned upon than malignant. A perfect anaesthetic and, many exponents say, completely non-habit forming. I will give that theory a run for its money, and get back to you. If there's an addiction to be had, I volunteer to be the one to take it on. I go now bravely where no-one has gone before, fully cognisant.
In fact in all respects, without parallel, it seems to me, it is non-addictive except as a painkiller. No, heroin must take that crown. Hence the third bag. The Exchange Bag.
Many years ago there was a preparation available in hospices for terminally ill patients called Bromton's Mixture, which alleviated both the pain and the terror of dying and it was composed - you can look this up if you like - of cocaine and heroin. Bromton's Cocktail. Bromton's Elixir. The gods must quaff this stuff in Heaven. I'm not ashamed to say it was this information, about the painkilling, which played a big part in my decision. I've taken enough paracetamol to make my kidneys unfit for organ donation, even if anyone was stupid enough to want to take them.
'I'm not looking forward to the pain side of things,' I told Doctor Mick.
'There's always morphine,' he said, and I imagined myself, in a bed hard and crisp as a white envelope, tubes up my nose and arms, souped to the eyeballs on morphine and trying to tell my friends what I thought of them. Not a good look. Not at all. I want to be jolly and on my feet and full of the kind of wit that people will repeat at my wake. I'm only 32, God help me. I want to mash the grass down with my dancing, and one day fall as gracefully as a leaf. Once you decide to take a risk with a clear head and full knowledge of all possible consequences, you're filled with calm.
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