The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “Sexless cow,” he said, looking into her underwear drawer. “You gotta be ‘A’ list to get my interest.”

  Switching on their PC he found their passwords on auto-admittance, so read a few emails and got to know them better.

  “Can’t hide from me,” he said. “You hide nothing from Zoby.” They weren’t married. She was Sue Raybert, her friends called her Bunny, a lawyer, he discovered. That made her more interesting. He went back to her lingerie drawer, picked out a pair of black lace knickers and pushed them into his pocket. Now he had power over her.

  The ride on his moped to Willesden cemetery took forty minutes. He found the cut grass and symmetrically placed headstones gave him a sense of well being, mainly because the ground held his dead mother.

  The mailbox had been his own idea. It gave a purpose for her existence and an occasion for him to stand on her grave. The black marble chips, long sullied by grime, held deposits of moisture which allowed the establishment of moss and weed. The grave bore no headstone, no identification of its occupant, just a small, inconspicuous disturbance of the surface, as if some animal had buried its faeces, or some hand clawed from beneath.

  Mark whistled as he scraped away the chippings and extracted a sealed, waterproof wallet. He weighed it in his hand, rubbed fingers over the thick wad and nodded satisfaction. The Colonel could always be relied on. He had hidden once, waiting for the Colonel to arrive. When he did, he knew it was Crystal masquerading as the Colonel. It did not matter, so long as he received his money. He had watched Crystal without being seen and followed him to the tube station. He disliked Crystal, the man was not built like a soldier and Mark much preferred the Colonel, except the Colonel never came. Perhaps one day they would meet, soldier to soldier.

  Inside the wallet he found one thousand pounds in twenty pound notes, full details of his mission, plus photos and ID of his target. A nun; his first. The adrenalin rush was instant, his prick became rock hard. He felt elated. The white cloth of her wimple enhanced her face to give an unblemished and simplistic beauty. He couldn’t wait to find what lay beneath, what goodies would be his as he consumed her purity. Between Sister Katherine and Cindy, August looked like being a good month. Mark began to whistle and felt the sun was shining on his day. OK, time to go to business, he thought, time to organise itinerary, the logistics and acquisitions. He pocketed the wallet and removed his mobile. Walking back to the cemetery gates he dialled Travelpath. Stratton, his boss, would be dealing with after-hours customers, people on the way between work and station, pavement cattle looking for escape. Stratton was on the line within thirty seconds of connection. Mark knew he’d oblige. Mark was his best salesman and sold more holidays than the rest together.

  “Bad news, Mr Stratton. I just visited my mother. She’s has a serious condition. The doctors say it’s irreversible.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mark.” He listened to the man’s pause, his indecision. “Will you be working tomorrow?”

  “’Fraid not, Mr Stratton, it may be four, five days. Cancer is like that. You never know where you are.” Again the pause.

  “You must do what is best. We’re very busy, I have to go. Call me when you’re free.”

  “Thank you, Mr Stratton, I knew you’d understand.” Mark hung up. Stupid arsehole, he thought. Then the man was gone and Sister Katherine entered his head instead. He tried to image her naked, pristine and untouched. He began to whistle again and found a spring in his step.

  Mark divided his flat between operational and living quarters. Communications and combat room lay on one side, the kitchen, his bed and trophy room the other. In the combat room he stored various equipment including a Samurai sword. He practised daily but had used it only once operationally, to behead Helen Carter. Discovering the keenness of its blade, the sudden and awesome consequence of its use had been stunning.

  He recalled every detail. Sweat soaked his naked torso as he stared down at her, knowing after three days and two nights of interrogation he had her compliant. Face to the floor, her wrists tied to her neck then hobbled to her knees, she could not lift or move other than to crawl butt up. He removed her gag.

  “One sound and I will whip your arse ’til raw. You want out of this then you better be totally obedient. Understand?”

  “Yes.” He heard her whine, heard the gargled shiver of her voice before she lapped water from a bowl. It was then she had urinated, destroying what he saw as the perfect ambiance of her submission.

  “You bitch, that’s against military regulations. For that you’ll suffer.” He replaced the gag, muffling protest as he velcroed the straps behind. He pulled up her head by the hair. “A good whipping, I think.” He removed his belt, dangling it before her. “Lesbian, ha. But now you know a real man I guess you think different.”

  “Nummhh,” she begged and shook her head, eyes wet and wide.

  “And if you make one sound, I’ll use this.” He picked up his sword. In the Victorian flat amidst the leafy suburban streets how he had loved the way her body trembled, the shiver of her skin, the total hysteria of her muffled pleadings. He had not planned to kill her, but kneeling at that moment she looked so vulnerable, so perfectly placed. The movement came before he realised. The sword severed her neck in one clean and precise strike so that the body sagged while still retaining its kneeling position. The head rolling sideways onto the blood sprayed carpet, its eyes and mouth open.

  The Colonel loved his home movie and gave Mark a bonus of two thousand pounds. Mark cut off her ears as a keepsake and put them in his trophy room.

  Combat training lasted an hour. Then dressed in fatigues, Mark cooked hash browns and beans before switching on his computer. Whistling, he downloaded the latest interactive games Crystal had e-mailed and spent the next six hours fighting Princess Kay-ling. By means he didn’t understand, Crystal had given Kay-ling Katherine’s face. At 0200 hours, he had beaten her to submission. His reward was her total capitulation. He felt good then, his body lathered in sweat. Mission completed, combat proficiently proven.

  “OK, bitch. Time to pay the price of failure,” he said and clicked the reward button.

  Crystal’s computer-generated animations were the best, totally different from those in the regular game. So lifelike was the presentation of his victim that Mark sensed her terror, begging for his mercy before he killed her. It felt good, but now for some reason he wanted to kill Sister Katherine for real. Her image came constantly to his mind, a perfect female face combined with the aura of virginity. When he slept that night he dreamed of her. The Colonel’s instructions were explicit. Operation Clean Cut would commence 0500 hours the following morning. Mark loved that name, Clean Cut. So neat.

  “Do you ever surf the Internet?” Katherine asked, her mind burdened with secrets. She pulled her legs onto the single bed and leant back against the wall. Teresa sat at the small worktable, absently doodling on a pad. She was plump, her face round and her smile radiant.

  “Of course, for research,” Teresa said.

  “I mean, looking for other things?”

  “We’re not allowed to.”

  “I know, but do you?”

  Teresa shrugged, her bright cherry lips pouting to a rose. “Sometimes,” she said finally.

  “I do, every evening.”

  “I know web addresses for sex sites.” Teresa dropped the pen and swivelled ready for telling. “By accident, of course,” she added.

  “Of course.” Katherine smiled and giggled with her. She swivelled her body, leant forward, their heads close. “Not sex, computer games,” she whispered.

  “I’ve never played,” Teresa also whispered.

  “I’m Southern Ireland champion, I’ve won first prize in the Kay-ling finals; money.” Her breath felt short as she sighed with the relief of confession.

  Teresa stared back, her mouth open. “How much?”

  “Two thousand euros.”

  “What will you tell the Sisters? They might expel you.”


  “I’m telling no-one, no-one but you. I’ve wangled treatment for my hand this weekend, in Dublin. I’ll collect the prize and give it straight to my parents. They’ve spent so much on me. The Sisters need never find out.”

  “You’re a sly one.” Teresa took her hands. “And me thinking you were Holy Jo herself. You’re so daring.”

  “I arranged it with Crystal. I meet Zoby this Saturday at Trinity College in Dublin, and if I take my old files they will give me new ones. I downloaded final instructions this evening in the library. I’ll play them tonight.”

  “How?”

  Katherine pulled her bag from under the bed and lifted out the games-console. “Don’t tell, please.”

  “Never. How’s it work?”

  “Best in the dark. I use headphones for the sound. This game, Princess Kay-ling, it’s all loaded on flash drive. It’s complicated so I’ll show you when I come back. I have it set up now, ready for tonight.”

  “I can’t wait to have a go.”

  “Don’t tell, promise?” she repeated.

  “Cross my heart.” Teresa leant close, her voice hardly audible. “I have a satin suspender belt and stockings, I wore them last Sunday to Mass.”

  “You minx.” Both giggled their voices half-choked with gasps of suppressed snorts.

  An hour later Katherine drew the curtains and fitted her headphones. Crouched beneath bedclothes, she viewed the play-screen and moved hips with the strutting sway of Princess Kay-ling. When she switched off two hours later, her mind held conviction she must meet Zoby near the inner entrance of Trinity College, 11 a.m. Saturday. She needed to wear something yellow and take all her old files. She had never felt such exhilaration and confidence. She could trust Zoby, Crystal said so.

  CHAPTER 7

  In his warehouse office, Sean sweated hours over the Poor Girl file becoming more and more certain. He wanted this guy, wanted him in a box or a cell. He began to understand Victoria’s emotional involvement. She had been hunting a human misfit who viewed women as objects for his sadistic gratification. Sean channelled his own anger. It was a professional necessity. While Victoria investigated the London murders, he knew she would have done the same, but forced to turn away, her anger had now become raw and deep. Even worse, it had become personal.

  Without Victoria’s DNA information, the Sinclair and Carter murders had only circumstantial connection. Although both carried evidence of rape, abuse and butchery, after Carter’s decapitation, except for the ears, the body had not been touched. In contrast, Lizzie Sinclair had been systematically cleared of all primary organs. The Suffolk woman had her throat slit and her torso hacked open in a frenzied attack of stab wounds. Pieces were missing, but evidence showed disturbance of the remains by forest animals. He e-mailed the Forensic Science Service for the conclusive DNA match. If proof could be established of involvement by organised crime, SOCA had an ongoing op and a vicious killer, but he doubted there was a connection. Gangs rarely mutilated except to demonstrate power of punishment. This kind of savagery produced no profit. The only other link not investigated was their individual involvement with computer technology, something Sinclair had started to look at just before his death. From the page numbering, most of his notes on this were missing. Sean put it down to drunken negligence. Jan and Chad looked in at 8 p.m., enough excuse for a gathering in the pub.

  One beer and thirty minutes later he headed for home. The car CD played Rachmaninov’s No 2. It cleared his mind of murder, but not Victoria Lawless. He pondered on her re-entry into his life, her considerable attractions and, more alarmingly, her failure to inform on vital evidence. He reasoned the woman had allowed contempt of Creech to cloud her judgement, or more deviously, she played a political game not yet apparent.

  Sean switched off the car lights and stepped out onto the cobbled drive of his detached home. For moments he stood in cynical pleasure of ownership. He no longer resented the house, just accepted the place as a burden of fatherly love.

  Danielle sat cross-legged in the family room, her figure draped in a pink wool tracksuit. She waved from where she sat before the laptop, momentarily shifting her concentration from the video game she played. In her moment of distraction she was zapped.

  “You’re getting worse than my daughters,” he said, from the doorway.

  “A new business opportunity to help my thesis.” She smiled and switched off. “Part is on the psychological affect computer games have on children and young adults. For some it becomes an obsession with sub-psychic influences. Because many games have no social contact, the players may become isolated and detached from reality. For certain minds drawn into deep concentration, there exists the possibility of subliminal psychotic induction. I believe this is a possible means of corrective education, particularly for computer-orientated delinquents.”

  “Sounds scary. You got my kids involved?” He returned her smile and watched the round, soft movement of her body as she stood.

  “Sophie and Becky are keen to help.” She eased past, heading for the kitchen. It left him with the sweet aroma of a woman just bathed. For brief seconds he closed his eyes and imagined.

  “And the business?” he questioned, placing his briefcase in the hall and following the lure of her scent.

  “Through Finch Distribution I am now a home agent for PKL Computer Games and Starways Software,” she said. “I sell their products and make small money to help pay university fees.”

  “PKL came up in a meeting today.”

  “Now, monsieur, I am also part.” She poured red wine for them both, placing his glass at a single setting on the table. “I discover and apply two weeks ago. Now I am accepted, they give me my own website, half price games-console and lots of free software. I will put it on your PC. The girls can also play trial games for Princess Kay-ling II. Everybody wins.”

  He watched her dish potatoes and casseroled beef. She placed his plate on the table then turned to the sink. “Camilla phoned, she goes this weekend to New York with Bradley. She asked if girls could stay again. I said, OK.”

  Sean watched her movements, watched the taut stretch of her tracksuit bottoms. “Nice casserole,” he said, and began to eat, realising celibacy was no longer compatible with domestic harmony. Victoria smiled into the vision of his mind. He drew back and looked again at Danielle.

  She hung up the tea towel, collected her wine glass and came opposite. He glanced up as she sat and saw the subtle smile of a scheming woman.

  “I have a present for you, monsieur.” She drew an envelope from her pocket and slid it across the table. “A chance for you to take your girls somewhere Bradley would never think of. A little gift before my departure.”

  She was looking at him over the rim of her glass. He had seen Camilla look that way. He slit the envelope with his finger. The contents took away his suspicions.

  “A complimentary, half-price weekend reservation for Morrison Hotel, Brighton, one family room for Saturday night. That’s great,” he said, searching for excuses to reject.

  “It came free with my PKL business package. They have some franchise deal. If I introduce a friend, there is free invite. So I do it over the Internet and put your name, but you must go this weekend. It is in Brighton, so you have the seaside. There is also free gym, swimming pool, sauna, and most important, the latest cyberspace games room.”

  “Danielle, you’re very sweet, and I’m touched, but it’s not for me. I have work.” He placed the invitation back on the table and smiled into her eyes, hoping she wasn’t upset.

  Momentarily she squeezed his hand, something she had never done. He felt himself weaken.

  “Think of what the girls will tell Camilla and Bradley. Swimming pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, disco. The games room has the most advanced virtual reality systems in Europe. It can only be used by invited hotel guests. The girls will love it; Bradley will hate it. My gift to a good father.”

  Sean reasoned with a large gulp of wine. “You’re some sales lady. How can I refuse?�
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  Danielle stood and walked around the table. “As a French woman, I understand honour and pride, monsieur.” She kissed his cheek and retrieved her wine glass. “I go back to my computer game, leave you to eat in peace.” She crossed the floor and he watched the sway of her departure. In the doorway she turned. “One thing I forget, the weekend, my friend may come, it’s OK to stay maybe, two nights?”

  She had conned him so shrewdly Sean felt only admiration.

  “Sure,” he smiled reluctant consent. “Just make sure he doesn’t leave smelly socks.”

  “Not him, her. And I’m sure her stockings will stay secure.”

  Realisation of macho jealousy was enough to make him think perhaps he had been alone too long. “Put the girls together, use one of their rooms,” he said.