A Hunger Within

by Michael Kerr

  The job that Babs had fixed him up with was a pleasant aside. It had been as a worker at a local meat processing plant, where animals were converted from living beasts to all imaginable cuts of meat. There was something tangible and gratifying about fear. The animals knew that they were about to die. They met their end with eyes rolling, tongues lolling, and bowels and bladder voiding. Some were not stunned properly. Ha! They suffered being disembowelled while still conscious. If the average person spent even a few minutes in such a place, then he was positive that they would be vegetarians for the rest of their miserable lives. Just the coppery stench of warm blood was enough to set laymen’s guts churning.

  And Babs would get hers. The chisel-faced cow had taken a perverse delight in overseeing almost all aspects of his life. The bitch was a control freak. What she would come to know was, that he never forgave, never forgot, and always got back.

  The day his licence expired, she had sarcastically said that in her opinion he was a loser, and that she fully expected to see him again. Why disappoint her? She would most definitely see him again, but on his terms. It was a meeting he looked forward to. There was no hurry. Anticipation was almost as pleasurable as the act itself. There was no pressing need to expedite his intention to kill her.

  He had quit his job as a slaughter man – of four-legged animals – and dropped out of circulation. Another bonus of doing bird, was that you became part of a fraternity, well connected with ex-cons skilled in many areas. He had known where to go to buy the gun and silencer, and also had new ID that would stand up to the most critical scrutiny. The computer was an ally. If the appropriate information was fed into pertinent data banks, then a new identity could be assumed with comparative ease in this age of technology. He was now, in all but reality, a solid, model citizen, and had a bank account and credit cards, driving licence, passport and all the necessary trappings to aid him fit in and keep the authorities happy. He thought of himself as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, amongst the weak and meek, though invisible to them, predating on them as and when he was commissioned to or chose to.

  As he drove back to his maisonette in Muswell Hill, he went through a mental checklist. The outer garments he wore, including the cheap trainers that he had bought from a market stall, would all be burned, along with the fouled panties. And the gun and silencer would be returned to the deposit box he rented under yet another alias. Even though he was a hundred percent positive that he would never become a suspect, he took no chances. And he preferred to kill alfresco, so that any hair or fibres would be a part of so much more that accumulated in the great outdoors.

  He would take two more, then call it a day and get back to more profitable endeavours. With a half dozen victims, the filth would never be able to figure out that only one of them had been the primary target.

  He understood that an investigation needed direction. They would believe that the perpetrator was killing at random. They would not be able to find a motive, and would be left going round in circles like headless chickens.

  Maybe he would take another couple next, or a single man. Let the mix confound them further. He enjoyed the game, having finally found the one thing that he believed he had been born to do; kill. Nothing else in his life had ever given him the same sense of unbridled pleasure. Some men needed to climb Everest, or win titles in some inane sport to float their boats and find a fleeting sense of self worth. He did not crave adulation from the masses. Fifteen minutes of fame was not in his game plan. Grandiose feelings of success and power did not need to be shared. He would be anonymous, and let his deeds speak for him.

  Entering the house by way of a side door that led directly into the kitchen from the garage, he wrapped the gun and silencer in oilcloth, before stripping off the old jacket, trousers and trainers and placing them into a black bin bag with the girl’s panties. He would have a bonfire in the back garden in the morning. Burn a pile of windblown leaves and other bits and pieces. It was something he did regularly, and would not be an isolated act that caused any raised eyebrows. That was another thing he had learned to do: educate people to become accustomed to the persona he had adopted, to see him as a harmless, easygoing young man, who was both amicable and ready to help. He had even done a sponsored run for a local charity, and was planning to follow it up with a parachute jump in aid of the local hospital. Everyone who thought they knew him, would tell you that he was a real nice guy.

  As Mark Collins, he was able to hide within the community, purporting to be a self-employed website designer working from home.

  Gimp wound around his bare legs, purring and bumping him, demanding attention. He stooped and picked the cat up. It was a stray that had adopted him. Just turned up at his kitchen door one frosty winter’s morning. He had lashed out with his foot and kicked it in ribs that showed through its matted grey fur. It was a mess. The top half of its right ear was missing, its tail was crooked, and it walked with a pronounced limp. But the little guy had only backed-up a couple of feet and locked eyes with him. Its defiance had reminded him of himself. It might be starving and suffering, but still had spirit, and was not about to be intimidated by any more crap that life threw at it. He could somehow empathise with that. Pain was something that you either came to be able to assimilate and rise above, or be beaten down, broken by and succumb to.

  Looking back, it had been his first week inside that had been the making of him. The con who ran the wing had sent a couple of goons to tell him how things worked. He picked Gimp up, stroked him, and smiled at the recollection. Rewound his memory to that first day of incarceration…

  “I’m Terry, and this is Winston,” the well-muscled skinhead said, entering the open door of the cell during association time.

  “And you just thought you’d drop by, welcome me to A wing, and make sure that I was settling in okay?” he said, getting up from the bed and facing them, to let the two cons see that he stood a couple of inches over six feet, and that he was not some wimp who could be intimidated.

  “We just want to let you know how it works, mate,” Terry said, a little taken aback by the tall guy’s attitude, and the total lack of expression on his face. The man’s eyes had tobacco-coloured irises and were as unreadable as a China doll’s. He didn’t seem to blink, and Terry found that disconcerting.

  “I’ll tell you how it works,” Mark – who was at that time known by his real name of Andy Tyler – said. “You tell whoever sent you that I want left alone to do my bird. I’d prefer not to go the hard route, but if that’s what it takes, then so be it.”

  “Hey, hey, mon. Chill,” Winston said, giving Andy a smile that a shark would have been proud of. “You gotta go wiv de flow.”

  Andy smiled. “No, you dumb ape, I don’t gotta go with anything. Now if you two morons will get the fuck out of my face, I’d be obliged.”

  The big black moved fast, but to Andy it might have been in slow motion. He ducked, half-turned, bent his arm and drove the point of his elbow up under his attacker’s chin. Had he wanted to, he could have aimed a couple of inches lower, to fracture the guy’s larynx or compress his windpipe. But it wasn’t in his game plan to get life for topping another con. Winston fell back into Terry, who stumbled out onto the landing, almost into a screw who was walking by. Winston’s jaws had snapped together under the impact, and his teeth had all but severed his tongue. Blood flowed over his bottom lip like a crimson waterfall.

  “I see you met Ray Savino’s welcoming committee,” Officer Todd Skinner said as the two men rushed off towards the wing office, to no doubt report that Winston had slipped and fell, and was in urgent need of hospital treatment.

  Andy shrugged.

  “Hard man, eh?” Todd said.

  “Not particularly,” Andy replied. “But I have a problem with some people. They expect too much of me, and have to learn to live with disappointment.”

  Todd shook his head. “Should be fun seeing how long you last in the general population, Tyler. I don’t think you understand how i
t works in here yet. But you will.”

  Andy and the screw smiled at each other. Todd walked off without another word, to find one of the wing cleaners. There was a lot of blood to mop up, and Todd liked the wing to sparkle at all times, and to smell of disinfectant, not sweat, blood, feet, and the ever-present aroma of marijuana smoke.

  It was the next day in the shower room that Andy got beaten up so badly that he needed to spend over a week in the prison hospital.

  Back on the wing, he was prepared. Waited in his cell that evening during association for the inevitable visit.

  It was Terry who showed up. He leaned up against the doorframe and grinned at Andy.

  “You look a mess, Tyler,” he said. “But you’ll live, this time.”

  Andy stood up, and Terry worked the muscles in his jaws, feeling a little apprehensive. It was those damn eyes. He could see something in them that made him want to run away.

  “I think it’s time I had a word with Savino,” Andy said. “He needs to know that I don’t get mad, I get even.”

  “Are you crazy?” Terry said. “Do yourself a favour and knuckle down. Mr. Savino doesn’t allow anyone to rock the boat.”

  Andy smiled. “Tell him that if he wants his little princess to see her tenth birthday next month, then he should make sure that I stay fit and well. If anything else happens to me, then she gets to have a fatal accident.”

  Terry knew that he meant it. There was nothing to say. He went up onto the fours – the top landing – to the last cell. Rapped on the steel plate skin of the door and waited to be invited in.

  Five minutes later, Terry was back in front of Andy. “Mr. Savino says to go on up.”

  Andy was still hurting. The kicking he’d suffered had been measured, and had left him with deep bruising, without breaking bones or rupturing anything, apart from blood vessels. He nodded and followed Terry.

  “Sit down, Tyler, we need to talk,” Ray ‘The Torch’ Savino said, beckoning Andy into the cell.

  Andy settled on a chair and casually crossed his legs. Not all cells were the same size. This one had held six inmates at one time, back when they would put half a dozen epileptics or retards together. Now it was the domain of Savino, alone, who had the clout to pull a lot of strings. In return for his perks, he ensured that the wing stayed sweet. Very little happened on A Wing that the Mafia man did not instigate or authorise.

  Andy leisurely eyeballed his surroundings. Let his gaze settle on several silver-framed photographs on the top of a locker, of a woman and three children, all with dark hair and matching eyes. Savino was pictured in a couple of them, cuddling up close to his wife and kids.

  Andy returned his attention to the mobster. Savino was wearing an oyster-coloured silk robe and suede slippers. Andy thought he was maybe fifty. He had a permanent blue-black shadow to his shaven face, and his carefully coiffured jet hair was touched with silver at the sides. Manicured fingernails highlighted soft hands that had never been callused by manual labour. He had reputedly earned his nickname, The Torch, by wielding an acetylene torch, not to weld metal together, but to burn through the flesh, muscle and bone of anyone who happened to get on the wrong side of him.

  “So talk,” Andy said. “I’m all ears.”

  Red blotches materialised on Ray’s cheeks. Had they been on the out, then he might have just emptied the mag of a pistol into Andy’s head. “You threatened my family. Is that because you’re dumb as a rock, mentally deranged in some way, or just plain suicidal?”

  “It comes under the heading of self-preservation, Mr. Savino. I want to do my time the easy way, and don’t plan on parting with my phone cards, tobacco, or anything else. I’m not a team player. All I need is to be left alone. And I don’t make idle threats. I did my homework on you while I was getting over the beating. I have a psycho friend on the out who owes me a few favours. I called him and said that if I had an accident in here, then sometime, at his discretion, your youngest daughter, Gina, was to be tortured, then killed. It’s called fighting fire with fire.”

  “You know who you’re threatenin’, Tyler?”

  “A big fish in a small pond,” Andy said. “Outside, you ain’t the Godfather. You’re a link in a chain. Expendable, or you wouldn’t be rotting in here.”

  “You underestimate me, Tyler. What’s to stop me havin’ my boys encourage you to tell me who your friend is, and then have him capped. Do you really want to be found hangin’ in your cell?”

  Andy moved so fast that Terry and the other three minders present had no chance to react and get between him and their boss. He dug his thumb and fingers into the sides of the Italian’s throat and exerted enough pressure to cut off his airway.

  “Touch me, and I’ll rip his windpipe out,” he said in a calm, soft voice.

  Terry knew it was no bluff. He put his hands out in front of him, palms up. The other three backed-up a couple of feet, unsure of what to do.

  “Good boys,” Andy said, loosening his grip just enough to let the wheezing gangster take a ragged breath or two of air. “Now get the fuck out of here and pull the door to behind you. Mr. Savino and I have got a deal to work out.”

  Terry looked to his boss for guidance, and the slow blink of Ray’s eyes conveyed the necessary answer to the unasked question.

  Once the hired help had left, Andy released his grip and retook his seat.

  “I think you’re fuckin’ crazy, Tyler,” Ray croaked, massaging his throat.

  “Maybe I am,” Andy said. “But the meek don’t inherit the earth, or anything else. I decided a long time ago not to let anyone pull my strings.”

  “Call your friend off my daughter, and we can start over. You can live off the fat in here. I can arrange with the screws for you to be a wing cleaner, which keeps you out of the shops, kitchen and laundry. You can pay someone else to do your work, and look after things for me. You won’t go short of anythin’.”

  “Sounds reasonable. But I don’t trust you, Savino. If I don’t have any leverage, there’s nothing to stop me having a nasty, fatal accident.”

  Ray nodded. “I can understand your paranoia. But think on this. If anythin’ happens to Gina, or to any of my family, then I don’t have to tell you how slowly you would die, do I?”

  “I think we have an understanding.”

  Funny, Andy thought, – letting the present back in, and setting Gimp down on the floor – how he and Ray had found a mutual respect for each other. With the fullness of time, the first paid hit he had done was for the Mafia boss. And the association had brought more lucrative contracts.

  Putting fresh milk and food down for Gimp, Andy went upstairs and showered. He would make chicken fajitas with tortillas and savoury rice, and open a bottle of chilled white wine to wash them down with. Then watch a video. Maybe one of the Jurassic park movies. They were his favourites. Dinosaurs, and especially T-rex and velociraptors, fascinated him. Carnivorous reptiles embodied a ruthless savagery that was contained within an exterior that was both terrifying and majestic. Everything about them was cold, calculating and awesome in its simplicity. Dinosaurs had ruled the earth for a hundred and twenty million years in one form or another. And the predators among them had been perfect killing machines, not governed by petty morals or any sense of mercy. Might was the only yardstick to measure success by. It was believed that velociraptors never passed-up prey. They killed for the pleasure of the act, hungry or not. Everyone had heroes, and he was no exception. The only difference was, his were gone from the earth, leaving only fossilised bones as evidence of their passing.

  Rubbing the condensation from the mirror on the bathroom wall, he stared at his reflection. His eyes were as calculating and pitiless as any in creation. What looked back at him was in some way alien. It was as though a separate entity dwelt within him, of which he did not have absolute control over.

  After eating, Andy watched the video for the fiftieth time, fast forwarding to his favourite scenes. He did not need to suffer the antics of Sam Neil, Laura
Dern, or the other actors, who were only padding for the real stars of the movie.

  It was almost three a.m. when he woke up. He had dozed off and dreamed of being a giant, scaly beast. He was running along a jungle track in pursuit of a naked, fleeing woman. The ground shook under his feet as he advanced. And the woman’s screams echoed through the trees as he snatched her up between slavering jaws, to scythe her body in half with dagger-like teeth.

  That was what he had been missing with this present job. Putting bullets through a mark’s head was not visceral enough. There was a definite lack of gratification. He needed to feed off fear and pain. He was only stimulated by the suffering of others, and by the honest, unaffected reactions of a person enduring great torment. Fear could neither be faked nor properly suppressed. He sighed, then went to bed and fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

  Chapter THREE

  Detective Chief Inspector Julie Brannigan stormed into the incident room. She was somehow capping the rage, stopping it from boiling up and escaping. She kept her cool and approached Ryan from behind. He was seated, leafing through a file, and his trusty DS was standing at his shoulder like a faithful dog, presumably waiting to be given instructions to fetch, sit, roll over, lick his balls, or do whatever was required of him.

  “Help you, ma’am?” DC Vinnie Gomez said in a loud voice, ensuring that his boss knew who was in the room.