by Michael Kerr
“Open your legs, Emily,” he said, sitting next to her on the bed, to reach out and fondle her breasts and gently tweak her nipples in turn with his finger and thumb.
She slowly parted her knees.
“More,” he said, sliding his hand down over her belly to the inside of her thigh, pressing hard against the soft flesh.
She opened herself fully to him, and he raped her repeatedly. He was sore and perspiring heavily when he eventually found it impossible to maintain an erection. He climbed off her and went through the bungalow to the kitchen. Opened the magnet-infested fridge door and let the chill air play over his body. Drank over half of a litre container of milk. The stew, casserole, or whatever she had been cooking for ‘Alistair’, smelled burnt. He turned the oven off. Looked at his surroundings. Moonlight striped every surface through the half open slats of the Venetian blind at the large window above the sink unit.
It was interesting to see how other people lived behind closed doors; to look through their belongings and know what secrets they kept concealed from the outside world. It was a no-holds-barred ‘Through the Keyhole’, without restriction. He could be as intrusive as he wished to be. When he had found the cotton briefs that were now firmly wedged in Emily’s mouth, he had come across a very large vibrator. He let a picture form of her sitting nude in front of her PC, online with him over the last few weeks; one hand working the keyboard, while the other feverishly manipulated the fat, battery-operated facsimile of an oversized penis. Sad bitch! But thank heaven for little...and big girls. He would never run out of frustrated females that wanted to turn their fantasies into reality, and by so doing, present him with the opportunity to pick and choose which of them were suitable for special treatment.
There was a poster print hanging under a Disney wall clock. The clock’s face was of Goofy, and his long, twisty black ears were the hour and minute hands. The poster was of some place called Discovery Cove in Florida. It pictured two bottle-nosed dolphins leaping out of the water. He liked dolphins. They were intelligent, and he could not read their thoughts, or see what lurked behind the rubbery, fixed smiles on their shiny faces. Much like himself, they were an unknown quantity. Who knew what drove them?
It was time. He felt sated and in high spirits. The only minor problem was that he had become a little overexcited and left teeth marks on her, even through the nylon. Plus, there would be saliva and perspiration. To hell with it. Leaving DNA was no big deal. It would never be matched to him. But why let them have a part of him to analyse and mess with and keep in test tubes? That was an invasion of his privacy. Best to just finish-up and set fire to the bungalow. He decided not to shoot her. He would double-tap some other bitch on the way home, should the chance present itself. This was an unrelated personal episode.
He went back through to the bedroom, got dressed, then showed her the knife.
“Its been fun, Emily,” he said. “But all good things come to an end. Time to send you on your merry way. This might make your eyes water. I aim to ram this little feller in your ear and stir your brains around.”
The screams were only in her head. She writhed from side to side, kicked out, and did not even feel the twine lacerating her wrists as she bucked and pulled and tried to wrench free.
He gripped her forehead and drew the knife back. It would be pleasing to transform the writhing, grunting, agitated prey into a still and hushed carcass. She should be grateful. He was saving her from all further disappointment in her pathetic life. She would enjoy a relatively swift exit, and not live long enough to have her organs be overcome by disease, nor suffer the symptoms of a brain beginning to atrophy and rob her of whatever memories she might cherish. Old age and infirmity were obstacles that she would not have to face and be humbled by.
One long, last look into her eyes, to feed off the terror. She was wetting the bed now. More confirmation of his awesome power to intimidate and dominate others.
Chapter TEN
Harold Palmer was not falling-down drunk. Inebriated enough to give him Dutch courage and override his usual diffident demeanour, certainly. No doubt about that. But he felt that the time was right. It was in fact three-twenty a.m., but he had passed out at a little before ten o’ clock, and had no idea that it was already the morning of another day.
Pouring the last two inches of brandy into his glass, Harold farted loudly, and then padded through to the kitchen, were he dumped the empty bottle in the pedal bin before taking a fresh pack of cigarettes from the neat stack of two hundred on the shelf they shared with the telephone books. He lit up, took a deep drag, and chased the smoke down with a mouthful of the cheap supermarket cognac.
“Just who the hell does Ms. snooty Simmons think she is?” he said to Benson, a grey-muzzled black lab that looked up at him from the basket with a confused expression. Benson knew that it was too late, or early to go walkies. “What do you think, boy, is she worth the effort, or should I quit getting hot under the collar whenever she smiles or says hello to me, which isn’t often?”
Benson wagged his tail and gave his master a low, chuffing bark.
“You think if I went round, knocked on the door and started up a conversation, that she might ask me in for a cup of coffee? Maybe she’d just tell me to piss off and shut the door in my face.”
Benson yawned, put his head back on his paws and closed his eyes.
Harold took another drag, coughed, and pondered. He had lived in the bungalow next door to Emily’s property for five years. She kept to herself and had few visitors. He had the impression that she was lonely, which was probably the only thing he had in common with her. He knew quite a lot about her, though. Had gone out of his way to. She worked for some stuffy solicitors’ firm in Watford, and did her weekly shop in the local Tesco. He just happened to make a point of being there every Friday evening, and if he could pluck up the courage, say hello to her. And her outward appearance and priggish attitude didn’t fool him for a minute. He had seen another side of her. Ha! A lot more than that.
It had started innocently enough. Harold had been out in his back garden in July, just chilling out. He’d put the parasol up and was sitting in one of the green, plastic carver chairs with his cigarettes, a large can of lager, and a half-read James Patterson novel on the table in front of him. It was as hot as hell, and he was relaxing in his boxer shorts, hoping that his pale skin might catch a little sun.
Benson was over in the border, digging at the bottom of the six-foot-high lap panel fencing.
Chugging the lager down, Harold had belched, got up and walked over to the fence. The overlapping strips were warped and grey. They needed a couple of coats of preservative. Looking through a narrow gap between a panel and post, he sucked in his breath. Emily was in her garden, stretched out on a sun bed, face down...and stark naked.
Harold had rushed into the house and found a pair of compact binoculars that he had never had occasion to use. They had belonged to his father, an amateur ornithologist who had passed on eight years ago.
Back at the fence, sitting comfortably in one of the plastic chairs, Harold had found a horizontal gap that allowed him to focus the field glasses on Emily. Her bottom was glorious, and was glistening with sun lotion. He watched her for an hour. She turned over once, and he almost moaned aloud at the sight of her front.
A couple of weeks later, and on the fourth time he had caught her catching the rays in the buff, he sensed she knew he was there. While turning over on to her back, she looked directly at the spot in the fence that he was behind. He might have imagined the small knowing smile, but didn’t think so. It dawned on him that this had become a two-way prank, in that she enjoyed being watched as much as he enjoyed watching her. It seemed to be a game to her. She would pose, rub the milky sun block over herself in a very sensual way, and always glance towards where he would unfailingly have his shorts or sweats down to his ankles. It was a very private ‘look only’ exercise, on her part.
Enough was enough. This month had seen a drop in the tempera
ture, and he was suffering withdrawal symptoms. She hadn’t bared all in the garden for weeks.
Christ! What if it had been a come-on? She might have wanted him to take it further. Emily was feasibly as shy as him, and found it difficult to communicate and make friends.
Harold quickly showered and shaved. Got dressed and left the house. He walked up Emily’s drive and stopped abruptly at the sight of the grey Audi. Emily had a little blue Punto. Had she traded it in? Or had some guy got the drop on him? His stomach churned. While he had dithered and not had the balls to make a play, some tosser had wormed his way into Emily’s bed.
He turned to leave, then changed his mind. The hall light was on, but the rooms either side of it were in darkness.
Creeping up to one of the bay windows, Harold found a gap in the curtains and squinted through it. It was the lounge, and appeared to be empty. Tiptoeing across the gravel drive, past the door, he crouched down, reached the other bay, and slowly raised his head to look through the window from the side, where the curtain did not meet the frame.
Was it a sex game? The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and by the light from the hall he could see Emily stretched out on the bed. Her arms were up, fastened to the headboard. Her mouth appeared to be covered. She seemed to be struggling. There was a shadowy figure sitting on the bed next to her, and he had a fucking knife in his hand.
It was purely instinctive. Had Harold allowed himself time to think, then he might have acted differently. He stood up and hammered on the window with his fist. “Police!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Open the door, or we will force entry.”
Andy jumped to his feet. What the fuck? Why would the police be here? Didn’t matter. Shit! The car! Forget it. It was stolen, and he had changed the plates. It couldn’t be traced to him. And Emily had not seen his face. He would flee. Anger made him take the time to plunge the blade into her neck, to twist and withdraw it. He then ran out into the hall, through to the kitchen at the back of the house. The key was in the lock. He turned it, yanked the door open and sprinted down the garden. Almost vaulted the high fence, caught an ankle on the top and fell heavily, wrenching his shoulder. He rolled, came up on to his feet and kept going, around the side of another bungalow and out to the street. A car, its headlights blazing, was pulling into a drive four or five doors up. He ran, reached it, and pulled open the driver’s door.
“What―?”
He slashed at the man’s face with the bloody knife, simultaneously grasping him by the collar of his jacket and yanking him out on to the ground. Jumped into the car and reversed out, feeling the bump and hearing a scream as the front near-side wheel went over a leg to fracture the prone man’s femur.
Pulling the stocking from his head, he drove towards Harrow on the A404. Once there, he changed plates with a car in a deserted side street, and headed for home. He had to evaluate his position. Think. The gun. His Glock and silencer were in the glove box of the Audi. So what? He had been attached to the weapon, but it was only a tool. It could easily be replaced. The police would find it, and may work out that Emily’s attacker was the gunman they were after. That gave them nothing. He was still totally anonymous. Emily would have bled out in minutes. Even if she hadn’t, all she had seen was a stocking mask. He would not use the online site again...for a while, even though it was secure. The only nagging worry was that the police had called at Emily’s. Why? He had a severe headache. Losing control of the situation had angered him. He didn’t like to run away from anyone or anything. Cool it. It was like a car or air crash. If you could walk away from it in one piece, then it was a good result. That a most enjoyable night had been curtailed so rudely was small price to pay. And tomorrow was another day.
Setting fire to the car on waste ground a mile from his house, he walked the rest of the way home. He needed a shower and a few hours’ sleep.
Harold heard the kitchen door bang. He was nobody’s hero, but had to check on Emily. He looked about. House bricks had been used to make an edging for the drive. They were buried upright in the soil, at an angle to form a staggered zigzag top. He took the few seconds needed to bend down and pull one of the bricks free. It felt heavy and comforting. A solid makeshift weapon.
Making his way to the rear of the bungalow, he found the kitchen door wide open, creaking as it moved back and forth in a light breeze. Taking a deep breath, Harold entered. Shouted “Police” again, and could hear the quaver in his voice. There was no untoward sound. He headed for the bedroom, holding the brick raised, ready to strike out at anyone who might suddenly lunge at him. At the door, he froze. The brick slipped forgotten from his slack fingers and thudded on the carpet. He felt a pressure on his bladder, but squeezed hard and prevented himself from pissing his pants.
If it had started out as some kinky sex frolic, then it had got seriously out of hand. Emily was naked and motionless. Her legs were rudely splayed, and her neck, breasts and the pillow appeared to be coated in liquid tar. Harold had read somewhere that blood looked black in moonlight. Now he knew that to be true. More dark rivulets ran down her arms from her wrists. Without turning on the light, he went to her. She had to be dead. No. Her eyes were open wide, apparently unseeing, but her chest rose and fell. There was tape around her face, covering her mouth. He removed it, and the balled, sodden panties that had been used as a gag.
“You’re going to be all right, Emily,” he said lamely, before backing away, to turn and race to the kitchen, where he had seen a wall-mounted phone.
It took him three attempts to perform the simple task of tapping out 999. His coordination seemed to have deserted him. His brain was having trouble passing messages to all parts south of it. His motor functions were out of sync, and not in any way because of the brandy. He was now stone-cold-sober. Shock-horror was the reason for his mental disarray.
The dispassionate female voice filled him with relief. Gave him an outlet to channel his scrambled emotions through. She asked him what service he wanted, and he said ambulance. Asked him for his name and address. He told her. Asked him what the emergency was. He lost his composure: “A woman has been tied to a bed and stabbed in the fucking neck. If you keep me on the line much longer, she’ll die. So do your job and get paramedics here, you stupid bitch.”
Harold left the phone off the hook and went back to Emily. Pulled a sheet up over her. Took the time to open a drawer and pull out what appeared to be a cotton blouse. He wadded the garment and used it as a pressure bandage on the wound site, hoping that it would stem the heavy flow of blood.
Emily murmured. She was looking at him now.
“Hold on, Emily, the ambulance is on the way,” he said.
“Harold?” she whispered, before her eyes closed.
Harold began to sob. Maybe if he had come round to her house a few seconds earlier, then this might not have happened. He kept the saturated blouse tight against her neck, but knew that she had gone.
They got into Ryan’s Vitari. He drove to a pub that would not be full of cops. It had booths like a diner. Julie went to one at the end of the long room. Slid in and watched Ryan approach the bar. He was imposing. Almost a head taller than most of the other punters who he seemed to glide through to place his order.
“Thanks,” Julie said, taking the glass of G & T from him as he somehow squeezed himself into the cramped space opposite her. “What’s your poison?”
“I usually make do with any blended scotch. But I just put the boat out and paid an arm and a leg for a double malt.”
“What do you do when you’re not on duty?”
“You mean with all the spare time that’s left over from working sixteen hour days?”
“Yes.”
“I eat, sleep, watch old movies, and wait for the phone to ring.”
“A hectic social life, then?”
“What about you?”
Julie took a sip of her drink. Put the glass down on a mat. Shrugged. “I wash, iron, go shopping, pay bills. All the mundane stuff that has to be don
e.”
“Being a cop is a barrel of fun, isn’t it?” Ryan said
“Maybe not fun, but stimulating and diverse. I don’t like the hours, but wouldn’t trade them for some civvie job. I get a kick out of doing what we do.”
“What is it you think we do, Julie?”
“We make a difference, Ryan. We’re like sandbags. We hold the flood back.”
“Back to dams again.”
“Yeah. They seem to be a useful metaphor.”
“I sometimes feel like a sewer worker wading through tunnels of shit. There’s no end to it. It just keeps coming.”
“But you still get a buzz when you close some killer down, knowing that you’ve saved more lives. Right?”
“That’s part of it. It’s more personal than that. I get to feel that I’m in a head-to-head game that I don’t want to lose.”
“It isn’t a game, Ryan?”
“I disagree. It’s all part of the game of life. And however you play it, you eventually lose.”
“You sound like a dedicated pessimist.”
“I suppose I am. If you always expect the worst, then you don’t get many nasty surprises, or too disappointed. Maybe it’s the job that has soured me. I see life as it is. And it isn’t a pretty sight.”
“I always try to look on the bright side,” Julie said. “If I didn’t, then what would be the point to it all.”
“Who said there should be a point to anything, Julie? The world’s population is over Seven billion and rising. And in a century or so, not one of those seven billion will still be here. All their values, dreams and hopes will be ashes and bones.”
“The secret is to believe that it’s now that matters, Ryan. Not yesterday, or in a hundred bloody years. Let another generation worry about what world they might be left to sort out. You’re too damn fatalistic.”
“We can’t all be coming from the same place, Julie. Although another couple of shots of Glenmorangie and I might become the life and soul of the party.”