Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  “Here comes the militant Bible bashers,” muttered Jesse as tension rose once more around the table. “Been to your Bible classes again Lucy?” he asked. She gave him a look of distain.

  “I have raised it, yes. We had a very interesting discussion.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way Lucy,” said Anders. “My intent is to go about peaceably with my life.” Lucy snorted contemptuously and Mal once again went to reprimand her. Anders kept her hand on his arm, gently reminding him that it was her fight as Lucy spat a reply, drink making her angry, blotches of red colouring her cheeks.

  “God creates people as male and female. It’s a divine mandate against gender variance. Your gender is determined by biological sex, not by your own perception. Your DNA is XY, not XX.”

  “Jesus himself discussed the need for tolerance on how to love your fellow man. Many philosophers have seen the journey of transgenderism as a journey of faith through the darkness and desert.”

  “Your mental disorder is a challenge to overcome, not to acquiesce to.” Anders shrugged.

  “I did see it as a challenge I needed to overcome and did so many years ago. Redemption through transformation. Isn’t that what the bible preaches?”

  “It’s against God. Pope Benedict said as such when he declared that it would lead to the destruction of mankind.”

  “Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Shinto, the Shona, pre-Christian Philippines, the Wicca, even Dionysus, the patron God of intersex, born of Zeus. Loki often turned to female form. The ancient Egyptians worshipped Nile Gods who were men with breasts. Even Conservative Judaism has said that reassignment surgery is permissible. Pope Benedict retired a long time ago. His views are archaic. The Christian church welcomes transgender individuals and has done so for a long time.”

  Lucy changed tack, determined to win the argument.

  “Feminists don’t even agree with it,” she said, loud enough for all in the bar to hear. Abi tried to calm her down, but Lucy was filled with wine and righteousness. A dangerous combination.

  “Morgan says that you all have the mentality of a rapist. You reduce the female form to an artefact. You’ve bypassed the lifetime of sexual repression us real woman have had to endure.” Anders laughed at that.

  “I’ve been a woman longer than I have a man. I’ve had a lifetime of prejudice when feminists such as Morgan and Raymond promote a monolithic, ideologically driven representation of us, pushing transgender women and men even deeper into a repressed minority.” Lucy, spurred on by Anders’ calm and reasonable tone sneered at her.

  “Easy for you to say when you look like that, a poster child for those too caught up in their sex addled minds.”

  “On the contrary, sex was never part of the equation. I was still a virgin when I underwent my reassignment. You’re buying into diagnostic tools that were added to psychology in nineteen eighty and have served to stigmatise transgender individuals long after homosexuality and other such taboo’s have become accepted as norm.” Lucy glowered at Anders as everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the exchange.

  “You’re no woman. After all, real women don’t close up if it doesn’t get any use,” she said venomously. It was low blow, aimed at riling Anders, but she gave an easy shrug.

  “I have to dilate, yes,” she said, her voice betraying no shame or embarrassment. Abi gave a loud snort.

  “Me too love, I’m pretty sure I’m all sealed up, it’s been so long!” Helen coughed loudly, spluttering on her wine as she burst into peals of laughter.

  “I’m not joking,” cried Abi, enjoying Helen’s reaction. “I reckon my hymen’s grown right back!”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Jesse, taking the opportunity to steer the discussion further from Lucy. “Are you telling me that you took some blockers or other before you hit puberty? So you’ve never actually been through puberty?” He laughed at that, cracking himself up and easing the tension even more as conversation tentatively flowed back into the group. Soon the argument was forgotten and laughter rippled around the table again. Anders caught Abi’s eye and gave her a brief nod of gratitude. Abi gave a cheeky wink in reply. Lucy had isolated herself with her comments and slunk off unnoticed, giving Anders a sour glance as she shared a joke with Mal.

  Eventually, Anders declared that she needed some sleep, so grabbed her jacket and stood up carefully, letting her legs decide how drunk she was before saying her goodbyes and heading for the stairs.

  “I’ll come with you,” declared Mal, standing up and banging his head on the low brick arches.

  “That’ll help with the hangover,” declared Duncan drunkenly as the group bid the pair goodnight.

  Out on the street, a chill wind harangued them both as they pulled their jackets closely around them. Charing Cross station sat opposite, but Anders fancied a walk across the river to Waterloo. It would take ten minutes and freshen her up a bit.

  “Mind if I walk with you?” asked Mal. Anders slid an arm through his and let herself be guided through Embankment and up the steps to the bridge crossing the river. Though he was her boss, he had an easy, gentlemanly manner about him and she could see that he cared for his team.

  “I’m sorry about Lucy,” he said. “She was out of order.” Anders gave a wry grin.

  “Nothing for you to apologise about. It’s her issue, not mine.”

  “Well, I’m sorry anyway.” He gave a sidelong glance at her, clearly wondering whether he should ask what was on his mind. She saw his look and raised an eyebrow, daring him to ask.

  “Why are you so open about it? No one would ever have to know?” She considered the question for a while as they walked through the small crowd of tourists on the bridge who were snapping pictures of the London Eye or Parliament. The bridge had large, smooth paving stones on the walkway that had large gaps between each slab. She had to mind her step or her heels would slip into the mud filled spaces and she idly walked along them as if doing hopscotch. Eventually she spoke.

  “I don’t shout it from the roof tops, but it’s not something I’m going to hide from. Say now you just met me, what would you think?” Mal shrugged.

  “I’d think there was an attractive woman.” She slapped his arm playfully and continued.

  “We got to know each other over several months and one day I told you I was transgender. You’d look at me differently. You’d think I was different, that I had changed, but really it was your perception that had changed. I was still very much the same. The more people realise that it’s a matter of their perception, the better. Besides, it rarely comes up. It’s not something I really think about any more, it was such a long time ago.”

  As they made their way down the steps and approached Waterloo, the grand entrance looming overhead, Mal, clearly intrigued spoke again. Anders didn’t mind. This wasn’t the aggressive questioning of Lucy, but someone who wanted to get to know her some more.

  “Do your wards know? What were their names?” Anders smiled at the thought of them.

  “Aaron and Cassie. They know. Hard not to considering the publicity at the time.”

  “They know you killed their father?”

  “They do. They also know what he did to them.”

  “They’ll forget. Time will distort things and maybe one day they’ll want a reckoning.” Drink had made him maudlin, a great sadness in his eyes. Anders wanted to know what was behind such deep sorrow, but let it go for now.

  “When that time comes, they can have their reckoning,” she replied. “It’s the least they deserve. Speaking of which, Buckland will get his too. We’ll find him.” He sighed abruptly.

  “He’s a ghost. No trace anywhere.” It was frustrating that, with all of the technology available to them, it was still possible to hide in the UK. Anders had warned him that the excessive data compiled by the British surveillance network would swamp the system, and so it had proved. They simply had too much, so Mal had the team break it up and focus on key areas, but it was still overwhelming. It didn’t help
that Francis, Buckland’s twin brother kept showing up on the facial recognition software and that calls to the helpline had all tagged him. It was an arduous task to eliminate him each time and he had been reluctant to curtail his activities. There had even been a fight outside parliament when a tourist mistook him for Michael and Francis had to be ushered away with a police escort. Mal interrupted her thoughts.

  “You think many people will rally to his cause beyond getting the five million quid?” Anders gave it some consideration as they entered Waterloo Station through the impressive, carved stonework gilding the flight of steps. Inside the station, armed police patrolled silently and with an air of slight menace. Of the one hundred and thirty thousand police officers in Britain, six thousand were now trained in firearms – a number that had doubled over the last few years, notably since the Paris attacks. Anders, used to such sights in the States, found it jarring and watched them as she replied.

  “There’s always those who are looking for something to latch on to, something to be part of that gives them hope. It’s easy to be down on humanity. We kill and maim and torture and we see the worst of it, but there is grace in our failings, hope in our triumphs. There is much good in us, but it’s easier not to be. Buckland’s tapping into our fears and using greed and avarice as back up. It’s a potent cocktail.” She turned to see Mal gazing at her strangely as she mused out loud.

  “What?” she asked. He chuckled at her defensive tone.

  “Nothing,” he protested. “It’s nice to see you open up a little is all.”

  “So I’m buttoned up am I?” Mal’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “A little intense perhaps,” he said and neatly sidestepped her backhanded swipe. Anders checked her train times on the billboard and saw that she had half an hour to wait. Sighing, she spotted a bar at the back of the station at the top of a flight of steps and asked Mal if he fancied another drink.

  “Sure,” he replied and led her to the bar, weaving through the throng of people with practised ease and grace despite his bulk. “So tell me about Jesse,” he asked. “You two clearly know each other well.” Anders gave him a guarded look.

  “What do you know?” She wasn’t about to give away any details of him that Mal didn’t know. He saw her weariness and smiled, glad that she had such protective instincts over those she cared about.

  “Spent time in America and some of that in a prison for hacking into the NSA. Something about making every computer screen show Solskjaer’s winning goal in the Champions League final on repeat.” Anders smiled at the memory as they entered the small bar and sat overlooking the crowded station floor. Anders enjoyed people watching and had her back against the wall looking down below.

  “I was his arresting officer. Dragged him naked as the day he was born from his bed. He made quite the scene.” As they ordered more wine, Anders continued the story. “Anyways, a year into his sentence, I pulled him out to help me break into a paedophile ring down South. He got a taste for the right side of the law and I convinced the judge to suspend his sentence.” Mal chuckled as the drinks were served and chinked her glass with his.

  “I knew there was a big softie in there somewhere,” he said and laughed as she gave him a mock scowl and lifted her own glass to salute him.

  The next morning, Anders took her time with her run. The drink had fuddled her mind and body, so she let the alcohol sweat itself out before pushing herself. The Richmond Hill Gate was already open when she arrived and the Warden grinned at her as she passed.

  “Little late this morning,” he called as she waved good morning.

  Returning to the flat, she found Aaron and Cassie already up and making breakfast. It was the weekend and they were all at home together that day. They grinned as she came through the door, visibly sweating and tired.

  “Morning,” said Cassie. She was dressed in a short skirt and loose t-shirt that hung lower than the skirt itself, eyes heavily made up and sporting a new ear piercing. “Heard you banging your way in nice and early this morning. Few drinks last night?” Anders slumped down in a chair at the table and helped herself to some toast. Cassie passed her a large mug of coffee, which Anders took gratefully.

  “A few,” she replied. Tucking into her toast, she asked what they would like to do today. She had the day off and was determined to spend it with the two of them.

  “The IMAX is showing a quadruple bill of the Avengers films,” declared Aaron. Cassie rolled her eyes.

  “If I’m going, I want popcorn. Lots of it. And candy. And soda.” Anders grinned.

  “Sounds good,” she declared. “Anyone who doesn’t have diabetes by the end of the day has failed miserably.

  “What’s diabetes?” asked Aaron. Cassie gave Anders a look that suggested she could deal with that one. Grabbing another slice of toast and sticking it in her mouth, she ushered Aaron into his bedroom to get changed and tame his wild mane of blonde hair while she explained all about blood glucose levels. It made little difference. He still wanted a giant bag of popcorn at the cinema.

  Week 2

  And so our first week concludes. It’s been a wonderful week, with so much support for our cause. You have taken my teachings and owned them. There were so many entries, it was overwhelming and I have decided that next week, I shall choose two winners. For the first week of our revolution, I chose an entry from Spain. A re-enactment from A Game of Thrones. The Red Wedding. You have to love a man willing to chop the head from his fellow man and stitch it to the body of the family pet and vice versa. I was quite taken aback and only too pleased to grant this the winning entry. I have posted the pictures below for your delectation.

  The winner proves one thing. That this is now an international revolution, though we mustn’t lose sight of the ultimate goal; a revolution of the species. It is time to break the shackles, destroy democracy and crush antiquated notions of civilisation. As a species, we have castrated ourselves and lost sight of what we can truly be, what our role on this planet should be.

  We think ourselves perfect, yet it is our imperfections that make us beautiful. Every mutation, every defect is essential to our very existence, the fundamental driving force behind the survival of every species. Each of us carries thousands of millions of anomalies and outliers, written into our very code. That is our strength. Non-conformity to a norm determined by whom? We have become bland, driven to an idealised image that we should reject, not embrace.

  That is why, this week, the theme is that of your own fantasies. Live them out. Be bold. Be creative and express your innermost desires. Don’t let society tell you it is a fantasy when society should be encouraging you to embrace your deepest desires, to turn them into reality and allow your true expression. Omnia romae vernalia sunt.

  My fantasy is complete liberation in the true sense of the word. Our souls free to express, to lose their temporal chains and unite completely with its pastoral self. Only then can this planet and humanity be saved.

  I present my entry for the week. A policeman. Someone we allow to enforce the rules we agree to abide by. Passively realising that we created our own prison by the acceptance of laws that rely completely on our acquiescence. What happens when you realise that this acceptance is no longer permissible?

  Taking him is easy. When I do, he hits the news and his family speak tearfully of how worried they are for him. He knows none of this, none of the search for him in the outside world for I am setting him free from his physical being. It takes a long time. Many, many weeks, but Sergeant Boyle is strong. He holds on to his form, even when I take it from him.

  Day one, I remove a finger. The little one. He screams. He begs. He threatens, but I ignore him. He is trapped in this box, chained to a chair in front of a large mirror so he can see what I do to him.

  The next day, I take my sheers to him once more. Another finger. I do this for many days until he has no fingers and toes. He’s given up screaming. He just sobs. His spirit is broken and he does not see that I am making it anew. I
preserve his fingers and put them on display in his prison. I hang some by wires, I glue some to the walls, an effigy of Boyle so he may know what he loses as I help him gain immortality.

  I then move onto his hands, bloody fingerless stumps that I hack my way through. He starts screaming again. I tire of this, so I take his tongue, scissors slicing through the flesh with a delicious cutting sound. His teeth next, one by one with pliers, a clamp to hold his jaw open.

  My project requires work and dedication. It is not easy. I walk among you, brushing myself against the disease that we have become and know that I am setting one of you free. That I am creating art from his temporal spirit. I wanted to scream, to shout, to show you all, but the time was not right. I needed to remove a limb. Then another. Piece by piece. A drip to keep him alive, drugs to stave off infection. He wishes to die, but I fight for him. I fight to keep him alive, so that he may see. He turns away, so I clamp his head in place, remove the eyelids. He sees then and suffers cardiac arrest. His appendages displayed in wondrous fashion around him, he gives up.

  But I save him once more. He is alive. He is waiting for you. I have succeeded in my task. It is time for you all to follow.

  Chapter 1

  Anders sipped her coffee as she watched Aaron pour himself some cereal into a bowl. He looked smug as he poured his milk over the flakes and scooped out a large mouthful with his fist wrapped around a spoon too large for his small hands. He looked triumphant and rammed it into his mouth, his face turning to despair as he realised that Anders had swapped back the inner packet of cereals that morning.

  “That’s not my Frosties,” he moaned through a mouthful of Corn Flakes. Cassie laughed delightedly and gave Anders a high five, wooden bangles banging loudly as she raised her arm.

  “New joke,” she declared causing Anders to groan loudly.

  “Enough with the jokes already,” she said but Cassie ignored her.

  “Why can’t you have a twelve inch nose?” she asked. Aaron crinkled his forehead in thought, absently chewing his cereal as he did so.