Deadly Encounters

by Wycherley, Jeannie

  In accordance with my desire to be anonymous, I realised I didn’t want to be a regular at the agency, so I stopped contacting them. I found a studio apartment via another agency, but I kept in touch with Ms Winters by following her around.

  Stalking her.

  She worked 9 to 5:30 at the office most days and rarely stayed late. Then she would go home to a lavish house on the outskirts of town with a large garden maintained by an external company. She lived with a well-to-do, good-looking man.

  Nice suits!

  Nice Lotus!

  Nice security cameras. Let’s not get too close.

  Worth a small fortune.

  It’s so unfair that they have all this!

  Do something about them and their smug arrogance!

  Occasionally, back at work, she needed to show someone around a house or apartment, I guess if members of her team were sick or on holiday. It was this that provided me with my best chance. Observing closely, I noticed that the pattern of a house visit was always the same. She would arrive first and enter the property. Shew would then greet the visitor when they arrived. When the visitor left, she would disappear back into the property, probably to lock it all up, and then return to her car. I would need to take my opportunity as it presented itself.

  It presented itself perfectly. One sunny afternoon she made her way to a small house close to a busy road. I drove past and parked some distance away. My heart thumping in anticipation, I twisted my rear view mirror to watch. I waited for the viewer to turn up. They were late. Eventually a young couple did show, they knocked and entered the property. I flipped the hood of my coat up and walked nonchalantly back to the house. As luck would have it there was a little alley on the side. I hid behind a dustbin.

  After twenty minutes, the couple left the property. I could hear Jane Winters asking them to call her as soon as they made up their minds, and saying how lovely it was to have met them.

  Blah blah blah.

  She doesn’t mean any of it.

  Sentimental nonsense.

  As soon as the couple walked away, I headed out of the alley and tapped on the front door. I wanted to smile I was so happy.

  I heard Jane’s feet clip-clopping on the wooden floorboards beyond the door. “Did you forget something?” she asked and swung the door open.

  I was ready. I pushed through and at her. My momentum, her surprise, and I guess her ridiculous shoes, made her unsteady. She cried out in alarm as she fell backwards. In one movement I was able to push the front door closed behind me and use it as a springboard to leap forward onto her. I fished my knife out of my pocket. It snarled in the lining, giving Jane a chance to attempt an escape. She didn’t do that. Instead she opened her mouth to scream. I slapped her with as much force as I could muster, and her head rocked sideways. She started to blub. The knife finally came free, and I stabbed at her chest. Jane tried to scrabble backwards, and I struck her hip. Neither of those wounds were going to kill her.

  She breathed in so that she could try to scream again.

  The adrenaline flowed through me. I couldn’t let her make a noise. I stabbed at her wildly, aiming for her mouth. Anything to shut her up. Again and again. She fought back. I stabbed at her fingers, her hands, her arms, her shoulders. The knife went into her and out, over and over. Sometimes it met resistance, sometimes it slid in easily. The hall was red. All I could see was red.

  The world stilled. My breathing slowed down. I sat back on my haunches and stared at what I had done. The walls were dotted with spots of blood that had flown everywhere in the frenzy. Blood was pooling on the floor around her body and was smeared all over the floorboards where we had struggled. Jane’s white blouse was now a red shredded rag. Her blonde hair was slick with blood and flesh. Her face was unrecognisable. Her teeth grinned at me through a lipless mouth.

  I was covered in her blood too. There had been no avoiding it. This was a messy scene. She had fought hard. My footprints and handprints were everywhere. I couldn’t leave this amount of evidence behind me.

  I stood, feeling like an old woman. My shoulders, arms, thighs, and hands were aching from restraining the mad woman on the floor in front of me. I avoided her sightless gaze. Stepped over her. Walked through to the back of the house.

  The house was being let semi-furnished so there were some items around. In the kitchen I found a bucket. I let myself out into the yard and found a hard brush used on patios. There was no soap or detergent anywhere, but I did find toilet bleach in the utility space. I ran the water in the kitchen and flung it and the bleach about the hall. I scrubbed at the floor and the walls until everything turned pink and my hand and footprints couldn’t be seen

  For my final act, I sprinkled Jane’s body with a large portion of cold, greasy fries that I had brought along especially for the occasion. My brand new MO.

  Genius.

  I stayed in the house, sitting quietly in the kitchen, until darkness fell, and then I slipped out the back, down the alley and returned to my car. Once back at my studio I stripped off, placed all of my clothes in a bin liner and scrubbed myself clean in the shower. I then popped out again and disposed of my clothes in a dumpster downtown before buying a pizza and eating the whole thing while sitting on my bed.

  But something bothered me.

  We have a thing against women?

  No. Sheesh! Women rock!

  It looks like we hate them!

  We need to target a man.

  That Winters bitch was hard work!

  So how do we know we can take on a man?

  Winters had been a small, slim woman, but I was going to feel the strain in my shoulders, and my hands particularly, for a few days. Ryan was a man in his early fifties who worked out. How was I going to subdue him so that I could set about doing what I wanted to do?

  I gave it some thought.

  ***

  Several weeks later I was wandering around Bigelow’s hypermarket when I happened upon my next victim. He was probably a nice guy, but he was a manager, and he was far too young. He was making managerial decisions, ordering employees about who probably had more years’ experience than he’d had Christmas dinners. And he still had pimples.

  He annoyed me on sight.

  For the next few weeks I hung around watching the employees’ entrance at Bigelow’s. This was a greater challenge than the burger restaurant because there were more employees coming and going, and more security. I found out which was the kid’s car however, a modest three-year-old Ford, nothing flashy, and was pleased by his tendency to park at the rear of the employees’ car park near some scrubland with large thorny bushes.

  I equipped myself with a new, thick, black coat and hood and made the necessary adjustments to the right hand pocket so that I could get my knife, freshly sharpened, in and out without it snagging on anything. I lined the left-hand pocket with plastic so that I could keep the fries in there without them staining the outside of the coat with grease, or making it smell. I’d bought new boots; cheap, Chinese manufactured, on sale everywhere and two sizes too big. I tied my hair back and hid it under a black net. I had my new weapon. I was ready.

  Every night as soon as it was dark, I made my way on foot to the scrubland at the back of Bigelow’s and hid among the thorny bushes. I waited for the kid to come out. I had to abandon what I was doing for a few nights in a row, twice when he gave a colleague a ride home and once when the moon was so bright that I couldn’t hide effectively.

  He’s a nice guy.

  Generous.

  We can’t worry about that.

  At last, the conditions were right.

  He was alone and walked towards his car. When he was close enough, I called out to him.

  “Sir? Oh sir? Could you help me please?”

  He turned. Cocked his head. Looked towards where I was hiding in the bushes.

  “Sir? Could you help? I’m hurt bad.”

  At that he came towards me.

  “Ma’am? Where are you? Shall I call t
he police?”

  “Could you help me first?” Ah the duplicitous joy of being a damsel in distress.

  “I’m coming. Where—”

  I swung a black bag containing a standard house brick at his head. It connected with a dull crump; the sound of an egg having its top caved in. The kid fell like a stone. Maybe he was dead then. I don’t know. I wasn’t about to give him mouth to mouth. I dragged him by the arms, pulled him back under cover of the bushes. I took my knife and stabbed him hard, approximately where I considered his heart to be. Blood bubbled out of his chest but there wasn’t much of it.

  I was pleased.

  I sprinkled my fries over him, collected my belongings and slipped away under cover of the night.

  Dead?

  Dead.

  That was easy!

  Pleasing.

  Little mess.

  No fuss.

  No repercussions.

  No one knocking at the door.

  Another manager bites the dust.

  The media were all over the killings now, particularly of Ms Winters as that had been hideous, even I agreed with that, but let’s face it, the world was better off without her. As I had wished, the murders were being connected, and the media had labelled them ‘The Fries Murders’.

  How very imaginative.

  No matter.

  A means to an end.

  ***

  I wanted to check just once more that my brick weapon was sound, so next I chose a bank manager, slightly paunchy and in his forties, smart suits, smart car, smart house. I decided to stalk him at his house this time because his workplace was far too exposed. As luck would have it, he had a long driveway with a great deal of shrubbery and trees in the front so that the house could not be seen from the road. He lived alone.

  Divorced maybe.

  Lonely.

  Oh how our heart breaks for him.

  Not.

  I didn’t even bother with subterfuge. I just waited for him to pull up. He stepped out of his car to see what a woman wanted from him at that time of the evening, and I hit him with the bag containing my brick.

  He fell to his knees, and I kicked him over, flat on the ground, with my too-large Chinese boots. I hit him once more with the bag, and the strap broke, but he lay still. I stabbed him through the heart and in the stomach. I watched the blood gurgle out and pool around him. I bent over his head, watched his eyes, waited for the light to dim or go out or something, but they kind of just stayed the same. His eyes were grey. The pupils were large. He looked like a fish. I shuddered.

  We hate fish.

  When I was sure he was dead, I threw my fries on him, pocketed the carton and made my way home.

  My heart was light. The time had come. I had laid the basis of ‘The Fries Murders’ and could now turn my attention to getting the revenge I so badly desired. I put my feelers out among old contacts in a general gossipy kind of way. I needed to know what Ryan Eads was going to be up to over the next few weeks and months.

  It was difficult. He attended a large number of business meetings all over the place, sometimes taking the train, sometimes driving, sometimes flying. The fact that he stayed in hotels was a problem; I had an aversion to their security measures.

  The general vicinity where the office was based was also a no go. I was too well known and would be recognised instantly. I did a little surveillance but was wary of being spotted. Then, as luck would have it, I had a lucky break.

  Ryan, always serious about exercise, changed from using his regular inner-city gym to a leisure centre on the outskirts of town. It was a new and exclusive development, sprawling across part of the old green belt, with an impressive array of playing fields and outside courts. Subscription cost a fortune but he probably had access to it courtesy of the company. It had plenty of parking, dotted around the numerous outbuildings that housed squash courts, indoor tennis courts and even dance studios. It was a huge, sparkly, health nut’s paradise and Ryan was drawn to it like a fly to a corpse.

  Three nights a week I followed him to this Complex of Eternal Youth. The time he arrived varied depending on how long his day had been and where he had travelled to and from. On occasional evenings he would meet a friend and play squash, but mostly he liked to cycle in the velodrome. I hid in the shadows and watched him patiently.

  Stay prepared.

  Be ready.

  The time will come.

  Soon.

  And it did. One evening he arrived in the middle of a torrential downpour. He raced into the main reception area and spoke to a woman on reception. A little later he exited from the main changing area in his squash clothes, carrying a racquet and an umbrella.

  Wearing my customary dark clothes and too big boots, I followed Ryan to the squash courts, hugging the dark shadows that swallowed the areas outside the ring of sodium lighting. My breathing was low and even, my footsteps quiet and confident. Ryan went in, I hung back, but through the glass I could see him playing against himself. He worked up a sweat, dashing around the court, hitting the little ball harder and harder, maybe getting the anguish of the day out of his system.

  We can help him with that.

  After thirty minutes or so I saw him mopping himself with his towel. His hair was plastered against his forehead, his face pink, his eyes shining. He looped the towel over his shoulders, picked up his umbrella and racquet and turned towards the exit.

  The complex was much quieter this evening with only the indoor courts attracting those hardy enough to come out on such a dreary night. There were very few people around. I moved right away from the squash court, back into the shadows among the trees and shrubs of the exquisitely maintained complex parkland. Ryan came trotting out, down the path towards me. I stepped towards him.

  “Ryan,” I called. “Ryan.”

  He stopped in his tracks. Looked my way. “Hello?”

  “Ryan? Could you help me please?”

  He took a step towards me, squinting through the bright light shining in his eyes, beyond into the darkness where I stood.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me! I need your help. Please?”

  He walked towards me; his head moving in silhouette like a puzzled dog. I backed away from him right into the darkness behind me. He stumbled on the wet ground. “Hurry!” I called, and he moved a little faster.

  I was ready. I swung my bag and hit him square on the side of the head. His glasses flew off and away from us. He didn’t fall but bent over clutching his left temple. Blood was seeping between his fingers. He started to straighten up so I swung again. This time his hand was in the way and the crunching noise and terrible yell of anguish suggested I had broken a finger or two. Memories of Jane Winters came flooding back to me. I had to shut Ryan up quickly. Hopefully the rain was drowning out the noise he was making. Using all my strength, I swung the bag with the brick once more and caught Ryan on the rear of the skull. He went down.

  Gleefully I watched him. His eyes were trying to focus on me, but he was struggling to stay conscious.

  Stay with us for a little longer Ryan.

  We enjoy your company.

  We’re friendly.

  A proper people’s person.

  I dragged him to the very edge of the pool of light so that he could see me and so that I could delight in his expression.

  “Laurel,” he murmured. “Is it you?”

  “Hello Ryan,” I said brightly. “How are you doing?”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why?” I repeated, and my blood bubbled, acidic black tar in my veins and stomach, bile rising in my mouth. I looked into his eyes and knew all he was seeing was my hatred.

  Take his eyes!

  The eyes judged us to suit himself!

  Take his tongue!

  For the lies he told about us!

  The lies he told himself to justify not keeping you on the team!

  Kill him!

  I couldn’t kill him with any objectivity. I wasn’t cold, dispassi
onate, or uncaring. I was hot and emotional, full of loathing. And I wanted him dead.

  I stabbed him in the stomach, the blade punching through his stomach easily, and he grunted like an animal. The blood flew back up at my face as I wrenched out the knife. The wound instantly bubbled and bled. He moved his hands instinctively to protect himself. I stabbed him in the chest, and he moaned. His head lifted off the grass and I relished the plea I could see in his eyes.

  I smiled at him then stabbed his chest again. The knife stuck, and I yanked it, hard. His head fell back, his throat exposed. His mouth worked silently, his eyes blinking in the light as the rain fell around us. I knelt near him. The wet grass, or maybe it was blood, soaked into my black trousers. I watched his eyes. Leaned right into him to breathe against his cheek.

  “I was always there for you,” I said. “Always loyal. And I’m here for you now.” His mouth stopped moving. He shuddered once. His eyes stared blankly at the black sky and rain began to pool there, like tears. He was dead.

  You were never grateful.

  You should have been grateful.

  You should have rewarded us

  Not subjected us to a witch hunt.

  Not cast us out into the unknown.

  I dragged him back into the darkness and wiped my knife on the grass to clean it. I toyed with the idea of cutting his eyes and tongue out, but to be honest I didn’t want to get that intimate. I stood above him, reaching into my pocket for the carton of fries, meaningless except for their link to the first murder.

  And then he moved.

  I stared down at him, shocked. He was still alive? How could that be so?

  I scuttled back into the bushes looking for my bag. For long moments I couldn’t see it. There it was. Yes. The strap was broken. I hoisted the brick out and moved quickly back to the body. There was movement. Not much, he wasn’t going anywhere fast, but I couldn’t run the risk of him being found, taken to hospital and then living to tell people that I had hurt him.

  I smashed his face with the brick. His nose broke, and his lips split. With the second blow, I dislodged several teeth. The third one cracked his left eye socket. After that I just kept going. Hollow cracking noises turned to slick, wet, sticky sounds. The brick fell to pieces in my hand. Blood and flesh spattered around me and ran down my face. It ran in my mouth; I was tasting his blood. I threw my head back and let the rain do its best to wash it away. I roared triumphantly at the sky. Over! It was over.