Serial Killers Incorporated

by Andy Remic

  I have come to do a job.

  It is that pure. That simple.

  I finish removing flesh from the leg, discard the fibula and admire in my hands the freshly prepared tibia. It is thin and chilled; almost brittle. Carefully, I mark three etchings in the bone, the razor slicing with precision, love, caring, nudging out bone chips until I have the necessary sculpted shapes.

  I smile. Nod. I lift my head, eyes narrowing in the darkness of the threadbare room; then turn and grin at the woman lying on the bed – from whom I removed the leg a day earlier. She is shaking uncontrollably, eyes wide and white, gagged mouth silent as she stares at me with those outsized orbs.

  ‘You scared, my lovely?’ I whisper.

  She nods. I can see the pleading in her eyes, in her submissive body language; smell it in her sweat and her leaked piss. Don’t kill me, she is thinking. Please God, don’t let him kill me!

  I stand, stretch languorously, my hair tumbling down my back. I still carry the skinning razor, and it is on this delightful tool that the woman – the amputee – is focused. I move forward and gaze at her, at her distended – pregnant – abdomen. I tap the bulging pale flesh with the skinning razor. She flinches, trembling increasing exponentially at my proximity.

  ‘Twins?’ I ask.

  She nods, making moaning noises behind the duct tape. She struggles a little, but feebly. She has lost a lot of blood from the amputated leg. But then, that’s just the way it is. She should be thankful – my stitching is neat, precise, and the painkillers were sourced from an ambulance. Genuine Dia–morphine.

  I spit, baring needle teeth. ‘Your twins are little bastards who contain your taint, your darkness, your poison, your seed,’ I say.

  She shakes her head. I change tack.

  ‘Were the little ones frightened, Catherine?’ I watch, amused, as she starts to squirm against her bonds, head thrashing, dark strands of hair trailing messily over her narrow ferret face and in her eyes. I climb onto the bed, mounting her almost as a lover would. A dark lover. A lover of the blade. And in a way we are lovers; we are here, now, locked together for this: the most intimate of exchanges.

  The exchange between killer, and victim.

  Between sane, and insane.

  However, it is I who carry the seed of sanity. Catherine carries the deviant gene.

  My voice drops to a terrible whisper as I move close, so close we could kiss and mate and share and fuck and I stare into her eyes which have grown so wide, so terrified, locked to mine in an ultimate horror with an umbilical of total understanding. She is at the peak of her terror; perched precariously on a ridge of tangible fear.

  I savour the moment.

  It tastes good. Tastes… like it should.

  ‘Were they as scared as this?’ I breathe, lifting the killing blade between our faces to reflect in the tears in her eyes.

  Callaghan arrived at the Gunmaker’s Arms first; it was probably a symbol of desperation. He had a pint of Greene King in front of him, half empty, as Sullivan pushed through the doors carrying his motorbike helmet with gloves tucked inside. Cal stood, moving to intersect Sullivan at the bar.

  ‘Pint, mate?’

  ‘Aye, brother. Mines a Bombardier.’

  ‘Interesting choice.’

  ‘It’s this bloody weather! I always need decent sustenance when the damn cold kicks in.’ Sullivan stared at his oldest friend, then suddenly grinned his old warm grin and slapped Cal on the back. ‘How’s life in the organic puke–soup of your back–stabbing gutter–press feeding–trough, eh?’

  Cal pouted. ‘Gutter press? Moi? Black and White is the current news, man. We’ve got the fastest growing sales in the business; and Jimmy is one of the best writers I’ve ever worked with. Period. The things he can do with a fucking metaphor!’

  ‘I didn’t realise metaphors could fuck.’

  ‘When Jimmy has his finger on the pulse, he can make a damn corpse tap–dance.’

  They thanked the barman and returned to the dark corner table which Callaghan had commandeered. Cal always sat in the corner; always sat with his back to the wall. After all, he would smile laconically, you never know when an angry, abused, fucked–up celebrity housewife is going to put a knife in it.

  ‘So, Cal,’ said Sullivan with a beer moustache, ‘what can I do you for?’

  ‘I need some advice.’

  ‘The last time I gave you advice, I believe your reply was a hearty drunken “piss off ye bastart!”’

  ‘I was drunk,’ protested Cal, staring into his Greene King sheepishly.

  ‘So then. Did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  Sullivan rolled his eyes. ‘I seem to remember she was slim, sexy, had huge breasts, baby blue eyes, and was all of sixteen years old. She came on to you like a virus and you dribbled over her revealing red PVC pants.’

  ‘She was older than sixteen!’

  ‘How old, then?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Hell Cal, that’s practically statutory rape.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t give her one. Well, OK, I did give her one, but she begged me for it. I was providing a valuable service. And as my old mentor used to say, “if there’s grass on the pitch...”’

  ‘Callaghan?’

  ‘Hmm?’ He met Sullivan’s eyes, and saw a great sadness in their dark depths.

  ‘You’re an animal.’

  Callaghan grinned, but the grin dissolved as he saw the look on Sullivan’s face.

  ‘That ain’t a compliment, dickweed.’

  There was a minute of uneasy silence as they both drank beer, and Sullivan went to get another round. Cal sat, staring at his distorted face in a platter of spilt ale. His pale skin reflected, shimmering like a ghost. You’re a worm, acknowledged his inner demon. You’re a man of weak moral fibre. A predator and a charlatan. You deserve everything you get... and that includes a perfectly aimed 11mm round in the back of your solid skull.

  Sullivan slumped down, slapping two beers on the dark–oak. He lit a Marlboro and Cal accepted a smoke, drawing deep and squinting as lazy trails stung his eyes.

  ‘How’s life in motorbike journalism?’

  ‘Good,’ said Sullivan, and part of the tension dissolved. ‘We’ve got a new Honda for testing, it’s rumoured to be taking over from the top–end Fireblade. And BMW have really sorted their act out after last year’s tourer disaster. They had to recall a thousand bikes.’

  ‘You still doing the New Rides section?’

  ‘Yeah. And I’ve been promoted – Features Editor – I get to ride abroad. You know? Take an MV down to Morocco, or a Harley to Tibet. That sort of back–breaking dogshit. And all dreamt up by the hardcore psychological pervert who is my boss.’

  ‘That’s the pre–requisite for promotion, Sully. You have to be a decadent lunatic. Goes with the territory.’

  They smoked and drank. Sullivan laughed, and Cal laughed as well – acknowledging his twitchy behaviour must make for humorous evening viewing.

  ‘You still got that lock–up full of bikes?’

  Cal nodded. ‘Aye. My babies.’

  ‘You’re a hedonist. Anyway, come on Cal, get to the point. I know you too well to prolong the banter. I’m on a deadline, so spill the beans. You got another sixteen year old needs sexually abusing?’

  ‘I’m in the shit.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘This time it could be real bad.’

  ‘Like I said – again?’

  ‘I’ve made mistakes in the past,’ acknowledge Cal, glancing up, meeting Sullivan’s fixed stare. ‘And I know you don’t always approve of the things I do; of the life choices I make. But I’m... I’m trying, Sully. I feel – I don’t know, like somehow I’ve been tainted.’

  ‘Tainted? Well then, we finally agree on one thing! Callaghan – there’s more honour in a fucking judge. More truth in a lawyer. More integrity in a striking rattlesnake.’

  ‘You think I’m that bad?’

  ‘Yeah, you're that bad,
’ said Sullivan.

  ‘I used to be one of the good guys. I used to have a modicum of honour. But – hey, you remember my first girlfriend – my first real girlfriend?’

  ‘Hell Cal, you’re going back a bit.’

  ‘Hear me out. You remember her?’

  ‘I remember. Long strawberry blonde hair, pretty face; always hanging onto you as if you’d run away or something. Shy as a badger. Yeah, Callaghan. I remember her well.’ Sullivan’s eyes were shining. ‘She was called Bethany; Beth, yeah. What happened with her? You clammed up about that one – after it was over. I never liked to push you for answers. You always looked like a kicked puppy. And then? Well, we drifted our separate ways, didn't we? Allowed the friendship to slide.’

  ‘It was a dark night. Winter. We’d gone out with a few friends, Billy and Tracy, Roberta, Jocasta, Mike Mendel, Stoppie and a few others from Uni. It was pouring with rain, and we all split up – me and Beth went back to the car, she’d left something there. We made love on the back seat, for the first time. It was magic.’ Cal glanced up, then looked down into his beer. ‘A real experience, slow and warm and loving. It moved me, it truly did. I was like a starry eyed newly wed! We walked, laughing, arm in arm back through the rain, met up with the others at the Waggoner’s Arms. I was starving, cheeks glowing, hair slick from the downpour. Beth clung to me, just wouldn’t let go, and I revelled in it, revelled in her adoration, in her intimacy. In her love.’

  ‘Is this a long story, Cal?’

  ‘She told me she loved me, whispered it in my ear. I could smell her on my skin, on my hands, smell her perfume and her sex as we sat there clinging to each other like children.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Sullivan was staring hard at Cal, but Cal could read nothing in his friend’s eyes.

  He sighed. ‘I had an essay deadline for the day after; a bastard of a thing on fucking Sylvia Plath. Well, not actually fucking Sylvia Plath – God, the feminists on my course would eat my balls, right? But you know what I mean. I left early, Beth gave me a long lingering kiss at the door and I headed off into the rain. She went back inside. Within ten minutes she was on Stoppie’s knee, and an hour later she went back to his place and fucked his brains out. All night. I must have given her a taste for it. Or something. So much for our true love, eh?’

  ‘You dump her?’

  ‘Aye. And I scratched all her Placebo CDs. She pleaded, the usual shit. But she didn’t realise – just didn’t get it. I offered her everything; my soul on a plate. She took it, ate it up, spat it out like a piece of gristle. The bitch spat me out.’

  ‘Not all women are like that.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Callaghan. ‘But she fucked me up, mate. Made me bitter, twisted and resentful. I curled up inside myself. Inside my shell. I died a little, that day. Part of my soul became necrotic – and she didn’t even realise it. God, that girl never knew the pain she caused me. Like Frankenstein, she never truly understood the monster she created.’

  ‘So you wreak vengeance on the rest of womankind?’

  ‘No.’ Cal shook his head, took a hefty gulp of beer. ‘But I swore I would never get close again. Swore I would never let anybody into my shell; and I’m a happy man, see?’ He gave a rictus grin, exaggerated teeth and no humour. ‘You see that smile?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘That’s a smile of self preservation.’

  ‘I think you need to take a good hard look at yourself, mate.’

  ‘Ha. I do that every morning, Sully. I look in the mirror, into eyes that have seen too much – and you know what I really see? I see the reflection of a depraved and decadent society; I see the flickering fires of arson, the screams of rape and murder, the unbelievable atrocities of war. And there’s me, standing in the middle like fucking Happy Snappy Harry with my camera round my neck and I tell myself, Cal, you’re just reporting what you see, just reporting the news. But sometimes – sometimes I feel that with every single photograph I snap I lose a little part of myself. Give myself to evil; shed a part of my humanity. An ironic reversal, you might say... Like the indigenous tribes, the Melanesians and Africans who used to believe a picture stole a part of your soul. Well, those fuckers on the street, the deviants, the freaks, they steal a slice of my soul all the time.’

  ‘And this time? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m seeing a married woman.’

  ‘Jesus! On the scale of Gary Glitter atrocities that’s not quite as bad as I’d anticipated...’

  ‘She’s married to a Romanian gun–runner who’s killed thirty–four people. And we think he’s found out.’ Cal corrected himself. ‘She thinks he’s found out.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sullivan lit another cigarette. It glowed as he inhaled, and smoke trailed from his nostrils as he considered this information. He offered Cal a Marlboro.

  ‘Should quit really.’ He took one all the same.

  ‘Where does she live, this bird?’

  ‘Edinburgh, most of the time. Sometimes we meet in Glasgow – her husband rents the entire floor of a hotel. Sometimes we meet in London. And we have a rented, cosy little nest in Stratford upon Avon, a quaint cottage with a sofa, TV and kettle. And a bed – yeah, a big bed. It’s all we need.’

  ‘Her husband out of the country a lot?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Cal nodded, sipping his Greene King. ‘Look, Sully, I’m a bit twitched about this. Couldn’t think who to tell. What would you do? In this situation?’

  ‘You need to cut her off.’

  ‘You mean... never see her again?’

  ‘Yeah, buddy. You’re juggling with fire. With a live grenade. You’ve got your dick on the edge of a mincing machine. What the hell is this guy going to do if he catches you? Shoot you? Torture you?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘There’s no probably about it, Cal. You’re dicking with the Big Boys. With a Player. He’s not just gonna slap you around a bit if he finds you porking his missus. If he’s bringing weapons into the country, you can guarantee he’s got serious connections – with the Glasgow and London gangs, for a start. And God only knows who else. You’ve got to kill this, Cal. You hear me? Before it kills you. I’m serious.’

  ‘Yeah, I know... I’m supposed to meet her tomorrow. In Stratford. I was thinking it should be for the last time.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ muttered Sullivan. ‘Look. Text her. Phone her. Cancel it. Then change your mobile number. Does she know where you live?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sell it.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?’

  Sullivan shrugged, finishing his beer and standing. He pulled on his armoured biker jacket and lifted his helmet and gloves. He looked down at his old friend. They had shared a lot – suffered childhood together, for a start – but he could feel the gulf between them, ever widening with the passing of years. They had different lives. Walked different paths. Lived in different worlds. And for the first time realisation hit Sullivan harder than a poleaxe. It saddened him. Saddened him greatly.

  ‘It’s either that, mate – or one day you’ll be found face down in the Thames. I’ve got to go. Give me a call next time you want my fatherly advice; only don’t pull a sour face when you don’t like what I have to say. If you don’t want bad news, don’t ask the fucking questions.’

  ‘Hey... Sullivan? The sad thing is – I know you’re right.’

  ‘Then sort it.’

  Cal nodded. ‘I’ll try my best, grandad.’

  ‘Glad to see impending death at the hands of a vodka–swilling Romanian mobster hasn’t ruined your sense of humour. Catch you later, mate. And Callaghan?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Man, you stink of garlic. What the hell have you been doing?’

  It was late.

  Cal lay exhausted, satisfied, wearing just his boxer shorts and flicking idly through the movie channels on TV. He always did this, and it drove Mia crazy: he'd dive into the middle of a film, watch ten minutes, dive into the middle of another fi
lm, watch five minutes. Click click click. Why the hell do you think monkeys were given opposable thumbs? Cal justified this regular metacarpal exercise by claiming his rough and tumble hectic lifestyle didn’t give him time, baby, the bloody time to watch an entire movie. In reality, it was simply Mr Terminal Boredom Threshold charged with being Prime Suspect No 1.

  Mia wore a red silk dressing gown and was curled beside him on the wide leather sofa, her breathing deep and regular. She still wore her little devil horns which, funnily enough, made Cal horny. However, on this evening he would be the first to admit that his performance had been far from perfect. Had been something of a... a flop. There. He'd admitted it. Shit.

  The phone rang.

  Cal clicked his terrifyingly huge screen to mute and answered quickly, so as not to disturb Mia.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Callaghan, we got a lead.’

  Cal groaned. ‘What? Now?’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s one in the bloody AM, Jimmy. And I’ve been drinking. A lot.’

  ‘This ain’t up for negotiation, buddy. You already owe me a bag of cash, remember? Now grab your cameras and meet me over Covent Garden. You know the phone box on Drury Lane? North side, near McDonalds?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s gonna call us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That mad bastard. Mr Volos. Gave us that lead a month ago, we paid him five hundred. Got the photos before the police arrived. Bronagh went ape–shit, said he’d arrest us, lock us up, throw away the key. Remember, dickhead?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry Jim. I’m just – just feeling a bit – you know – mashed.’

  ‘Get with the programme, mate. We’ve got work to do. Get there as fast as you can.’

  The line died.

  Amazingly, Callaghan arrived first.

  He parked on double–yellows, stood by the car stamping his feet and blowing heat into chilled hands. He cursed not bringing gloves or a heavier jacket. Autumn was definitely giving way to winter and Callaghan was not the sort of rough and tumble outdoor type to stand around on the cold London streets just for the hell of it.

  A few leaves crackled around the gutter, swirling in a circular dance. Cal glanced at the phone cubicle. It was empty. In fact, the whole street was empty. Cal stared up, then down, neon lights reflecting bright strips in his eyes. He stamped his feet again and was just considering getting back into the Porsche and curling foetal beneath the heater when Jimmy’s ancient and ponderous Mercedes turned at the end of the street and rumbled towards him belching ominous black fumes. Callaghan tutted; to a man obsessed with cutting edge cars and bikes, with BHP and torque and refined close–ratio gearing, with fun and speed and adrenaline, Jimmy’s 20 year old diesel Merc was a travesty. Car sacrilege. Petrol–head heresy.