by Morton Bain
‘I can put a sign up on the church noticeboard,’ I suggest impishly.
‘Very funny. But seriously, if someone comes along you think can help, have a word with them.’
The next morning I drive to the nunnery, located a couple of miles from Dorchester. I’ve spoken to the Mother Superior by telephone, and have arranged to meet her, then see a group of the girls that are her guests. Arriving at my destination I see that the nunnery is a grand old stone building with leaded windows. Ivy covers much of the front elevation. I climb steps that lead to a large oak main door, press the doorbell and wait. A minute later the door is opened by a nun in her twenties. She’s wearing a habit, and to my mind very attractive. I would love to corrupt her. It occurs to me that she might already have been corrupted. I’m guessing a lot of women become nuns to do a dramatic U-turn in their lives.
‘Hello, my name is Reverend Cuthbert, and I have an appointment to see your Mother Superior,’ I say.
‘Oh, yes. She’s expecting you. Come in.’ The nun has a strong Brummie accent, which clashes with her appearance.
My interview takes place in the Mother Superior’s office, high ceilinged with large, framed photographs of present and past Popes on the wall. The room has a large desk, but we take armchairs on the other side of the room.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I say when we’re seated. I don’t know if there’s a title I should be using to address her with – Your Virginal Holiness? – but figure she’ll forgive any slips in etiquette on account of me being an Anglican. How many Hail Marys would you have to say to be forgiven for being a serial killer? I wonder idly.
‘My pleasure,’ the MS says. I’d put her in her mid sixties; very slim with eyes that are too large for her face, giving her a permanently startled look.
I clear my throat. ‘As I explained on the phone, Joey – I mean Father LaMotta – wanted me to have a meeting with you, firstly to thank you for looking after the poor girls you’ve given shelter to, and also to find out how they are getting on.’
I catch a whiff of disinfectant, which is gone as soon as I detect it.
‘We’re very happy to help with giving the girls somewhere to stay. My only concern is that the first group have been here for almost three weeks now. My understanding was that individual girls would only be staying a couple of weeks at the most, before they move on to their fruit-picking jobs. And also there has been some squabbling amongst them. And we did catch one with a bottle of vodka, which we had to confiscate, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say. ‘Obviously some of these girls come from quite disturbed backgrounds. That’s why we’ve taken it upon ourselves to try and help them start new lives in the United Kingdom. But I can assure you that I’ve spoken to the farmers who are keen for the girls’ help, and I’d hope to be ringing in a couple of days to organise the collection of the first group.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that. May I request that Maria Gunzele is in that first group? She’s the one we caught with a bottle of vodka, and I fear her continued presence here may be disruptive.’
‘I’m sure we can arrange that,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you about the two girls that have disappeared? Still not sign of them?’
‘No. This was four days ago, and I doubt we’ll be seeing them again. It’s odd, because I understand you’re holding their passports . . .’
‘Yes. For safekeeping. We don’t want them losing them and not being able to go home for a holiday. I’m wondering if it might be possible to dissuade the girls from leaving the nunnery? The village only seems to have a pub and a service station. It’s not as if there’s much for them to see locally.’
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. We’re giving the girls accommodation, but I don’t know if we could legally prohibit them for going out when they wish. Also, a number of them smoke. We don’t allow them to smoke here, so they have to go out for that. Then of course they need to be able to buy cigarettes, sweets and toiletries.’
A few minutes later I’m introduced to seven of the girls, in the convent’s library. They look at me suspiciously as I enter the room. One, I immediately note, has amazing legs. She is going to make someone a packet.
‘Hello,’ I say. I feel surprisingly nervous. ‘I’m a friend of Joey’s.’ I look at my audience to see if they’re following me. ‘You know Joey? The man who brought you here?’ I get a nod from a girl with dyed blonde hair and focus my gaze on her. ‘I’m here to check that you’re comfortable, and tell you that you’ll soon be moving on to those jobs we’ve promised you.’
‘It take very long time,’ the girl with dyed blonde hair says. ‘We wait almost a month already.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry. But this time next week you’ll all be earning money.’ And how you’ll be earning money, I think to myself.
‘I don’t want to work farm,’ a girl whose prettiness is slightly marred by an overlong nose says. ‘I work shop.’
Knocking shop – no problem. ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ I say. ‘You may have to do some farm work for a while – fruit picking – but after that maybe we can move you on to something else.’
A girl with a stunning body but a face that has been acne-scarred says, ‘Man in Bulgaria say we stay in hotel before starting job. This is crazy nun place. No men.’
This last comment gets a laugh from several of the girls. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be meeting plenty of men soon,’ I respond, grinning broadly. ‘Now, I’ve got some money for you people. You need cash for cigarettes and things?’ The girls crowd forward, and I put a twenty pound note in each outstretched hand.
‘Mugs,’ I think to myself as I drive away later. How can people be so naive as to think that individuals would go to the trouble of bringing girls all the way from Eastern Europe, putting them up and giving them money, just so they can pick strawberries? Trafficking has been going on for long enough that stories must be circulating in Romania and Bulgaria about the dangers of promises about work abroad that seem too good to be true. A good example of wanting to believe defeating common sense.
My drive home is interrupted by a stop at a whorehouse. It’s pre-planned, and the mix of nuns and slags I’ve just spent time with has really put me in the mood. I stop the car outside the house, the top floor flat of which is the knocking shop. From the back seat I pick up what to most people looks like nothing more than a white FedEx box, about a foot long and four inches deep. It is indeed a FedEx box, but I’ve altered it so that a sleeve of cardboard inside the empty box will hold my iPhone. When positioned inside the package my phone’s camera lens lines up exactly with a small square hole in the box. I’ve written ‘Fragile’ in huge black letters on the outside of the box, and the hole is positioned exactly at the top of the downstroke in ‘F’, meaning that it would only be spotted on close examination. My converted box is designed to allow me to capture my fucking of prostitutes on film, something I’ve decided to do partly to give me a souvenir of such visits, and partly for later erotic entertainment. I’m thinking of filming my next murder as well, despite the dangers such a record would present.
After being shown to a bedroom by the maid, I position the box in what I think will be the best spot to capture the action. The camera is towards the top of the box, as I’m not interested in filming the carpet, but it’s hard to tell how wide a field of capture my phone camera has. I take my pick of the two girls on offer – a dark-haired girl with a pretty face and a huge but shapely butt. She doesn’t pay any attention to the box as we get undressed, but I can’t help looking at it. I can see why there are so few men that can perform as porn actors. Knowing there’s a camera pointed at your willy is a bit of a distraction.
Everything is going fine, and I’m really getting in to banging the slapper from behind, when the iPhone in my special box starts to fucking ring. It wouldn’t be so bad if I’d left a bag or something next to the box, but I haven’t, so it’s pretty obvious that the phone is in the box. Things get even worse whe
n the vibration from the ringing phone topples the box. The hooker turns round and then breaks off screwing me to go and pick up the box. Maybe she’s clocked the word ‘Fragile’ on it and thinks she’s doing me a favour. In the process of righting the box she obviously clocks the little hole in it, and the lens visible behind. The next thing I know she’s out of the room, screaming for the maid. Fucking hell. A couple of moments later the pair of them enter the room. The hooker has pulled some pants on, but is still topless.
‘Are you police?’ the maid demands to know. ‘Why are you filming?’
‘I’m not police,’ I reply, and immediately realise my mistake. If I’m not police I’m just a pervert, and fair game.
The maid lunges at me. She’s quite stocky. Probably a dyke who gets off on seeing naked whores all day. Without thinking about what I’m doing I pick up a desk fan sitting on a bedside table and clobber her over the head with it. Hard. The cage that contains its blades breaks open on impact, and I can see immediately that I’ve drawn blood. The maid goes down clutching her face, whilst the hooker hollers like a wounded animal. Suddenly I think about a huge pimp who might be dozing upstairs; a pimp who might get woken up by all this racket and come down and attack me. I quickly pull my boxers on, scoop up the rest of my clothes, my shoes and the FedEx box, and flee. I run out of the building with nothing more than underwear on, leaving the front door open. A woman pushing a pram is walking down the street towards me, and mindful of how ridiculous I look I shout ‘Fire!’ and carry on running.
When I get home Lucy immediately notices that I seem flustered. Ironic that I’ve come home after murdering and been more relaxed than I am on this occasion. ‘Everything okay, honey?’ she asks me. She’s ironing clothes in the hallway, the picture of domestic contentment and industry.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?’
She puts the iron down and looks at me directly. ‘You just look like you’ve had a big shock, that’s all.’
‘No, no. The only shock I had today was finding I didn’t have to queue at the bank.’
Just for a moment, I catch a glimpse of what it would be like to have a normal relationship with this woman. I don’t really understand emotions, but I can sort of get them intellectually. I understand that my wife could make a man very happy.
Later that night I dream again of murder, of hidden bodies, and the fear of discovery. I wake from the dream and have a strange moment of knowing I’m not responsible for the dream corpses, but am responsible for two real ones. Fact and fiction, life and death, it’s all becoming pretty blurred.
A couple of days later I’m back at the convent, picking up two girls for delivery to a Turk who runs brothels in North London. ‘Maria and Elena,’ I say when asked which two girls I’m collecting by a Sister Veronica. ‘I rang yesterday to let someone know, so hopefully they’re packed and ready.’
‘I hope so too,’ the woman says frostily. ‘Come through.’
I’m left to sit in a lounge with tatty carpets and paintings on the walls depicting rural scenes of Tuscany. After about fifteen minutes Sister Veronica returns with Maria and Elena, the latter pair carrying heavy bags. ‘Well, the girls are ready to join you,’ Sister Veronica says.
‘Thanks,’ I reply. Turning to the girls, I say, ‘Ready to begin your new lives in England?’
I don’t think they understand me, but one of them mumbles something.
As we’re walking towards the main door, the convent’s Mother Superior rushes up to us. ‘You’re off girls?’ she chirps.
‘Yes, we’re off,’ I reply for the women. ‘Thanks again for your help. I’ll no doubt see you again shortly.’
‘Our pleasure. I have a little something for the girls.’ She hands each girl a small Bible. ‘Something to read to help you with your English,’ she explains. ‘And with life.’
‘Thankyou,’ one of the girls says. ‘I will read.’
I bet you’ll read, I think to myself. You’ll be on your knees giving blowjobs, then you’ll be on your knees praying for deliverance and reading that little book for any scrap of encouragement it might offer you.
Two hours later we arrive in Turnpike Lane, and I park up outside a unit on an industrial estate. ‘Ezmet & Sons, Industrial Ducting Manufacturers’ a sign above large shutter doors reads.
‘This is where the man that owns the farm you will be working on works,’ I explain, turning around to look at the girls. ‘Wait here,’ I say, before getting out of the car.
I knock on the door to the right of the large shutter and quickly encounter a short, fat man in his mid-fifties. ‘Mr Ezmet?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he says, looking over my shoulder at my car. ‘You have them?’
I nod.
Ezmet walks over to the car and looks inside. He gives the girls a wave. ‘No deformities?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘They’re pretty enough. Not fat. You have their passports?’
By way of answer I pass them over to him. He flicks through each briefly, before sticking them in his back pocket.
‘We said three grand each, didn’t we?’ the Turk says.
‘No, it was four. Definitely four.’
‘They’re not bad, but one has a grumpy face. Six and a half.’
‘You can have both for seven and a half,’ I reply.
‘Six two hundred?’
I shake my head.
‘Okay, seven and a half. Let’s do the money inside.’
We walk into the industrial unit, where a scene of hammered metal and sweaty activity greets us. There’s an office off to the right, and we enter this. Ezmet reaches into the top draw of his desk and brings out a petty cash box. Opening it, he counts a hundred and fifty fifty-pound notes and hands them over to me. I verify all the money is there, then say, ‘Good stuff. Thanks.’
We walk back out to the car. ‘Where are you going to keep them?’ I ask. ‘In there?’
‘Just for a couple of hours,’ the man replies. ‘Then I take them to their new home.’ He laughs hoarsely.
I open one of the car’s back doors and say, ‘Okay, you can get out girls.’ When they’re both out of the car I say, ‘This is your new boss. Mr Ezmet. He’ll look after you now.’
As I’m driving home I consider my next murder victim. How I’ll choose them, what they’ll be like. It occurs to me that I seem to have been favouring the female sex up to now, and realise that there may be some unfairness here. I’m an equal opportunities killer, and when the story of my crimes is written I don’t want people to fixate on my hatred of women. I love women. Fucking them anyway.
A week later I’m about to execute the first step in a two-step plan that will see me force someone to kill someone else. For some time I’ve become fixated with the idea of putting someone in a position where they have no choice but to murder an innocent person, and on a blustery Wednesday morning I’m parked on a road that borders Victoria Park, waiting for one of the many dog walkers that use the area to exercise their canines. I’ve hired a Ford Transit van, which will enable me to transport my victim without fear of them escaping or attracting other motorists’ attention, and I have the use of a remote seaside house that was left to me by an uncle in which to stage the event I have planned. My uncle was a right-wing nut and survivalist, who spent most of the Sixties and Seventies convinced that a nuke was about to be dropped on his head. This led him to purchase a property in Essex which met his criteria of being at least forty miles from the nearest civilian or military target, in the grounds of which he built a nuclear bunker. The bunker was designed to keep radiation out, but it will also serve to keep prisoners in. The person I capture will be the first of two I hold in the bunker.
After waiting for about fifteen minutes, a dog walker appears. She’s about fifty, a little on the chubby side, and her companion is a light-coloured terrier. She’ll do, I think to myself.
I get out of the van and approach her. ‘Hi there,’ I say. ‘You don’t know the way to the A12 l
ink road do you?’
I allow about three words to emerge from her mouth before taking the truncheon I’ve been hiding in my coat pocket out and cracking her on the head. She’s clean out, and collapses on the ground. I know she could come to very quickly, so waste no time in grabbing her under the armpits and dragging her towards the van. Her dog follows me, barking excitedly. I put the woman down on the ground before opening the back doors. The dog licks her face, but the woman doesn’t come to, and seconds later she’s in the van. I drive off, then promptly bring the vehicle to a halt. I haven’t checked to see whether my hostage has a mobile on her person. I get out and open the rear doors of the van. My prisoner is still out, and I quickly rifle her handbag, locating a smartphone. Smart phone; dumb criminal. It shocks me that such a simple error could have unravelled everything for me.
An hour and a half later I’m at the house. I know from the thumps I’ve heard from the back that my captive is now fully awake, so before opening the van’s back door I pull out the gun I took from the old lady I murdered’s home. Pulling the door open, I peer in with the gun held in front of me. The woman is sitting inside, and shields her eyes with a hand as the sunlight streams in. ‘Get out.’ I say. ‘And don’t try any funny business.’ This sounds terribly clichéd to my ears, but I think you’re allowed to come out with the odd corny line when you’re holding a revolver.
She scrabbles to her feet and walks to the door, crouching. ‘What are you doing with me? I don’t know you, do I?’
‘All will be explained in good time,’ I reply. ‘You’re not in any immediate danger. Now jump out of there and walk this way.’ I point in the direction of the house with my revolver.
The bunker is situated about fifteen metres to the right of the house, its location indicated by a hinged slab of concrete with a D-shaped iron handle.
‘Lie on the ground, please,’ I instruct the woman. She duly sinks to her knees, then lies face down on the grass.
Keeping her under observation out of the corner of my eye I pull up on the heavy concrete hatch. Directly beneath it is a concrete-walled vertical shaft. Steel rungs spaced at regular intervals allow descent to the bottom.