Predator: an absolutely gripping psychological serial killer thriller

by Zoe Caldwell

  Abay holds my head and pulls my mouth further down his shaft. His hands are in my hair, gripping me. I sputter as his dick slides down my throat. I look up at him. He smiles that self-satisfied smile before gyrating into me and tipping his head back. Once my gag reflex subsides, I let my eyes wander over his body, taking in his glorious abs, his pecs, the groove between them, the dips under his collarbones. He really is stunning. If I were a painter, I’d paint him. If I were a sculptor, I’d sculpt him. If I were a photographer, I’d photograph him. But I’m just me, so I fuck him. I feel myself getting aroused all over again, even though my last orgasm was so intense that I’d expected it had finished me off for the night. I take his dick right back into my throat. He moans, sighing, as his cock disappears down my neck.

  Finally, Abay pulls my head back, sliding his dick out of my mouth. It’s shiny with my spit, swelling.

  ‘Turn over,’ he hisses.

  I dutifully get onto my hands and knees, tilting my ass up towards him, presenting my wet pussy to him. He slips two fingers inside, feeling my renewed wetness and warmth. I watch him over my shoulder as he gets behind me. He places his large hands on my hips and slowly slides into me, observing intently as he enters me. I groan as he pushes himself deeper. We’ve fucked dozens of times before, but my body never tires of Abay’s huge, impressive cock. It always startles me, fills me, satisfies me on a primal level that I can’t even explain.

  ‘Oh God,’ I moan as he slides in and out of me, picking up a rhythm, getting into it.

  I could fuck Abay forever. I could die happy fucking him, I think to myself as he plunges into me, pounding me, reducing me to a quivering, shaking mess with each strong impactful thrust.

  ‘You like that, don’t you?’ he hisses as he slams into me.

  ‘I love it,’ I answer as he lands a heavy slap across my ass, making me cry out, making my whole body flinch, tightening around his cock. He does it again, and again, until my ass is raw.

  Then he buries his hand in my hair, rubbing the back of my head, before pushing me down into the soft sheets. His fingers dig into my scalp and slide across the side of my face, pinning my head against the bed. With his other hand, he takes hold of my thin wrists and clutches them behind my back, gripping me tightly before slamming into me again. I groan into the silk as he thrusts. I can barely breathe against the sheets. My mind is blank. Abay slides his fingers into my mouth. They smell of rubber from the gym, they taste salty like sweat. He slams into me as I suck his fingers and I come again, my pussy convulsing over his dick. He comes too. Spasming into me. He lets out a primal groan of pleasure, a raw cry of satisfaction. It’s so uninhibited, so ecstatic, so wild that it’s like music to my animal ears. It sets me off even more, like his dick which bursts into me, feeling even more beautiful as it jolts and erupts, out of control.

  Eventually, our orgasms subside. Abay pulls his hand from my mouth and traces his fingers over my back, slick with sweat. We pull apart and fall side by side onto the sheets, panting. I roll over and reach for a tissue from the bedside table, dabbing at the moisture between my legs.

  I chuck the tissue into the bin and blink at the ceiling. We lie in silence for a few moments, catching our breath, basking in the afterglow of our orgasms, but a few minutes later, I’m wondering, what next? I want a shower, or a bath. A long, luxurious bath with a slug of my favourite Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir bath oil. And Netflix. Even better. Now I just need to get rid of Abay.

  I turn to look at him. He’s lying, eyes closed, a blissed-out expression on his face.

  ‘That was amazing,’ I say, reaching over, affectionately stroking his abs.

  ‘Mmm…’ Abay responds, without opening his eyes.

  Sometimes he sticks around for a bit, but often, he has to get back to work. He’ll say he has a training session with a client or he’s on a shift or something. I’m not sure if his excuses are genuine or just a way to see himself out, and I don’t really care either way, as long as he goes. Once he’s gone, I’ll often lie on the sweaty sheets for hours, sometimes I sleep in them, breathing in our sex smell, basking in the musky, raw, masculine scent of him. Then I wake up reeking of us, of him. I love that, but that’s as close as I ever need to get to sleeping with Abay. I certainly wouldn’t want him staying over.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, reaching out to me, opening his eyes a crack.

  Come here?

  We’ve already fucked, what more does he want from me? I eye his open arms.

  ‘Okay!’ I say in a high-pitched voice that doesn’t sound quite my own as I edge into his embrace.

  He pulls me close in a sort of bear hug, sweeping me into him until I’m flush against his body. What’s he doing? We don’t cuddle. What is this? I lie, stiff in his arms, wondering what he’s playing at. I glance up at him. His eyes are closed. He’s cradling me.

  Okay, this has to stop.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ I ask, prising myself free from his grip.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ he reminds me, eyes still closed.

  ‘I know,’ I say with a sigh.

  Abay’s teetotal, low-carb, paleo. He likes to remind people as often as possible, joking that his body is a temple. As if we can’t already see that.

  ‘I meant juice,’ I clarify.

  ‘Okay,’ he replies.

  I get up and grab my knickers from the carpet, pulling them on. My body’s still damp with sweat. I glance at my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s a mess. My cheeks are rosy. I look fucked. I smile and head to the kitchen where I pour two glasses of apple and elderflower juice, cool from the fridge. I mix mine half with water. I don’t need the calories of pure juice.

  I slip on my bra and Mia robe, which I left on the worktop and carry the glasses back to my bedroom. Fortunately, Abay is looking a bit more alert now. He sits up, leaning against my padded headboard.

  I hand him a glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ he mutters as he takes it, bringing it to his lips.

  I walk around to the other side of the bed and perch, taking a sip of the cool, sharp juice, before placing my glass down on a coaster and swinging my legs onto the bed. We can drink this juice together, then I’ll pretend I have to call my mum or something.

  Abay leans forward and grabs his jogging bottoms from the floor. Promising. But instead of putting them on, he just pulls his iPhone out of the pocket and drops the bottoms back on the floor, before checking his messages. God. I sip my juice and listen to the distant sound of the cars passing by on the street below.

  ‘There’s been a shooting in a market in Amsterdam,’ Abay says. ‘Two dead. Possible terror attack.’

  I don’t respond. These things are becoming so commonplace that they barely even feel like news anymore.

  ‘Did you hear about that guy?’ Abay asks after two or three cars trace their way down the street.

  ‘Huh?’ I place my juice on the bedside table and reach for my hairbrush.

  ‘That guy they found. On some rooftop in Hayes. Murdered. Someone shot him with a ton of arrows,’ Abay says, looking up from his phone.

  ‘What?’ I utter.

  ‘The police found this guy’s body. Not just any murder though, he got shot with a crossbow. It was on the news. Didn’t you see?’

  ‘No…’ I reply, my voice small.

  ‘Yeah, it was crazy.’ Abay shakes his head. ‘Some mad attack.’

  ‘Hmmm… Sounds weird!’ I comment, pulling my brush through my tangled hair, before reaching once more for my juice.

  I take a sip. I don’t even register the taste this time. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Julian’s been found. No one was meant to find him. I’d imagined him rotting up on that roof, like everything rots in that part of London. I imagined him being reduced to bones. Being slowly parched in the sunlight, pecked at by birds. I’d pictured his flimsy remains, scattering amongst the rubble when the demolition team finally stepped in with a wrecking ball and the block was knocked down. Yet he’s been discovered. Even more intense than pan
ic is the horrible, vulnerable feeling of exposure. My handiwork, my spectacle, my private homage to Mantegna, has been found. Officers will have taken pictures. Inspected the scene. Pulled it all apart. I feel tainted, trampled upon, violated. This was not how it was meant to go. I liked the idea of Julian bound to that mast, fading to nothing, getting what he deserved. I liked the thought of his family and friends not knowing what had happened to him, forgetting about him quicker than they knew they should. I wanted him to just disappear.

  But he hasn’t disappeared. He’s being talked about in the news. He’s being talked about by my lover, in my bed. This is fucking awful.

  ‘Let me see,’ I ask, reaching for Abay’s phone. Mine’s still on the sofa next door.

  He closes a message from someone. Probably already arranging his next hook-up. Not that I give a shit. I’d probably do the same.

  ‘One second,’ Abay says.

  He goes on Google and looks up the story, pulling up an article. He hands his phone to me.

  Man killed in ‘savage’ crossbow murder

  The body of a man shot dead with arrows fired from a crossbow has been discovered on the roof of a derelict council block in west London.

  The victim, believed to be in his twenties, was found in the Willow Tree Lane estate in Hayes by two teenagers on Monday, January 19. It is estimated that the victim died less than 24 hours earlier.

  The male had been shot with thirty arrows in an attack investigating officer Detective Chief Inspector Glen Wheelen describes as ‘savage and evil’.

  ‘This was an appalling and unimaginably violent attack,’ Det Ch Insp Wheelan said. ‘Officers, including myself, are shocked by the extreme nature of this deeply callous and calculated crime.

  ‘This is one of the most disturbing crimes I’ve seen, and our force will leave no stone unturned in our efforts to bring the killer to justice.

  ‘We are appealing to the public and those in the local area to get in touch if they have witnessed anything suspicious or seen anything unusual. It is vital that any information, however minor it may seem, is reported to the police.’

  Efforts are being made to contact the victim's family.

  No arrests have yet been made.

  Hmmm. Savage and evil. Deeply callous. One of the most shocking crimes Detective Chief Inspector Wheelan has ever seen. Wow. Go me!

  Suddenly, I feel Abay’s eyes on me. He’s giving me a strange look, frowning.

  Shit. I’m meant to react, like a normal person would.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ I exclaim. ‘Crazy. Who would do that?’ I feign a look of disgust as I hand his phone back.

  ‘Some madman,’ Abay comments, sighing, as he takes his phone.

  ‘Yeah.’ I sigh, mirroring him.

  I lapse into a pensive silence as I go over the crime scene, assessing whether I left anything that could possibly incriminate me. I don’t think so. I never do.

  They won’t catch me. They never do.

  Abay yawns loudly. He arches his spine, making it click. He gets up.

  ‘I should probably go,’ he says, scooping his tracksuit bottoms from the floor. ‘Need to be getting back to the gym.’

  ‘Cool,’ I reply.

  5

  Fucking Julian. That prick is everywhere.

  He’s even made it onto the front page of the fucking Metro. Some guy handing out copies thrusts one into my hand as I come out of my flat. The vendor, in his cringey Metro branded cap, is always there, trying to foist the paper onto me. I usually ignore him, but today, I glance at it and spot Julian on the front page. I take a copy, unfolding it as I walk to the waiting car parked on the street.

  I take in Julian’s face. Fuck me, he really was gorgeous. Why didn’t he use this picture on his Tinder profile, for God’s sake! His profile on there was just gym selfies. Unsmiling shots of him sitting on a weight bench in front of a mirror, a barbell at his feet, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, the muscles in his arms bulging. The same thing standing. He undersold himself. I knew he was handsome, but he really was striking. This picture shows him in his best light. That perfect strong-boned face. That beauty spot. Christ.

  My driver opens the car door for me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, from behind my sunglasses, my eyes still fixed on Julian’s picture.

  ‘Awful story, isn’t it?’ he says.

  I look up. It’s a driver I haven’t had before. Middle-aged. A friendly face.

  ‘Yeah, awful,’ I agree as I step into the car.

  I’m not in the mood for small talk. I want to look at Julian. The driver closes the door. It’s one of the perks of my job that I have a chauffeured car to take me to work.

  I properly take in Julian’s photo. He has the kind of face that makes your soul melt. That turns your eyes into love heart emojis. He’s smiling in the picture, a wide, radiant smile that shows off his perfect teeth. He looks totally happy, beaming, content. His head is tilted to the side a bit, as if he had been posing with someone else, leaning into them, but that person has been cropped out.

  The headline reads: Promising financier killed in brutal slaying.

  Promising financier? I got the impression Julian was pretty much an office dogsbody. But brutal slaying. I like that. Brutal slaying. I roll the words over in my mind, smiling to myself. I gaze out the window as the car pulls away from the kerb. It’s a bright day, with a crisp blue sky. People are walking with their heads held high, a spring in their step. They grab copies of Metro from the vendor. They look at the cover. My brutal slaying is going to be the talk of the town.

  I catch the driver looking at me in the rear-view mirror, frowning slightly. Shit. He’s probably wondering why I’m smiling. Why did I have to get a fucking nosy driver on a day like today?

  ‘Thought I saw someone I know,’ I tell him, gesturing out of the window. ‘Wasn’t them though.’

  ‘Ah, happens,’ the driver responds, with a polite laugh, before pulling out into the traffic.

  I look down at the paper, feigning an expression of sombre focus.

  Julian’s boss has described him as ‘an ambitious and focused member of the team’, calling his death ‘deeply disturbing’, ‘a tragic loss’. Whatever. The article goes on to state that ‘Julian lived in his family home in West Dulwich with his parents and brother, Richard.’ Ha. He told me he had his own flat. Liar.

  There’s a quote from his mum, Alison Taylor. ‘Julian was a loving, caring, helpful person. He always put his family first. He was a sweet, devoted son and a loyal brother. Words cannot describe the shock and loss our family is feeling right now. We cannot comprehend why someone would inflict such a horrific attack on our beloved boy.’

  That pisses me off. Loving? Caring? Helpful? Does Julian’s mother not care about his court case? Is she simply lying about his true nature or is she in denial? Does she not realise she gave birth to a piece of human shit? The fucking asshole’s being treated like a fallen fucking hero, a poor, tragic victim, when he was the worst kind of perpetrator of them all. I wonder if his victims will come forward, but they probably won’t. They might feel too scared or ashamed. Or they might just want to move on from what they went through. They’ll probably just be glad he’s dead.

  Everything else in the article is pretty much the same as the stuff I read during the night. I know I shouldn’t give a shit about Julian, I know I’ll never get found out, but I can’t help feeling a little bit rattled. Usually my kills go to plan, but this one hasn’t. I keep wondering why Julian’s body was discovered. How come the police found him? Did someone hear me? Did someone see me? It freaks me out. But if someone did see anything, they’ll have seen a scruffy girl with long wavy hair. Someone who looks nothing like me. And it’s not like they can trace Julian’s Tinder messages back to me or his texts. Not only did I delete his entire messaging history and destroy his phone, but I was using one of my pay-as-you-go numbers when we contacted each other. I had encryption software installed too. But still, the whol
e thing’s a bit unsettling. I kept waking last night, flicking through articles on my iPad, scanning for updates. News that Julian’s body had been identified came through at about 2am, with articles describing him as ‘twenty-eight, a financial controller from Dulwich’ but there was no picture at that point. I kept an eye on Twitter, but the information was all the same: a crossbow killing, in Hayes, a ‘savage and evil’ attack, blah-blah-blah. It started to plateau after a while, and I fell asleep.

  This article has the addition of a picture. A picture that speaks a thousand words. Everyone’s going to care way more about Julian’s brutal slaying now that they realise he was hot. Such a loss to the world when someone sexy dies.

  I turn a few other pages of the paper to see if anyone’s added anything else, but there’s nothing relevant, just politics, a plane crash, Kate Middleton ‘wowing’ in an ugly Gucci blouse and Jigsaw trousers. I fold the paper and toss it onto the seat next to me, before gazing out of the window for the rest of the journey.

  A little while later, I arrive at work and walk through the open-plan newsroom towards my private office at the back. A hush follows me as I cross the room, but that’s nothing new. I get it every day. Everyone goes a little bit quiet when I arrive at work. I like to tell myself it’s out of respect and possibly a degree of fear, but deep down, I know it’s because all my staff are as fashion-obsessed as I am, and they’ll literally stop whatever they’re doing just to check out what I’m wearing. Today’s outfit is a particularly good one: a high-waisted silk-blend Lanvin skirt teamed with a Haider Ackermann satin tie-neck blouse, finished off with pointed black Malone Souliers Bly pumps.

  ‘Morning, Jess,’ I say as I walk past her desk.

  Jess is wearing a wrap-front patterned blue dress from IRO with Oliver Peoples Gregory Peck tortoiseshell glasses. I know she has 20/20 vision, but they do suit her.

  ‘Morning, Camilla,’ Jess replies, glancing over from her monitor.