The Ultimate Selection: Be Careful Who You Talk To

by S. J. Wardell

  ‘You fucking coward! I hate you.’

  Those words gently tumbled from her mouth in a whisper. She took a deep breath and swung the hammer, griping it with both hands. A half-hearted, effortless attempt bounced off Brian’s left shoulder. He screamed, more with shock than pain from the hammer’s blow.

  She looked at Greg, then at Brian once more. This time, she swung the hammer above her head and sent it crushing down on to the back of Brian’s skull. Brian squealed. Her heart was trying to force its way out of her chest. Brian’s body flipped over as electromagnetic pulses ran through his veins. Sharon raised the hammer again and screamed as she lowered it at speed. It was more of a wail of pleasure, pleasure at the release. She could not have agreed with the man in the PVC suit more, this was her statement; this was her fight for her own justice. Brian’s body convulsed, sending him in to an epileptic fit. His body quivered totally out of control. As his body slowed and stopped, a smell filled the room as he lost control of his bowels. The urine rushed from his penis saturating his jeans. The hot urine was pungent. Excrement raced through his anal passage. The tape covering is mouth had fallen off; moisture had made the tape lose its adhesive tack.

  Brian groaned. He was still alive. He begged for Sharon to stop, wanting her help.

  She paused for a moment, looking at his blood-covered face, his saddened eyes and emptying soul.

  Lying on the floor, Brian tried to curse Sharon, but his weak state only hampered his efforts.

  ‘Give me the cleaver!’ she ordered with pure dominance in her voice.

  ‘Give me the hammer first,’ Greg replied, reasserting his control.

  Sharon obliged, exchanging the hammer for the cleaver.

  Greg was in total disbelief. Sharon had become the hunter after being the prey for such a long time. She wasted no time, returning straight back to work – the job in-hand. She hacked at Brian’s vastly mutilated body. Her clothes were saturated with his blood; fragments of his skull flew into her hair. Sharon was in her own zone, nothing else existed and she did not want to leave.

  Greg, almost hypnotised, decided to slip away, making his way quietly out of the front door not bothering to close it behind him. He clocked Brian’s mobile on the floor on the way out. It was not part of the plan but he slipped it into his pocket and walked out of the door.

  Greg moved swiftly, remaining in the shadows until he had reached his van. His pulse echoed in the back of his throat. He felt almost sick, though pride over the way things had gone prevented him from vomiting. He felt a godlike pride pass through him. He paused as an acidic belch forced its way up his windpipe; a dribble of bile dripped from his lips. He climbed into the back of his van, removing his suit, mask and boots and hurriedly placing them in a transparent rubber bag. The bag had been supplied with the suit and he quickly sealed it shut. As he dressed, he was unable to shake the image of Sharon from his mind. With his heart pounding; his mind racing, he put the van in gear and pulled off. His eyes stung as tears welled their way from both tear ducts. He was shocked by his own sadness at what he had orchestrated. He hurriedly unwound his window and hung his head out, trying to refresh his lungs with the cold air but as more acidic bile shot from his mouth, his stomach ached as he retched.

  Greg switched off the engine, along with the headlights and coasted his van to its parking position. Deciding to leave everything in the van till tomorrow, he entered the main building and his flat unnoticed.

  Popping his head in to his bedroom, he quickly checked that Karen was still sleeping.

  He undressed, stood under the jets of water from the shower head and squirted toothpaste in to his mouth. Suddenly, he realised that he had left one of his cleavers with Sharon. He panicked before he rationalised that it was no bad thing.

  The police would not suspect a third party. Let the police sort that one out. He dried his body using a towel from the rail and then he slipped in to bed next to Karen. No one would ever know.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was the morning after the night before. Greg opened his eyes and it all came flooding back. As his recollection of the previous night’s events unfolded in his head he felt a massive adrenaline rush pass through the whole of his body. He’d done it. All the planning, all the times he had held his own private dress rehearsals, the secret way he had picked his victims through their own self-section. All the time the motive in his mind was the same, it never changed or lost its focus – it was murder!

  Greg sat up erect as he woke. He was surprised that he did not feel any guilt or remorse – maybe his guilt system had already flushed those feelings away. He knew that Brian had no chance of survival when he had chosen to slip away. Karen stirred and interrupted his thoughts, though she had no idea how dark they were.

  ‘Good morning. I went out like a light. What time was it?’ Karen asked, still yawning.

  ‘Half ten-ish I think. How do you feel this morning?’

  ‘Fine… apart from I’ve got a bit of a headache,’ Karen mumbled.

  ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea. Do you want juice and some headache tablets?’

  ‘Yeah that’d be great.’ Karen placed her hand on her forehead and lay back on the pillow. She could not understand how she had slept for so long or why she felt completely drained.

  ‘Put the telly on, will you?’ Greg asked from the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s the remote?’

  ‘It should be under my pillow. I’ll be in in a minute, hold on,’ Greg replied, as he juggled his way in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ve found it.’

  Greg returned and gave Karen a glass of fruit juice and a packet of paracetomol.

  ‘You’ll only need two of those,’ he said before she asked.

  Karen passed Greg the remote control, Greg instantly pressed the standby button and a picture appeared on the screen. He then flicked through the channels until he found some news.

  ‘Wonder how the football went yesterday? I didn’t stay up to watch Match of the Day last night – I was worried about you,’ he added as he walked back in to the kitchen, to finish making Karen’s tea.

  The other reason for his swift exit was so that Karen would not question why he had put the news on. Greg wanted to know if there was anything on the previous evening’s events in Tinckerton Street.

  He placed a cup of boiling hot tea on the floor next to where Karen was now propped upright on the bed, though still under the duvet. Greg walked around the bed and lay on top of the duvet. Karen slowly got up and went in to the bathroom to relieve her bladder, taking a pillow with her. Her attempt at using the pillow to cover some of her body bought a smile to Greg’s face.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Greg said trying to act astonished.

  Karen rushed back in to the bedroom, pulling her knickers up en route.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Look!’ was the only reply she got.

  A reporter was commenting on a disturbing story. A nineteen year old woman, and mother, had violently attacked and mutilated her boyfriend in a frenzied attack. Their young child had been unharmed.

  ‘The young child…’ the reporter said, ‘was sleeping in the next room when the attack happened. Tinckerton Street, here in Swiss Cottage, is a very quiet residential area and has not witnessed this kind of crime for over a decade. At the moment, the police have told me that they do not want to release any of the names of the family.

  This is an absolutely terrifying story. The young mother, who is now in police custody after being treated on the scene for shock by paramedics, is now helping the police with their enquiries. The young woman claims that a man dressed in a black plastic suit, wearing a mask, forced his way in to the property and threatened to harm her young child if she didn’t kill her boyfriend. The mutilated remains of the man, who has been identified as the father of the child, have now been removed from the scene.’ The reporter paused, in order to compose himself. ‘I can say that, from what I have been told by a police spokesman, this w
as a very brutal, wild, frenzied attack. The child has now been handed over to the social services and placed in their care for the foreseeable future.

  Police are inside the property where this horrendous crime has taken place and have told me that the place looks like a slaughter house. We won’t know what really happened until we have the results of the autopsy. Forensic scientists are on the scene; who only knows what they’ll find?

  The police are appealing for anyone who knows anything about this hideous crime to come forward. Anyone who has any information can either call the Crime Stoppers hotline or New Scotland Yard. Both numbers should be on your television screens. Let’s hope that someone does. This is Terry Bane, in Swiss Cottage, reporting for Thames News.

  ‘She must be a fucking nutter,’ Greg laughed.

  ‘How do you know she did it?’

  ‘Come on – a bloke in a rubber suit… Did she say what planet he was from?’ Greg began to laugh louder. Karen was not impressed.

  ‘That poor girl, she’s only nineteen and she’s locked up and has no idea where her baby is and her boyfriend is dead… murdered! She must have seen the whole thing.’

  ‘Yeah, of course she saw it. He was murdered by her. Best place for her – behind bars. Her baby’s lucky that she didn’t kill it. Do you remember that girl whose boyfriend was killed in a road rage attack a few years ago?’

  ‘Yes, I can remember, why?’

  ‘Well, she said that this guy got out of his car, battered her, then got back in his car and drove off. In all her interviews she sobbed her little heart out and everyone felt sorry for her. She fucking killed him; she’s still locked up – doing porridge for it.’

  ‘You’ve got a point, I suppose.’

  ‘I know I have, you wait and see. When she gets sent down, I’ll remind you how you felt sorry for her.’ Greg lay back down on the bed with a know-it-all look on his face.

  Karen hoped that Greg was right. The thought of someone like that roaming the streets sent a cold shiver down her spine. She decided that she did not want to think about it anymore.

  ‘What you doing today?’ Karen asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Going to the gym in bit, watching the football later, bit of domestic stuff chucked in for good measure – the normal Sunday stuff, why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘What about you – any plans?’ Greg thought he had better return the question, show a bit of interest.

  ‘I’m just going home to veg out I think – I dunno what Mum’s doing,’ Karen quipped. ‘I’m first in the shower. You can make me a second cuppa,’ she said whilst she leaped out of Greg’s bed, taking a pillow with her, attempting to cover her breasts, not turning and throwing the pillow at Greg until she was almost out of the room. The pillow landed on his chest.

  ‘You’re a crap throw,’ he laughed.

  Greg did as Karen had told him to and made her another cup of tea; he thought that he would put some bread in the toaster, just in case she wanted something to eat before she left. He wondered how long it would stay in her system.

  Greg started to think about the news story. He thought that the reporter had been very accurate with his coverage of the murder. Greg did remember the scene as he left. Sharon had made the room look like a slaughter house. Her manic butchering of Brian would have been impossible to clean up – even if she had the wherewithal to do it. Greg tried to imagine what had taken place after he had left. Though almost without control, his thoughts returned to the reporter – Terry Bane.

  ‘He knows more than he’s telling us,’ Greg mumbled quietly to himself.

  ‘That’s better,’ Karen said softly, walking back in to the bedroom using a small towel to dry the ends of her hair.

  Greg had already returned and was laying back on the bed, staring at the television.

  ‘Good. I’ve made some toast, there’s marmalade, jam, Marmite, all kinds, help yourself. Did you want a boiled egg?’

  He was fussing, and this was not like him. Karen had noticed a slight change in Greg’s up and down tone.

  ‘Tea and toast is fine, with a little marmalade… Are you alright?’ she added.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Why?’

  ‘You’re fussing – stop fussing, it’s not like you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve matured! Anyway, I can’t send you out to face the world on an empty stomach, can I?’ he recovered quickly.

  ‘Have you matured?’ she giggled.

  Karen sat quietly eating a slice of toast smothered with lime marmalade. That fantastic smell of freshly toasted bread filled the whole flat. That toasty morning smell made her feel warm and safe. Greg was singing in the shower; trying to camouflage his dark thoughts of the recent evening’s events, telling himself that the sleeping drugs he had given Karen had passed unnoticed.

  Karen decided she should get dressed and ready to leave.

  Greg had exited the bathroom and was dressed in his gym attire before Karen, even though she had showered much earlier than him.

  ‘Time for me to go,’ she said. ‘Sorry for crashing out on you, I’ll make it up to you next time, I promise.’

  They both hugged and engaged in a long kiss.

  ‘Do you fancy doing something next weekend?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, that’d be cool; we’ll sort something out during the week.’ This was just how he wanted it. He needed plenty of space and time.

  Chapter Twelve

  Greg watched Karen until she was completely out of sight. He then made his way back in to his flat, making an important collection from his van on the way. Once back in his flat, he hurried into the bathroom and started to fill the bath with both taps running.

  He held the plastic bag containing his PVC suit, mask and boxing boots. He then set about cleaning all the debris off the costume. He sponged the costume and face mask and used a nailbrush to scrub the soles of the boxing boots.

  As he washed off the splattered blood and what appeared to be gravel, Greg realised that the gravel was actually fragments of Brian’s skull. The water changed from a clear transparency to a soft pinky-red. Without control, he started to projectile vomit. It forced its way up through his digestive system like a volcano, scorching the back of his throat. His nose dripped and his eyes filled with tears. He broke down and started to sob.

  Coughing and choking, Greg had managed to drape his head over the toilet and started to wipe the mucus that was now dangling from both his nostrils and the clear stream of salty tears that had flooded his eyes.

  Attempting to compose himself, he returned to the task in-hand, trying to find a distraction in order to help him cope. Greg decided that he needed to remain on the bicycle because if he was to fall off and crash, he would be in danger of an emotional burnout and it would be impossible to get back in the saddle. He told himself he could do this.

  Spitting venom, he was angry with himself for his weakness – as he considered his act of remorse. His bed had been made and the show had to go on. He forced his alter ego to resurface. He had to think about the next one, not look back.

  ‘Hector,’ Greg said, announcing the name of his next target through gritted teeth. ‘Hector,’ he snarled.

  Hector was a fat, slobbish guy who drove a dust cart. He would lean out of the window of his cab taking the piss out of the young lads as they struggled to carry the heavy steel bins, full of other people’s stinking garbage. Hector was known for proudly boasting about his escapades with young men, even though he was a married man. He had come to England from South Africa. Greg was not sure how long he had been in England. Hector had told stories of how his brother-in-law had constantly threatened him and it was Hector’s wife who had intervened. She protected her lying, cheating homosexual husband.

  Greg did not know if Hector’s wife knew about his double life but he had decided that the time had come for Hector to face his brother-in-law alone, without the protection of his wife. There were many occasions where Greg had to be held back from attacking Hector, w
hen Hector had gone too far. Greg always knew his day would come.

  He had now entered the planning phase. Greg smiled privately; he knew Hector’s clock had begun ticking. His time was almost up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The phone on Terry Bane’s desk started to ring. He tried to ignore it but the constant noise began to irritate him.

  ‘Terry Bane,’ he said in to the phone’s receiver.

  ‘Hi, Terry, great story, can we meet pal?’

  ‘When?’ Terry replied – he knew the voice.

  ‘The sooner the better… do you fancy a pint?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Terry replied, smiling to himself. Things had not changed.

  ‘The Bidders Arms in, let’s say, an hour?’

  ‘Have one waiting for me, mate.’ There was no need for goodbyes.

  Terry Bane was now a reporter. He worked for Thames News and had been doing the job for nearly five years. He had previously worked as a high-ranking detective at New Scotland Yard. Terry had decided to leave his job at The Yard soon after his wife left him. At the time, Terry had been involved in a murder case – a very high profile murder case. It had been the ever-building media pressure that dictated that the case needed solving quickly. Someone had to be brought to justice and therefore Terry had to commit to working long hours to catch the culprit. This, in turn, had put a strain on his marriage. The pressure had become too much for his wife to cope with, forcing her to make a break from the whole thing that was smothering her life. She couldn’t take it anymore and broke free.

  She always knew that her husband did not have the luxury of a nine-to-five job. The constant phone calls in the middle of the night drove her crazy and they could never plan anything. Their lives seemed to become an ad-hoc existence.

  Terry had taken the whole thing very badly. Once the case was solved and the killer caught, he resigned, though by then it was too late. This was another blow which struck him deep. He had lost his true love. It was this loss that pushed Terry over the edge; he began to drink excessively. He knew he was heading for the gutter if he did not pull himself together; a breakdown soon followed. With the help of his best friend and ex-colleague, James McFarland, Terry cleaned up his act and landed a job as a crime reporter at Thames Television. His background at The Yard had opened doors. He’d done the press a fair few favours in the past and it was time to call them in. Time had proved to be Terry’s best ally, time to heal his broken heart, though the deep scars still remained.