Psychopath for Hire: A Novel of Extreme Horror

by Matt Shaw

  You can’t do it, can you? Her voice in my head.

  A sudden smile spread across my face as a thought came into my head; I need to get rid of her body but I want to make love to her having missed the pleasure during the night…The thought, loud and clear, singing to me that - I don’t need her whole body to make love. I only need her genitals and a little bit of torso for something to hold onto and thrust against. The rest of the body can be binned.

  I started hacking through her neck with the saw; a sound very much like metal grinding through wood. A sound which always caused a shiver to run down my spine - as unpleasant as someone dragging their nails down a chalk board.

  Just saw faster.

  Get it over and done with.

  I closed my eyes and increased both rhythm and pressure until I felt the saw cut the final piece of bone and flesh away. I opened my eyes in time to see the head loll to the side - no longer attached to the rest of the body. All that’s left is the arms and legs. Maybe I’ll cut the torso in half…I don’t need it all. Unless…I looked down at her body again…Her breasts were pert. hardened nipples in death. I guess…Bin the head, the arms, the legs…Keep the rest.

  Just for one night.

  I smiled as I set about cutting through the arms despite the sound of saw through bone again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARTIN ANDREWS

  Broken

  I

  I sat on the tatty armchair in my small living room staring at the smoking television set. Been a long day and this was supposed to be my way of relaxing. Mistake. Should have known better. A piece of glass slipped from the screen and hit the floor where some of the other shards had landed when the ash-tray hit the screen. Don’t know why I even turned the damned set on; just more depressing shit in the news. Today’s leading story being about a family who was disturbed in their own home. Intruder killed the whole damned family before turning the knife upon himself. Husband, mother and child brutally slain in their own fucking home. At least none of them were left behind to feel the grief of loss.

  I feel almost envious of them.

  Only good part of that particular story was that the killer took his own life. Some freak dressed up as a fucking clown of all things. One less asshole on the streets for me to have to try and catch - not that I’m having a good run of closing cases recently. Not since that sick fuck Arthur. The one who took my world from me. The one who put me in this tiny box of a flat in the dodgy end of town.

  I looked around the apartment. Not sure if the stink lingering in the rooms is from me - where I just don’t give a fuck anymore - or whether it was already here when I moved in. Not sure that I care either. One day I might go home again; back to the family home. When the pain is a little less, maybe.

  The pain. Will it ever die down or will it be like this forever now?

  No.

  Of course it will fade.

  Everything fades.

  The whiskey helps with that.

  I reached down and picked up the tall glass half-filled with whiskey. I used to drink this on the rocks. Now I just neck it neat. I used to get numb from it. Used to. Each day it takes a little bit more to take away any possibility of feeling. I downed the remainder of the glass and reached for the bottle. Bitter disappointment when I noted it had run dry. Damn it. I threw it across the room where it smashed against the wall into a hundred tiny pieces of fuck you. Some asshole banging on the wall shouting for me to keep it down. Half tempted to barge into his apartment and help him bang against the walls - using his head as the knocker.

  I pulled myself up from the armchair and caught sight of myself in the cracked mirror hanging above the gas fire. The crack was me. Not sure when exactly but it was definitely me. Didn’t like the guy staring back at me when I looked into it and lashed out. Don’t much like the asshole staring back at me now either. Looks old, worn, haggard and that’s despite the untidy beard hiding a lot of the bitter, old face.

  “Getting old, my friend.” Arthur’s voice taunted me. I had been hearing him a lot recently despite my best intentions not to. I’d tried everything to rid myself of him once and for all. Taunting me about how I look, laughing when I lost my job down the station, and reminding me of what he had done to me. Counselling, alcohol - even being better at my job. None of it seemed to help ease my conscience. I caught a sight of him standing behind me in the cracked reflection of the broken mirror. A hazy memory limping back to mind from one of my many drunken nights reminding me that this is how the mirror came to be cracked the first time around. He wasn’t alone in the reflection. He was standing there with my Lucy - his arm around her as though part of a cozy couple. It takes me all of my damned willpower not to break the mirror again. I know he isn’t there. Neither is she. I’ll turn around and both will be absent - back to where they’re supposed to be; him in prison and her…I don’t want to think about it. I slowly turned around and confirmed what I already knew - neither were present.

  Tomorrow I’ll be sure to pick up an extra bottle of whiskey when I venture out for supplies. Usually get two bottles but clearly three is the answer. Save myself from being in this position again. Save myself from running dry. Should have stopped off on the way home earlier. Should have got another bottle. I knew I was running out after last night. Should have known I’d have needed another.

  I noticed my phone flashing at me. It was resting on the arm of the chair I’d been slumped in earlier. A little blue light blinking for my attention to show me it had a message waiting. Didn’t even hear the damned thing vibrating through with a call. Shows how little attention I pay it these days. A far cry from how it used to be when I was on the Force. Used to live with it permanently attached to me on the loudest setting possible to ensure there were no calls missed no matter what the time of day. I can’t say I’ve missed the constant ringing. I much prefer the sound of silence offered in my forced retirement and reluctance to leave the apartment unless absolutely necessary.

  I picked the handset open and flipped the lid up. One voicemail waiting for me. I closed the lid. It can wait. I need more alcohol. I slipped the phone into my trouser pocket and lifted my well worn trench coat from the second armchair where I often flung it. I threw it over my shoulders and headed for the hallway. If I’m to survive the night, I’ll need more alcohol.

  I’ll get three bottles in this time. Always try and keep a spare in the apartment for emergencies such as this.

  I opened the front door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway of the apartment block. Funny, I used to come here to bust known drug-dealers and pimps. Never once thought I’d be living amongst them. Don’t care what they do these days and they know it. Just let them get on with it and, in return, they leave me the hell alone too. A mutual understanding - they don’t fuck with me and I don’t fuck with them.

  No point in me trying to even if I was still on the Force; the Good guys lost the fight long ago. We just didn’t know it. We always thought we could turn it around. Always thought we could make a difference. Shame I realised so late in the game. Had I known earlier, I could have got out before it impacted my family.

  My family?

  What family.

  Need more alcohol.

  II

  I stepped out of the cold rain and into the immediate warmth offered by the off licence. The bell above the doorway ringing through the seemingly deserted store warning the occupants of my arrival. The store was run by Abdul Kharmi - some guy who’d chosen this shit-hole of a country to bring his family up instead of whatever country he said he was from. He had told me but damned if I can remember. I used to have a good memory for the little details. It was important for the job. Now I’m a civilian I don’t give a fuck for the little things and tend to forget them as soon as I’ve heard them. Of course I knew him before I was just a civilian. I knew of him as a case number too. Used to know that by heart but - like the other little things - it has slipped my mind as well. Poor son of a bitch was always getting robbed.
<
br />   Abdul was usually sitting behind the counter with his head buried in a newspaper of some description. His grasp of the english language was serviceable but I often wondered whether he could make any sense out of the words sprawled across his choice of tabloid. I’m guessing now. Had he been able to read what was going in the country he’d actually chosen to move to - he’d probably have packed up long ago and gone back to where he had originally come from.

  I glanced over to the counter as I wiped my feet on the mat before stepping onto the wooden flooring of the shop. He was serving another customer. My eyes drifted from the two to behind the counter where the good whiskey was kept. Wild Turkey being a personal favourite and there it was - right there - on the top shelf. I felt a rush of embarrassment run through me when I realised another emotion had hit me upon sight of the bottles of alcohol; one of relief. Had I really got to that stage of my life whereby I’d panic had it not been readily available?

  “Three of the usual when you’re ready,” I said to Abdul as I approached the counter. I noticed his face, something about it was different to what I usually saw when I came in. Something…Oh fuck.

  “Don’t take another fucking step!” the hooded guy, standing in front of the counter, turned to me with his pistol raised up to my chest.

  “Okay. Easy, fella. Don’t want trouble, just whiskey,” I put my hands up to show him I was unarmed and that I wasn’t looking to get shot. That was the problem with an off licence in this area; on the one hand you never had a shortage of customers - people such as myself looking to drown out the shit world they lived in - but on the other hand there was never a shortage of people to rob the joint either. I took a few steps back with my hands raised in the air.

  The asshole turned his head back to Abdul but kept the gun pointed at me, “Fill the fucking bag up and be quick about it!” he barked through his order.

  “Just do as he says,” unlike the asshole, I didn’t shout. I purposefully kept my voice low and non-threatening. Just an elderly man not looking for trouble. Abdul looked surprised I was telling him to do as the asshole said. Not sure what he expected me to do. He knew I was retired from the Force now from our many conversations since being a regular customer. The guy had recognised me the first moment I stepped into his shop. Took him about three weeks to get out of the habit of calling me Detective. He opened the till and started to bag up the notes - using one of the carrier bags he usually charged five pence for.

  “Come on! Come on! All of it!” The asshole reached forward and grabbed the bag as soon as the last note was taken from the till, still with the damned gun aimed at me. Why me? He turned from the till point and headed towards the door with haste - his eyes fixed upon me as though part of him expected me to make a move. No moves coming from here. I’m done with this game. I don’t owe Abdul anything. Hell - the way I see it - he owes me, the amount of hours I’ve wasted trying to help him in the past when he has been robbed. Should have got out then, opened up a shop in a nicer town where there was less chance of this happening.

  The bell above the door rang out through the shop as the asshole yanked the door open and stepped out in the cold night. The bell rang again as the door closed behind him.

  “You go after him!” Abdul shouted.

  “Not my job anymore,” I told him.

  “You have a duty!” he said. “Once a police officer, always a police officer!”

  I shook my head, “I’m sorry,” I told him, “I’m just here for three bottles of the usual.”

  I could tell by his face he was shocked that I wouldn’t help. Possibly even shocked that I didn’t take the time to ask if he was okay but why would I? People I like, people I am closed to - they get hurt. Easier to distance myself from them. Safer for them and easier for me. I can’t have another life on my conscience. Besides - he was fine. He’ll get over it. It was just money. Not as though anyone was hurt. If anything he is safer now. Word will get out that he has been robbed. Other people who might have been planning the same will know that his security will be tight again (for a while at least) and that he’ll be ready for them. Means they’ll stay away. However much money that was in his till had just bought him peace and quiet for a couple of months at least. And he should look on the bright side - had they come in after me, there’d have been another sixty quid in the till. I pulled the notes from my tatty wallet, ignoring the baby scan picture, and threw them on top of the counter. “Three of my usual,” I told him. “And you can keep the change…”

  “You get out! You get out and you don’t come back!”

  He didn’t mean it. He was just upset. Maybe in shock. He’ll be okay. I walked round to the back of the counter and pulled three bottles from the top shelf, despite his shouting for me to leave his store. I ripped a bag from where they hung on the wall and lowered the bottles into it; careful not to split the cheap plastic. 5 pence and the bags barely last more than one trip from shop to home. Fucking joke. I flashed him a smile and walked from the store. The bell above the doorway singing out into the shop.

  I didn’t make it more than five steps to my waiting car before I set the bag down on the soaked concrete and pulled a bottle from within. I twisted the lid off and took a much needed swig from the bottle. Damned stuff is tasting more and more like water with every sip. Need something stronger perhaps. I put the lid back on, careful to ensure it was pushed right the way down, and continued the walk to the car. Seen so many drink related accidents in my time that you’d think I’d know better and yet - drink driving - I don’t give a fuck. As an Officer you learn to hate the drink drivers because it’s not just their lives they wreck but people they collide with. Some live and some die. Maybe that’s why I moved to this shit-hole area? Part of me - deep down - aware that there was a good chance I’d have an accident if I drink drive? At least if I hit anyone around these parts it won’t matter. Fucking scum the lot of them. One last ditch attempt to rid the world of scum in a dramatic car accident? Wouldn’t faze me.

  I slid the key into the car lock with a hand as steady as a rock. It’s always steady when I’ve been drinking. It’s when I’m running dry that it shakes. Embarrassingly so. I climbed into the car and put the bag onto the passenger seat before sliding the key into the ignition. I slammed the door shut, cocooning myself in my own private sanctuary. I hate it out there now, in the real world. There is nothing there for me. Arthur had made sure of that. I’d heard he had put in an appeal against his sentence. One of my old colleagues thought it prudent to inform me. Of course nothing will come of it. Part of me thinks he only did it because he knew it would get back to me. He wanted me to remember that he is out there still. Wanted to remind me of who he is and what he had done, not that I could ever forget. I looked in the rear-view mirror. Arthur stared back at me from the backseat. He winked.

  “Wink all you want,” I said, “you need to make the most of it whilst you can… You won’t be around much longer.” I reached into the carrier bag and pulled out the bottle of whiskey I’d earlier opened. I took the lid off and threw it onto the floor. Won’t need that anymore. A quick glance into the rear-view mirror along with a little wink and a flash of my smile. “Quickest way to kill you,” I said as I took a large swig from the bottle. “Quickest way.”

  He didn’t say anything. Just sat there staring at me.

  III

  I awoke with a pounding head. You’d think my body would be used to it by now, the heavy nights of pornography and alcohol abuse. Takes more to get so drunk that memories blur to nothing while a state of consciousness only just manages to hang on and yet the amount needed to ensure a migraine-like headache remains the same. Hardly seems fair.

  Blurred vision slowly pulled into focus as I find myself staring up at the light on the ceiling. Not the bedroom light. Head turned to the side and thumped in such a way I thought it was going to explode. I’m in the living room. Not the first time I’ve woken up here but usually I tend to wake up on the sofa. Don’t even remember dropping to the floor l
ast night. I slowly sat up with the room spinning. Arthur was sitting on the sofa smiling at me.

  “Still here,” he taunted me.

  “Fuck you.”

  He started to laugh as I reached up to my coat which was - once again - abandoned on one of the armchairs. I pulled it down to my level and fumbled in the pocket for what I was looking for; headache tablets. I always keep them on me. Saves having to try and find one when I need it which seems to be fairly frequent. Especially after learning about his appeal. Seems I almost always have a fucking headache. Doesn’t help that I have nothing to do these days other than to mope around and drink.

  I popped two tablets out from the silver foil of the pharmaceutical packet and necked them. I swallowed hard. No need for water. Seasoned pro when it comes to taking these. I threw the packet onto my coat. Won’t be needing them for a couple more hours. I rested my head back against the stained carpet wishing it were the carpet of my old family home. That was not only clean but also thick. Much more comfortable than this. I closed my eyes and wished for sleep to take a hold of me once more - permanently perhaps.

  “Lie with me,” Lucy said. “Close your eyes.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” I whispered. Whenever I tried to go to sleep, I liked to make her the last thought of the evening. Increases the chance of dreaming about her. A real dream, I mean, not the usual nightmare of how he left her for me to find; the most recurrent night-terror that I suffered despite trying to drown it from my mind with strong booze and tablets.