by Krishna Ahir
Quickly slipping through his front door, cat slung under one arm, he plunged the key into the lock and bolted the entrance behind him.
Even as he dropped Crystal and started to remove his shoes, Christopher could feel a deep unease welling in the chasm of his stomach. Despite the door locked and latched behind him, he felt as if a presence was lurking over his shoulder.
He felt on edge. Like he was balanced on the edge of a knife.
He felt like he was being watched.
When the cat pawed at his leg, he almost jumped out of his skin. Lurching backwards, he felt Crystal' claws plunge through the material of his jeans and sink into his calf.
"For fuck sake, you stupid cat!" he swore, loudly. "You scared the shit out of me!"
Crystal only offered a meow in response. He clearly didn't care. Cocking his head to the side, he stared pointedly up at Christopher.
"What, you want food?" he asked, not even expecting a reply. "Come on then, let's get you some biscuits."
Moving towards the kitchen, he instinctively switched on every light as he went, illuminating the darkness of the empty house. Echoing back at him, the sound of his footsteps perforated the darkness.
Arriving in the illuminated kitchen, he opened a cupboard before pulling out a box of cat biscuits. Setting the cardboard container down upon the counter, he closed the door.
Again, a chilling sensation ran down his back.
Christopher could have sworn that, after closing the cupboard door, he saw something peering through the darkness of his back window. Barely an afterimage, it was gone before he registered it.
Heading over to the back door, he took a deep breath and checked if it was locked.
My whole life, Daddy was the only one that cared about me. That understood me. Near the end, touching was the way he showed it.
Touching made everything better.
It was a way to show how much he loved me, without Mum finding out. Without her hearing us.
We didn't need words to say that we loved each other.
The way that it hung there afterwards has always fascinated me. I always think about slicing it off and hanging it on my wall. So that when I'm feeling sad, I can give it a comforting tug.
I think, one day soon, I might do just that.
Of course, Mum wouldn't approve. Should she discover the decoration, I would almost certainly receive some kind of reprimand.
It wouldn't be the kettle and the bath; that's only for the times when I get dirty or make a mess. She only uses the fork on my arm if I do something wrong at the dinner table.
Probably, I would end up locked in the closet.
Once it's empty that is.
Recently, things have been taking up space.
Not that I've had much time to pay attention to that. I have been much too busy with him.
I have been seeing him a lot more recently. Every time I lay eyes on him, it's like the first time all over again. A tingling burn spreads through my body, every time he locks eyes with me.
Like electricity.
It reminds me of a time only a year ago. Or was it two?
I was passing by a field on my way home from junior college, when I saw the cows. A dense and punctuating brown in a field of emerald green. I remember thinking about how sturdy they looked. About how difficult it would be to kill one.
In an attempt to climb into the field, I accidentally touched the electric fence. Just like when he looks at me, I remember the pulsating shock ripping through my body. I could taste my fillings.
Completely alien to me, the sensation filled me with a feeling I had never experienced before. So I grabbed it again. And again. And again.
That's how he makes me feel. Every time I see him, it's like I'm experiencing that new sensation again.
He's warm. He's strong. He's safe. And I crave him. I need him close to me; as close as my own skin. I have delusions of diving into his mouth and wearing him like a suit; shielding me from the cruel spite of the world.
So that's how I know.
It's not just Daddy anymore.
Daddy isn't the only one who cares. He cares too. He understands me.
And I want him to touch me as well.
Chapter 15
Shifting listlessly against the cushions of his sofa, Drake struggled to find a comfortable position. A dull throb of pain radiated out from the middle of his spine, ensuring that wherever and however he sat, he would be unable to rest easy. He had been stood up for far too much of the day and now his body was making him pay for it.
Even worse, the freezing temperatures inside the morgue had stiffened his muscles, leaving them tightly knotted and unyielding.
He hadn't felt this worn down in a long time.
Drake had been thankful upon his return to the Grand Stone Bay Station. While he had been out, discovering a body and sitting in on the autopsy, Byron and Caroline had been plucked from obscurity in Rosefield and assigned to help him on the case. The fact that Harold had even considered that he would appreciate some allies left him with an altogether warmer feeling towards the DCI.
Less thrilled with the development, however, were the Grand Stone Bay Detectives. As far as they were concerned, Drake's colleagues were just yet more Uniforms sniffing around above their pay grade. Osborne had been livid.
Drake grunted and swallowed down a mouthful of tea. "Fuck him..."
He was glad that Byron was part of his backup. The younger man had been a good friend for a long time. He could always count on him to have his back, offering the occasional sarcastic remark to add levity to even the most bleak of situations. And dedicated? The word didn't even begin to describe the drive the man had.
And not just in terms of his work. Whenever Byron set his mind on something, he wouldn't give up until he got what he wanted. He was like a hound, out for blood.
Drake could vividly remember his comrade, back when they had first met. It was around the time Byron had first shown an interest in his future partner.
Annabelle worked in the local council at the time, and Drake had been partnered with Byron while Paxon was on sick-leave. They were preoccupied with chasing a paper trail in the council's traffic department when Byron first spotted her. Stunningly good looking, even dressed in the work-provided fleece, she caught the young Constable's attention the second she entered the room, and he wouldn't leave her alone until she agreed to go for a drink with him. He followed behind her, as if tethered to her clothes. Brainless and out of his depth. Focusing single-mindedly on nothing but her.
Much like in his professional life, Byron's persistence paid off. The pair had been together ever since.
The thoughts of his comrade's romantic life elicited a smile from Drake's mouth. It spurred on thoughts of his own love; of Elaine's calming comfort.
She was the only reason why he was still awake. Late though it was, he decided to receive her, once her shift was over.
Since his official involvement in the case of the missing cats, Elaine had been nothing but supportive of him, urging Drake on to do well in the investigation. To prove himself capable of Detective work.
If he spent every day of the next few weeks letting her know how much it meant to him, then it still wouldn't be enough.
Picking up the colored tabloid paper beside him, he thumbed through the pages of The Mayfair Star; the sound of a game show playing in the background, from the television. The local papers had already caught on to the story of Odette Tate' murder and the national probably wouldn't be far behind, given the sensationalist spin the tabloid he currently held had put on it.
Jessie must have tripped over himself trying to get this printed in tonight's edition, Drake thought, thumbing through to the page almost entirely covered by a photo of Odette's house. Several police cars were depicted outside, practically framing the blue and white tape which strung across the front gate.
As his eyes dashed over the text, he noticed a number of spelling mistakes and false claims. Particular notice was paid to the
"grizzly nature of the murder", despite the fact that the police had yet to release an official statement.
Exactly as Drake predicted, printed beneath the story, the credited journalist was none other than one Jessie Goodwin.
Born and raised in Rosefield, Goodwin was the bane of the local police forces.
Earning fame a number of years earlier as an online journalist, the man had drawn attention to himself through a number of controversial articles "exposing" celebrity misdemeanor. During the peak of his popularity, by nothing more than sheer chance of luck, Jessie had managed to snap a photograph of a well known recording artist, engaging in an illicit affair with his wife's sister. He had sold the picture for a small fortune. Shortly after, he had be approached by the owner of a local tabloid paper and been offered a job writing for their celebrity columns.
Where he truly drew interest, however, was in criminal procedure. Using his new platform as a jumping point, the young man had begun to stick his nose where it didn't belong. Namely in the business of the Rosefield and Grand Stone Bay Police a Forces. Whenever he caught a whiff of any particularly interesting case, he always made a point of writing about it as much as possible; the truth or otherwise.
Too numerous to count where the times when the journalist had inadvertently tarred Officers with his writing.
Drake's thoughts left the journalist at the sound of his front door. The rustling of clothes as Elaine slogged down the hallway, following an arduous shift, reached him in the living room; the sound slightly muffled by the low hum of the television. Expectantly sitting up, he put down the paper and met his wife with a smile.
Elaine returned the grin and collapsed onto the sofa beside Drake. Her eyes were slightly hooded with the need to sleep.
"Long day?" he asked, reaching out and stroking her leg with his fingertips. As he made contact, Drake felt the familiar electric sensation spark through his limbs.
"Stressful..." Elaine replied, closing her eyes and leaning her head on Drake's shoulder. "Some idiot fell into the wine shelf today. Literally, it was everywhere."
"That doesn't sound good..."
"The glass was the worst," she continued. "And the smell. It was like I was in the middle of a brewery."
Drake merely hummed in response, not wanting to burden her with the details of Odette's Tate' murder. In the back of his mind, he figured that if it came down to smells then he easily had Elaine beat.
Nuzzling deeper into the crook of her husband's neck, Elaine breathed in contently. "Thank you for waiting up for me."
"Well I couldn't miss out on seeing you," he smiled in reply. "Even if you do seem to be dozing off."
"Five more minutes," she mumbled, throwing her arms around him as he laugh was muffled by his broad chest. "You're sweet, though."
Laughing, Drake looped his arm around her shoulder.
"I'll have to make it up to you tomorrow," Elaine continued, sleepily. "Dinner tomorrow night. Not the same as usual, though... Something special."
"How about a pudding?" Drake asked, not caring much about his blood sugar.
"I could make you a blondie? Salted caramel."
"Is that an offer of baked goods, or are you going to dye my hair? Because I'd prefer one over the other."
Elaine finally opened her eyes again. "Either or. Whichever you'd prefer. I think I'd be pretty good at accommodating either."
Wrinkles extended from the corners of Drake's eyes as he smiled. Broad and genuine, his expression was filled with love. "Is there anything you can't do?"
"I'm really bad at strip poker, and I dance like I'm on drugs. Bad ones."
"Is that an admission of guilt, Mrs. Gregory?" he asked, teasingly. "I might have to take you down to the station."
"Take me somewhere else, and we can work it out," Elaine replied. Then she kissed him.
Waking in a chilling sweat, Harold s sleep-addled vision swept across the pitch black of the room, before settling on the dense outline four feet to his right. His brief panic subsided as his ears tuned to the sound of slow and regular breathing. Joslyn hadn’t woken, even during his stint of restless sleep.
The visions seen in his dream crawling back into the recesses of his mind, Harold quietly slipped out of the bed sheets and traversed the room; making his way to the window, for a breath of air.
Leaning out into the night, Harold stared upwards and breathed in. The sky seemed to stretch on endlessly; a uniform and featureless black.
The street lamp that typically illuminated the road outside was out; something the local residents had often complained about to the council. Harold had once been included in that number, but in that moment he was thankful for the dark. His recurring dream (or rather, nightmare) found its horrors not in the fear of the unknown, but in the terror of the seen. Shadows were Harold s friends, helping him hide from the stark horrors living in his head.
While most of the dream was patchwork — pieced together from information he had gathered later or at the time — the truly terrifying images were those that he had witnessed himself. The grim thoughts and fragments, locked in the recesses of his mind, found form in his dream.
And it was always the same scene.
The Moor Murderer had come to London and carved himself a nice piece of meat.
Veal was in season; a prized cut taken from the flank being the prime piece of the day. The Moor Murderer had written it on the wall, lest he forget the order.
The blood, having been drained long before he did his work, did not bother The Moor Murderer much. The metallic smell, however, still clung to the air like a humid red mist. He could almost taste the iron, as if he were licking his own carving knife.
Sunlight glittered behind the blade as he cut the meat, shimmering pink off of the flesh and slicing a line of red through the skin. His hands, once clean and pale, were punctuated with red, and stained crimson.
As he worked, he wrote notes. Letters to accompany that day's orders.
The veal wasn't all that was on the menu. Liver, kidneys and sweetbreads had also been ordered. A loin too had been cut earlier in the day.
A big order, he had to be sure that everything was of the highest quality. His patron would not accept any half measures. The meat had to be perfect.
The sweetbreads were in The Moor Murderer's hands when he realized something was amiss. A slight redness, paler and yet more pronounced than the stain of blood, and a noticeable swelling. Small nodules decorating the organ.
Now Detective Sergeant James Harold stood over the veal, watching as Nicholas crouched close to it.
"Pancreatic cancer," he said, solemnly. "There was something wrong with the meat."
To the side, Dean Price illuminated the worktop with the flash of his camera. Everything was sharpened into harsh, visceral detail.
Swinging his vision around the room, Harold's eyes swallowed the scene. Incomprehensible symbols, painted in blood (now dry and flaking brown), littered the walls. Within the myriad of ciphers and pictograms, Latin phrases jumped out at him. The curtains had been ripped from the rail, most likely in a rage, and every photograph in the room had had the faces obliterated by harsh white gouges. Every piece of furniture, save for one, had been overturned…. And, laid upon the coffee table, missing flesh from his thighs, his organs ripped from his body, Charlie Miller stared up at Harold through dead and unseeing eyes.
He was only seven years old.
Pulling another cool stream of air down his throat, Harold closed his eyes and tried to blot out the dream, tried to stop it from lurching back to the front of his mind, to knock the inside of his skull.
Not wanting to wake Joslyn, and content in hiding in shadow, he didn't turn the light on. Instead, he made his way across the room and disappeared into the darkness of the landing. Harold traversed the hallway and descended the stairs, climbing down into a denser black and almost losing his footing as he missed the bottom stair and plunged his foot into the void.
Catching himself on the banister, he
took a second to compose himself. Pausing at the foot of the staircase, he felt the flutter in his chest slowly subside.
Harold moved silently through the darkness, and into the kitchen. The soles of his feet padded gently against the cold tiles, a chilling sensation creeping up his limbs.
He poured himself a glass of water and drank slowly. The cool liquid settling his stomach, Harold set down the glass and closed his eyes. The images of Charlie Miller were gone, replaced now by thoughts of cats. Living ones, thankfully.
The Cat Hunter returned to his mind, in place of The Moor Murderer. He had initially hoped that they would be able to catch them, before the killings escalated into the deaths of human victims. He hoped that the death of Mrs. Tate would be the only one; prayed that it had been an accident.
But he was not so optimistic to confuse hope with belief.
Filling another glass, Harold turned and made his way back to his bedroom.
The space was sparse, yet punctuated with large solitary furniture. Joslyn had her own bed, so that her husband's often restless sleep didn't wake her. There was a slight gap between the two cots, so that they could reach across when they craved each other's touch.
Set upon the dresser beside her bed were several boxes of makeup. Even given her illness, Joslyn still afforded to look nice.
"If I don't take pride in how I look, how can I expect you to?"
That was what she had told Harold, one morning. She had been weakly applying rouge to her cheeks, to make sure that she still had color to her face, before she headed to her chemotherapy appointment. His response came easily.
"You’ll always be the most beautiful woman in the world."
Setting down the glass of water on the dresser, Harold stopped to smile down at the sleeping face of his wife. Even in sleep she wore the shawl around her head and, given the recent cold weather, it kept her warm in the chill of the night.
As his eyes settled gently on Joslyn, Harold's heart suddenly lurched in his chest.
She wasn't breathing.
Taking a hasty step forwards, Harold reached out with one hand to check her pulse. Before his fingers made contact with the smooth skin of her neck, however, a flutter of a breath escaped Joslyn's lips.