by Paul Kane
Tilly pulled her hand away and dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. “Look at me,” she said, laughing. “Silly old fool ... we were talking about your problems. What are you planning to do now, then?”
Rachael shrugged.
“It could be worse, you know,” Tilly told her. When Rachael looked blank, she handed her the paper. “Page seven, there’s a piece about a woman who was killed by her husband. Murdered her in a restaurant toilet, of all places—I ask you!” The old woman tutted. “The police caught up with him at home, and he even had the gall to deny it. Said he’d been driving all night and didn’t know a thing about it, even though there was an eyewitness. What’s the world coming to? Mind you, there was a time of day that would have made page one. Two at least ...”
Rachael read the sketchy report, putting it down before she’d finished it. “Guess you never really know anyone,” she said, attempting to say something profound and failing miserably.
“Some ...” said Tilly, starting in on her porridge again. “Some you do, young Rachael. You just have to choose carefully. You’ll find your Leonard one day, I promise.” And she said that like it was the best compliment in the whole world; which in her mind, thought Rachael, it probably was.
* * *
As she left Tilly’s flat, reminding her again that it was the weekend tomorrow so she wouldn’t be round, Rachael brought up her mental ‘to do’ list for today. It was a ritual she’d gotten into when growing up, her memory for doing things so bad that she needed to write down a list in her head, just to remind herself. She would have written this down on a piece of paper, but Rachael knew she’d only forget where she’d put it.
She was so busy thinking about the imaginary list, she didn’t notice the two youths who had gathered just opposite the main entrance to the flats. It was only when she came to open the door, and caught them looking across at her, that she froze. It was just for a moment, but the sight of those figures—one of them wearing a hooded tracksuit top, one a cap—threw her slightly. Shouldn’t have done that, she thought to herself, shouldn’t have shown any kind of apprehension.
True, the lads looked harmless enough; only a couple of years younger than her, they were simply hanging around on some steps and laughing, smoking stubby cigarettes. But now that they sensed she was alarmed, they got up. Rachael closed the door and walked as boldly as she could across the plaza.
“Hey there, gorgeous!” the one wearing a cap shouted. She speeded up her gait a bit. “Hey, what’s your rush? Come on over and say hello.”
Rachael kept up her pace, skirting around them and thinking about the list, picturing it in front of her. She heard them laughing behind. Don’t look, she told herself, almost willing them to vanish. If you don’t look, they can’t exist.
But she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder just as she was about to turn onto another street—to see if they were still there. To see if they were following.
They weren’t. They’d given up on her and gone back to their steps, hardly paying her any attention now. She breathed a huge sigh of relief. Rachael walked on, away from the Crescent, and realised her hands were now balled into fists. She unclenched them, then read the list to herself again:
1) Do shopping on way back from rounds (your bread is mouldy, Rachael!)
2) Ring Steph about tonight (to cancel!!)
3) Check out auditions in Stage for any possibles (yeah, right)
4) Buy yourself a treat (something tasty and preferably fattening)
She paused on the street as she came to the final number on her list. She’d added it as a black joke to herself that, after the conversation with Tilly this morning, was anything but funny.
It simply said: 4) Mend broken heart?
Rachael mentally screwed up the list, taking a certain amount of satisfaction in doing so. Then she ran for the bus which would take her into the heart of the city.
CHAPTER TWO
He was like a kid in a candy store.
So many to choose from, so many different flavours and textures. All so sweet; he didn’t really know which way to turn. Walking through the streets of this city, he pondered how much like the last one it was, how much like the next one, too, he supposed. The variety of prey was never in doubt.
In another sense, though, it was more like dining out than eating sweets. Skin colour mattered little to him, except when it came to the taste. It always amused him when he said to himself—as he did periodically—that he could ‘murder a Chinese’ (which would be both sweet and sour). The problem was he could only manage so much before becoming full, then he’d feel like another one a few hours later ...
He chuckled again at his own sense of dark humour. Indian food—spicy, but very nice indeed. Caribbean? Tasty in the extreme. Italian ... His thoughts were drawn back to his last Italian meal. All right, so it wasn’t exactly an authentic dish—the woman had originated from somewhere south of this very city—but he could pretend, couldn’t he? Oh could he pretend.
He’d pretended that night, that day—the hours leading up to the final kill were as exciting as the final stroke. If anything, that had become just as important to him over the years as gorging himself on their meat. It was true what they always said, the anticipation made the final reward that much more satisfying. He relished any opportunity to practise his skills; skills honed through decades of employment. And enjoyment. It was fun to deceive his prey, but it wasn’t simply imitation. Any good TV impersonator or make-up effects artist could pull off that stunt with practise. No, in order to lull those he wished to ensnare, he would have to become their friend, a family member, loved one or whoever—for a short time at least. That took study, that took research, legwork ... It took cunning. But it was all worthwhile, and one of the reasons he’d never been caught, because there was always someone around he could use, not only to gain the victim’s trust, but often to take the fall for him as well.
Absently, he wondered what had gone through her husband’s mind when the police picked him up at home. It must have been a picture. “Dead? What do you mean, officer ... who...? Now hold on a minute, what are you doing with those handcuffs?”
“What do you think, dickhead? What we do to all the nutjobs who tear out their wives’ throats!”
He licked his lips again at the memory of that. The succulent, exquisite tang of her blood; the gristly goodness of her flesh ... It made him hungry just to think about it.
Right. Enough. The time had come for him to decide on another, and quickly. A last hurrah in this place.
Sitting on a bench, he surveyed the shoppers on this busy Friday afternoon. In the old country, he could have just picked one off as they walked by, but populations had dwindled where he used to operate so very long ago—mainly due to his antics, it had to be said. And trackers wishing to make a name for themselves had come looking for him back in those days. For their insolence (there was no greater hunter than him; he was the king), he’d sent them away with their tails between their legs—if indeed he’d left them with any tail at all. But all good things came to an end, and when he was forced to move on, he found it was actually a blessing in disguise. It was a big, wide world out there. Who was going to notice what he was up to when mankind took such great joy in doing the very same thing to itself, time and time again? The perfect playground.
The perfect hunting ground.
His eyes were drawn to a short-haired woman in a white mac, wearing sunglasses in spite of the dullness of the day. She was carrying two bags of shopping; light, so they had to be clothes. This was a woman who liked to look good, as indeed she did today. He imagined what it would be like to run his tongue up and down her back, slavering down it, panting as he grew more and more excited—until he could stand it no more and had to see the red. Always the red.
A second woman now, dressed in a black and white cowl-neck stripy top, a
black hat completing the ensemble, walked past and drew his attention from the first. She flicked her long auburn hair, then stopped to look at something in a shop window, bending. He gazed at the shape of her buttocks, aroused—but not in any sense a human might understand. When he looked at her, he saw rump steak, pure and simple. Though he wasn’t averse to playing with his food before consuming it; sating his other appetites when he felt the need.
He got up, his aim to follow her wherever she went—to gain some insight into her life. But he was put off at the moment by the shop front. He daren’t risk her seeing him on approach—not because she might think she had a stalker, but because the windows might reveal what he truly was. The same image that woman back in the toilets must have seen when she stiffened in fear rather than sexual ecstasy. Few had seen it and lived, certainly not in such a public place as this.
The longer she dithered, the more frustrated he grew and began to glance around. There was plenty more meat in the abattoir, as it were. Here, yes, a pale woman in a pink roll-neck sweater and jeans. She’d do. Pasty, but big—enough on there to last him a good day, if he played his cards right (he hadn’t expected to be discovered so soon during his last repast—all to the good of the subterfuge because the waitress had seen the husband’s face, but it left a gaping hole in his belly that demanded to be filled). She had the look of a mountain girl about her, and that appealed to him greatly.
It was while he was girding himself to follow her that he chanced to look up. There, across the street with her own shopping, was a fleeting image of a face. It stopped him dead in his tracks. He pushed past the ‘mountain girl’, eager to cross over, to get nearer. That face was mesmerising. So hypnotic and tantalising, he set aside all other thoughts. He couldn’t believe it: the perfect ‘dish’.
But by the time he’d crossed, waiting for a bus that went past, the crowds had folded themselves around her. Now she was nowhere to be seen.
There she’d been, standing in full view—so close he could have bounded past these idiots and reached her in an instant if he hadn’t been so frightened of giving himself away (no, not frightened, never frightened; merely cautious). The perfect prey and she’d eluded him. The one woman who put all these others in the shade, who he had to have now that he’d seen a glimpse of her.
But how to find her now?
He sniffed the air, relying on the one sense that was not working against him. All others—sounds, sight, even touch—were useless here. There was simply too much bustle, too much hustle the closer he was getting to the middle of the city. At first his nose said: no, impossible. But he refused to believe that, it had never let him down.
Walking over to where he figured she’d been standing, he closed his eyes and sniffed again. Could even his nose pick out one scent amongst all these others? And which would be the right one, even if he could?
He cursed quietly under his breath. Then he smiled.
This would be a true challenge of his skills—but he was more than up to the task. He would find that girl, he vowed. He’d find her and then ...
Well, then he would dine on a meal truly fit for a king.
CHAPTER THREE
She really didn’t want to be here.
Rachael shifted uncomfortably in the seat and the leather creaked beneath her. She was nursing a vodka and coke like it was the last drink on Earth; barely a sip had passed her lips in the last quarter of an hour.
“Your heart’s not really in this, is it?” said the girl in the electric blue blouse beside her. Stephanie’s make-up looked like a chimp had applied it, so thick you could scrape it off with a palette knife and paint a canvas with it. And the fact that she kept getting out her bag and mirror to apply more wasn’t helping. It was the ’80s retro look, she informed Rachael when they met up—all the rage in certain city clubs. Unfortunately, they weren’t in one of those right now. They were in the lounge of The Forrester’s Arms, one of the smattering of pubs that crawlers used on their way to more exciting venues.
There had been no need to ring Steph when she got back to her flat because her friend had beaten her to it. The phone went as soon as she stepped through the door. “I really don’t understand this problem you have about switching your mobile on—it’d be so much easier to get hold of you,” she’d said.
What if I don’t want to be gotten hold of? thought Rachael. In fact, the only time she kept it about her person and switched it on was if she gave out the number for an audition. Right now, it was languishing in the bottom of her underwear drawer.
“It’s simple, really Steph—if the phone’s off, it’s not costing me money to ring someone back or text them.”
“What, a few measly pence?”
“It might only be that to you, but I’m not exactly raking it in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Only be a matter of time before you land that big part in something. You’ll see.” Steph’s cheery optimism about Rachael’s ‘career’, while endearing at first, had—over time—worn thinner than Hugh Hefner’s welcome mat. Rachael knew from the lack of work that she was nothing special.
“Thanks,” she said wearily.
“Know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re leaving it off on purpose. In case ... ‘you know who’ tries to get in touch.”
“You can say his name, you know.” But Rachael was glad when Steph didn’t.
“You can’t hide yourself away from him.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Yes you are. It’s not worth it.”
“Not worth what?”
“Getting like this about it. Plenty—”
“If you start talking about fish in the sea or pebbles on a beach,” said Rachael, “I’m going to kill you. Slowly.”
“I was going to say, plenty of time to meet someone.”
“You were?”
“No,” Steph admitted. “I was going to talk about fish in the sea.”
Rachael couldn’t help chuckling at her honesty.
“But one thing’s for sure, you’re not going to hook any of them while you’re still on dry land.”
“I could look around for a pebble instead,” suggested Rachael, trying to be facetious—but it was lost on Steph.
“That’s the spirit. So, you’re coming out tonight then?”
“Actually, I was thinking of staying in—”
“And doing what? Watching soaps on TV, comfort eating?”
Rachael looked at the paper bag sticking out of the top of her shopping. Inside were not one, but two chocolate éclairs. “No,” she lied. “I was going to ...” But she couldn’t think of a decent excuse in time.
“It’s Friday night. You’re coming out, like we arranged.”
Rachael sighed. She hated arguments and this one just wasn’t worth getting into. Besides, Steph had done a lot for her when she first moved here: showed her around; helped her settle in; introduced her to ... Okay, let’s leave that one right there, forget that he’s a friend of Steph’s sister Elaine, before I change my mind again ... Rachael knew she was only looking out for her, trying to cheer her up. So, knowing she was going to regret it, she said, “Okay, I give in. What time?”
But if it had been Steph’s intention to cheer her up, she was failing miserably. All she’d done for the past hour was talk about her own doomed love life before and after she’d met Rachael—which, as far as she could see, mainly involved picking up men in loud clubs without even knowing their names, without even knowing if they had anything in common, then wondering why the relationship had collapsed a few days later. At least Rachael’s thing with Mike hadn’t been like that. They’d been friends first, part of the same crowd, and then it developed into something else. Something Rachael thought would last, until the night she’d shown up to surprise him at work while he w
as doing one of his DJ-ing shifts.
She’d watched from the doorway as he flirted with a handful of women giving him requests; all part of the job, he’d probably argue. But the last straw came after he kissed one of them—not just a peck on the cheek, either—right in front of a room full of people. When she confronted him, he maintained there was nothing to it, that she was an old friend, someone he’d known before. They’d had a blazing row that had continued outside the venue, and that had been the last they’d spoken to each other in over a week.
“Bunch of cheating shits, the lot of them,” ranted Steph. “Oooh, now how about that one? He looks a bit of all right.” Steph’s distinctly schizophrenic notions about men never failed to amaze Rachael, but she was noticing it much more tonight—probably because Steph had spent the other half of the time pointing out potential replacements for Mike. “It’ll take your mind off things, I guarantee it,” she told Rachael.
“If you start talking about horses and getting back on them ...” Rachael warned.
Steph grinned. “I’m sure we can find you a nice, strong stallion if we try.”
“Look, I just don’t think I’m ready for—”
“It’s only a bit of fun. Humour me.”
Oh, I am—trust me.
“Go on,” said her friend, “what do you think?” She was nudging Rachael and nodding in the direction of two men standing at the bar. One looked like he’d just lumbered out of a cave and the other, a stocky man in a vest, sported more tattoos than a brace of bikers. “That one, the one on the left.”
“What, unibrow? I don’t think so.”
“All right, the other one then.”
“Steph, he’s got more pictures on him than the Tate has on its walls. Besides, he’s gross.”
“You know your problem, don’t you?”
Rachael cocked her head. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re too picky.” Steph knocked back her Bacardi, the fourth of the evening so far. “Must be the actress side of you.”