Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  Jon took the turning and Sly directed him through the rows of residential streets. When they reached Moorfield Road, Sly said, 'Down this one.'

  They had driven another fifty metres when Sly said, 'That one on the left. Number sixteen.'

  Jon stopped the car. It couldn't be. 'Are you sure?' He swivelled round.

  Sly rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, I'm sure. He had a Porsche Boxter. I got into his garage a couple of times. Nothing inside except for a pile of that chewing gum. I took three or four boxes, to get something for my trouble, you know?'

  Jon turned to Sergeant Darcourt. 'I know this guy. Used to play rugby with him for Stockport. Tom Benwell? Played fly half.'

  Darcourt frowned. 'Name rings a bell. Can't picture him, though.'

  'I'll give him a knock. You stay here, OK?'

  Darcourt nodded. Jon climbed out of the car and walked up Tom's drive, not holding out much hope that he was going to answer his door. He waited for a few seconds after ringing the bell, then walked across the lawn and tried to peer through the net curtains into the living room. It still appeared to be stripped bare.

  He walked round the house for a look through the French windows. In the back garden he saw piles of charred furniture and electrical equipment. He began to get a bad feeling about his old team mate. The French doors were slightly ajar. Easing them open with the toe of a shoe, he looked into the room. Sheets of paper were pinned to all the walls. Jon started reading the first.

  And it came to pass at the seventh time, when the seven priests

  blew with the seven trumpets, Joshua said unto the people,

  shout; for the Lord hath given you the city. And they utterly

  destroyed all that was in the city, both men and women, young

  and old.

  Joshua.

  Jon walked quickly round the house and back to the waiting car. 'Nobby, there's something very strange going on here. Can you take these two back to the station? And get a SOCO sent round here, too.'

  Sergeant Darcourt slid his chubby frame across into the driver's seat. 'How do you mean, strange?'

  'Drop them off and you can come back for a look yourself,' Jon called out, heading off round the side of the house. Slipping through the French windows, he looked at the next sheet of paper. Titled 'Shakespeare', it read,

  Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. As You Like It.

  Jon carried on staring at the sheet of paper for long after he'd finished reading it. Like someone in an art gallery, he began walking slowly along. Each sheet of paper he read added to his sense of trepidation. He reached the end of the wall, looked to the next one, saw more pieces of paper stretching away. Quotes from the Koran and something called Rig Veda.

  From somewhere inside the house he heard a sniff. Jon remained absolutely still until he heard it again. It was coming from across the corridor.

  He stepped into the dining room.

  The man he remembered as Creepy George was kneeling on the floor. His shirt was off and he was trying to unbuckle his belt. Before him, stretched out on her back, was Charlotte. A rosette of blood showed on her chest and a pool of it was spreading out from below her right shoulder. On the carpet next to her was an empty drawer, a scattering of napkins and a gun.

  Quickly, Jon bent down and grabbed it by the barrel. He flicked the safety on and then said with as much force as he could muster, 'Police. Move away from the woman.'

  A string of drool began to drip from George's chin.

  Seeing his words were having no effect, Jon stepped forwards and kicked George hard in the stomach. He keeled over onto his back, the breath driven from his lungs. Jon grabbed a wrist, snapped a cuff on it, dragged George across the room and locked him to the radiator pipe. Then he stepped over to Charlotte and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but there. As Jon started to pack napkins beneath the exit wound, George began to cough and cry behind him. He pulled out his mobile, walked into the front room and called for an ambulance and support.

  Hanging up, he let out a long and shuddering sigh. Now being careful where he stepped, he looked at the pile of boxes. The lid of the first one was open and he could see stacks of X-treme gum inside. Next to them was a larger box. He lifted the flap up with the end of the gun and saw the tubes of silicon gel inside.

  He looked round the rest of the room and noticed the wall above the fireplace for the first time. Row after row of much smaller pieces of paper. He stepped across for a closer look, the red lines drawn through the top row of competition entry forms catching his eye. He read the names: Polly Mather, Heather Rayne, Mary Walters, Liz Wilson, Gabrielle Harnett, Emily Sanderson.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Striding back into the dining room, he grabbed George by the hair. 'You sick fuck. Where's Tom?'

  George's eyes were tightly shut. 'I didn't mean to hurt her.'

  Jon yanked his head back. 'What have you done with Tom Benwell?'

  George started crying again.

  'When did you put all that stuff in there?'

  'What stuff?'

  'Those entry forms. The chewing gum. How long have you been living here?'

  'I don't know what you mean. Tom lives here.'

  Jon stood up and went back into the living room. On the small mantelpiece above the fireplace was a stack of passports. Using the barrel of the gun, he opened the uppermost one and saw the name Emily Sanderson.

  He ran back into the dining room, grabbed George by his throat and rammed the end of the gun into his fat cheek. 'What the fuck is going on?'

  George tried to shrink backwards, eyes still shut.

  'Open your eyes!'

  George did as he was told.

  'Who's been living here?'

  'Tom. He's always been here.' Jon could see he was telling the truth. He returned to the front room, placed the gun on the mantelpiece and scrutinized the entry forms. They were all in rows of seven. Except the uppermost one, which had only six. The killings had started six days ago, with no body turning up on the fourth day. There was no line through the fourth entry form – Liz Wilson's. And there was no seventh form, just a tiny hole in the paint where a drawing pin had been.

  'Oh my fucking God, what have you done?' he whispered, reaching for his phone to ring the station. It went off.

  Transferring the call to answerphone, he punched in the number for Longsight, barking out that he needed the works sent out to Sixteen Moorfield Road, Didsbury. 'Also, send a car immediately to...' he looked at Liz Wilson's entry form and read out her address. 'Also, put out a general alert on a Tom Benwell. White, mid-thirties, blond curly hair, five foot eleven, medium build. He's probably wearing a light green Armani suit and carrying a briefcase. I think he's currently en route to his next victim's house.'

  As he said 'next victim's house', the words of Nikki Kingston rang in his head. She had told him that she'd got her pack of gum in some sort of a freebie promotion a while ago. The forms he was looking at were headed 'Win a year's supply of X-treme gum and an all expenses paid luxury holiday for two in Malaysia.'

  Frantically he started scrolling through his phone book, knowing that, after being knocked over by Sly in the Arndale, she'd been signed off work with a stiff neck.

  Her phone began to ring.

  'Nikki, it's Jon!' He realized he was shouting.

  'OK – I hear you. Christ, Jon—'

  He cut her off. 'Nikki, do not open the door to anyone, do you understand?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Just say you'll keep it shut!'

  'OK, OK! What's going on?'

  Jon breathed out. 'That pack of X-treme gum you gave me. When you picked it up, did you fill out a competition entry form?'

  'Yeah, how did you know?'

  'Just lock the door, will you?'

  'OK, I'm locking it now. What's all this about?' Jon was able to speak a little more calmly. 'Where did you get it again?'

  'One of those promotional giveaways, at Piccadilly station.'
r />   Suddenly everything made sense. All of the victims lived around the south and east of Manchester, by rail lines that led into Piccadilly station. 'It's how he's selecting his victims. He's got all the entry forms to that competition in his house. He must have been picking the ones filled in by single females. There's just a chance your entry form is in there too.' He didn't mention that one was missing from the kill list on the wall. 'Just keep your door locked, OK?'

  'Don't worry. Shall I call the police?'

  'I'll have a car sent round. What's your address?'

  He repeated it back to her to make sure he'd heard it correctly, then hung up, called Longsight and ordered a patrol car to be sent round immediately.

  Back in the front room, he checked Charlotte's pulse once more. He could only just feel it. He grasped her hand and began to rub it vigorously. 'Charlotte, stay with me. Do you hear? Stay with me!'

  A siren was growing louder.

  'Can you hear that, Charlotte?'

  George's sobbing filled the room. Jon turned on him and snarled, 'Shut the fuck up!'

  George bit on his lip, snot and tears making his face glisten.

  Jon heard the siren come to a halt on the road outside. He jumped up and opened the front door. Two paramedics were hurrying up the driveway, cases in their hands. 'Gunshot wound. Her name's Charlotte. She's lost a lot of blood!'

  They ran in and knelt down beside her. As one ripped open compression bandages the other hastily prepared an oxygen mask.

  'Will she survive?' Jon asked, leaning over their shoulders.

  'Yeah, if we stop the flow of blood immediately. Just give us some space.'

  Jon backed out of the room and began to anxiously pace up and down the corridor, overwhelmed by an urge to do something. Seeing the answerphone icon on his screen, he called it up and heard his sister's voice. 'Hi Jon, little sis here. Just on the off chance, seeing as I didn't take you up on your offer to get me that Violet Crumble the other day... Alice gave me a pack of this really nice gum the other night. I can't find it for sale in any of the shops around here. She said she got it in some promotion at Piccadilly station. I'm hoping it might be for sale in the newsagent's there – it's called X-treme and it's citrus flavoured. I just thought if you were passing. See ya soon, bye!'

  'Oh no, oh please God no,' prayed Jon, calling his home number, suddenly remembering that Alice got the train into Manchester, too.

  After five rings it clicked on to the answerphone, but Jon was sprinting out of the front door before the message even started.

  The weak November sun had now sunk from sight and fireworks screeched and screamed up into the darkening sky. He raced along Fog Lane, shouting pedestrians out of his way. In the recreation ground kids whooped and cheered as they let off strings of bangers. He careered on to Kingsway knowing that, from there, his house was only minutes away. A solid line of slow-moving cars stretched off in both directions and he leaped into the path of the nearest vehicle, arms raised up. As it went into an emergency stop he clearly heard the driver yell, 'You fucking dickhead!'

  He darted into the next lane, barely registering the crunch of shunting cars behind him. On to Lane End and he raced along, knowing that as soon as he saw Heaton Moor Golf Course on his left, his own road was just ahead.

  Tom checked the entry form and saw that he was on the correct street. He placed the briefcase at his feet, removed the bag of powder from his pocket and took a large pinch. Then he flexed his shoulders, took a breath in and looked at the number on the nearest house. He carried on along the road, then turned up a driveway. As he stood on the front doorstep, he looked down at the entry form again, thinking that the surname was vaguely familiar. But with all the whispering in his head, he couldn't concentrate on trying to dredge up where he'd seen or heard it before. He rang the bell.

  There was a burning in his throat and he could feel his knees going numb as the heels of his shoes pounded on the pavement. He got to the end of his road and charged up to his house. The front door was shut and the sitting room light was on. He slowed to a halt, trying to catch his breath and calm himself. His hands were shaking as he pulled the keys from his pocket and they jingled slightly before he found the lock. The door opened. Silence. He needed to take in air, but didn't dare breathe because of the sound it would make. In a couple of strides he was at the living room door.

  Alice lay on the floor, stretched out in front of the gas fire, Punch shivering on the rug next to her.

  Wide-eyed and now able to gasp for breath, Jon said, 'Are you all right?'

  Alice looked at him like he was mad. 'Yes. Why shouldn't I be?'

  'What are you doing?' He stepped fully into the room and looked around.

  'Trying to calm your dog. Firework night, remember? Bangs, whistles, explosions. What the hell are you doing?'

  Jon swallowed hard and took in a lungful of air. 'You wouldn't believe it.' He let out a sudden nervous laugh and then went back to the front door to push it shut, saying over his shoulder as he did so, 'I honestly thought you were in serious trouble. I mean serious trouble.'

  Tom watched as a wavery figure approached the frosted glass. A female's form. The door opened up.

  'Good evening, 'Tom smiled. ‘Miss Ellie Spicer?'

  He hung his jacket on the banister and paused in the living room doorway to wipe the sweat off his forehead and check again that she really was OK. Shaking his head in relief, he said, 'Oh God, that was horrible,' before carrying along the corridor to the kitchen.

  With Punch slinking miserably along behind her, Alice followed him. 'Jon Spicer, will you just tell me what the hell you are on about?'

  Jon yanked his shirt off and wiped himself down with it. 'I'll explain later. I've got to get back to Tom's house.'

  'Tom's house? What's going on?'

  Jon reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a rugby shirt. 'These murders. I hate to say this, but it looks like it was Tom Benwell.'

  'Tom? The guy you used to play rugby with? But why? Why would he be killing people?' Not wanting to give Alice a glimpse of the insanity he'd just witnessed, Jon could only shake his head in reply. 'I don't know, but I've just come from his house. There's stuff there that... stuff there which is pretty conclusive.'

  'What stuff?'

  'Things. Things he used to select his victims. Listen, I've got to get back. I'll phone to get a car sent over here. Don't open the door to anyone who isn't in a uniform.' He pulled the rugby shirt on as a crackle of fireworks went off.

  'Jon!' Alice said sharply, causing Punch to cower at his feet. 'You're not bursting in here with eyes popping out of your head, telling me a friend of yours could be killing people, then buggering off again. What do you mean by things to select his victims? Am I in danger?'

  Jon looked towards the front door. 'OK, you picked up some gum in a promotion at Piccadilly station a few weeks back?'

  She nodded in reply.

  'And you filled out one of the competition entry forms?'

  'Yes, 'Alice whispered, eyes going wide.

  'That's what he's using to select his victims – everything he needs is on the bloody entry...' Alice was looking sick. Jon stepped towards her. 'Hey, don't worry. You're not in any danger now.'

  The fingertips of one hand had gone up to her trembling lips. 'Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I didn't put my name on the form.' She grabbed him by the arm, started pushing him down the hall. 'Your sister. I thought she deserved the chance of a nice holiday.'

  Jon was trying to turn around. 'Ellie's name and address are on the form?'

  Tears were in Alice's eyes.

  Jon shouted, 'Phone her!' He grabbed the keys to the spare car and roared off down the street.

  The pops and crackles came thick and fast, sending flashes of multicoloured lights through the curtains.

  'You sure I can't ring my friend, Alice?' asked Ellie, happily chewing away on the stick of gum. 'It's her writing on the entry form. She'll be so chuffed to find out. In fact, I'll take h
er with me. God, this is so exciting!' Tom smiled. 'It would be better if we confirm everything is in order first.'

  'Oh right, my passport. Hang on, it's in here somewhere.'

  As she started rummaging around in a set of drawers in the corner of the room, the phone started ringing outside in the hallway. Ellie stopped searching and straightened up, raising a hand to her forehead. 'Wow! I've come over all dizzy! I'll just get—'

  Tom interrupted her. 'Please – if we could just confirm everything's in order first. I wouldn't want you to spill the good news to anyone before we're sure you can claim the prize.'

  Ellie looked at him, then shrugged. 'OK. 'She turned back to the open drawer as the answerphone took the call. 'Here you go,' she said, handing him the passport.

  'That's great,' said Tom, clearing his throat. 'Could I ask for a cup of tea before we get started?' 'Good idea!' said Ellie. 'I'd like one too; I feel a bit wobbly. How do you take it?' 'Milk and two sugars, thanks.' She disappeared down the corridor to the kitchen. Tom sat quite still, whispering replies to the voices.

  Jon skidded to a halt and jumped from the car, leaving its door hanging open as he charged up his sister's path. It had started raining and drops bounced off his head as he moaned, 'Keys.' He realized Ellie's spare set was still in the kitchen drawer back at his place. He hammered with his fist, then crouched down and shouted her name through the letterbox.

  There was no reply, but he could see her coat and handbag in the hallway. Taking a step back, he flexed his knees once then, fixing his eyes on the section of wood immediately below the key hole, he brought the heel of his shoe crashing against the door. Wood splintered and, slamming his shoulder against it, he fell through into her house. Forgetting all his training, Jon blundered onwards, down the corridor and in to the front room.