by A. J. Armitt
By late afternoon, Dad’s condition worsened. I knew there was nothing more I could do. By early evening I watched him slip away.
An hour later he came back.
His pallid corpse writhed around the mattress, straining against his bonds. I lifted the axe above my head. If I didn’t drive the blade into his skull, I knew he would eventually break free. Tears coursed down my cheeks. I had to kill Dad.
But then something strange happened. He stopped struggling and just looked at me with those milky white eyes of his. I wavered. Part of me wanted to believe that part of Dad was still in there, but the logical part of me knew that he wasn’t. Elvis had left the building. How many others had made that same mistake and held back when they should have delivered the killing blow? How many families had been torn apart by their nearest and dearest because they couldn’t harm the ones they loved? I couldn’t take that risk.
But I knew there had to be another way.
My gaze subconsciously wanders over Dad’s decomposing body, finally resting on the two neatly severed stumps that end mid-thigh. With only one arm and no legs, he isn’t going anywhere. A pang of guilt pricks at my insides, but I dismiss it. Better this, than the alternative.
I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. The whole flat stinks to high heaven, even with the air fresheners I have placed around the room. I want to open a window, but there are too many flies outside. Better that I just put up with the smell.
“And you’re not going to help matters,” I say to the butchered remains of neighbour 15G. Even if I wrap him in plastic, I know he’s going to start to smell in a few short days. Just like all the others.
How many has it been now? Ten, eleven? Eleven and a half if you count the eight-year-old son of the woman in flat 20C.
I fight back the taste of rising bile. It may seem odd to some that a surgeon, someone who has sworn to save lives, could then take so many. But what was I supposed to do? Just sit here and starve? Neighbour 15G didn’t arrive by his little stockpile by playing nice. How many people had he murdered these last few months?
The simple truth is, that in a world that has turned to shit, you do what you have to in order to survive. I needed extra supplies and Dad needed to satisfy his hunger for fresh meat.
After all he’d done for me over the years it was the very least I could do for him.
I pack up the neighbour’s body and put it into the fridge. It may not be working, but at least it will contain most of the odour when his body begins to rot.
As I close the fridge door, something catches my eye; a two inch square piece of plastic, jaded and scuffed, almost hidden amongst the other more eye-catching magnets that decorate the metallic surface.
In spite of my circumstances, I begin to smile as I recognise the birthday gift that I gave my Dad when I was just nine years old. I trace the lettering with a bloody finger.
A girl’s first love is her daddy.
A solitary tear runs down my cheek, for in my heart I know it must be true.
***
AJ Armitt lives with his wife and three children in Manchester. He currently has one book in circulation ‘Entwined – Tales from the City’ and is writing a sequel. He can be found on twitter @AnthonyJArmitt
Torture
By Robert Brooks
I can hear them giggling from where I’m waiting in the bushes, like teenagers at a drive-in doing something they know they shouldn’t. The bedroom window is open and I can hear the bedsprings creak as they lie back and start to get comfortable. Everything around me is quiet, not even the crickets and grasshoppers are brave enough to share a space with me. It’s like the rage I feel is pulsing out in tangible waves, keeping all of the innocence in the world away from me.
Some people might say it was a whirlwind romance, or maybe even a rebound, but it felt good. twenty years my junior, she brought me back to life with her energy and passion, and I hadn’t had so much sex since before I got married. Hell, she’d even given me a hernia once. Physically, she challenged me in a way that I could never have imagined, and my love of life was back for the first time since my wife had died.
Mentally she intrigued me. Although there was a large age gap, she was mature beyond her years; a psychology student completing her master’s degree. She entertained me and challenged me and allowed me to express myself in a way that I couldn’t with my children. They hadn’t understood the connection that we had and seemed almost resentful of the attention and gifts that I showered her with. They all warned me that she was just after my money but I didn’t believe them.
And then the bitch dropped me like a discarded toy and here she was with some stranger.
I spiralled after that, back to my loyal friend, Jack Daniels. Stopped going out, even to the pub. Who needs to leave the house if you can get your shopping online? I can speak to my friends and family on Facebook… but that’s where I saw it, pictures of her cavorting with a group of guys on a beach, tits hanging out like some sort of whore.
So here I am, crouching in the bushes outside her house, cradling a Benelli shotgun under my arm. I hear her starting to pant. The prick she is with is grunting like an animal and I know that it’s time.
I walk through her front door, unlocked as usual, and walk to the staircase. Everything seems strangely clear, as if my senses are enhanced by some sort of internal drug. I have read that snipers feel like this when they are sighting a target, a natural performance enhancing drug resulting from the fight or flight instinct and the adrenalin that it releases.
In my peripheral vision I see a bottle of wine, unopened, on the kitchen side. The bottle opener is sitting beside it, unused, as if they were in too much of a rush to fulfil their carnal desires. I can smell the sex in the air and the sweet smell of her perfume and a spicy scent of men’s cologne. The smell is sickly and I hold my breath as I walk over to the staircase.
I step lightly onto the tread of the first step and slowly ascend, missing out the third step that I know is creaky from my past visits. My eyes are drawn to a picture of her from when she was younger, perhaps 5 years earlier at the end of high school. She looks angelic, like she has her whole life ahead of her, and I feel doubt in the pit my stomach.
I almost turn around, but the grunting is getting louder and she is starting to moan, a sound that used to be like a symphony by Mozart but now is more nails on a chalkboard. Steeling my resolve, I continue upwards and reach the hallway where a scarlet runner splits the parquet flooring like a cut vein that pools blood. It softens my already quiet footsteps and I approach the open bedroom door, taking care not to cast a shadow in the light that erupts from the boudoir.
The man who is rutting on top of her is young and muscular and I shoot him in the back, the birdshot ripping into his body. She screams and I just walk over and pull him off, shoving the barrel into her mouth in an almost sexual violation. She cringes away from the heat and, looking at her naked, sweat-soaked body, I’m disgusted.
She whimpers and tries to say something. I don’t know whether it is an apology or just a plea for mercy. I look into her eyes; deep pools of clear blue water distorted by the tears that pour from them. I say nothing. I just pull the trigger and watch pink mist erupt from the back of her head.
I step back to survey my work. Retribution has been done…
And then I notice the boy. His chest is still rising and I turn to him, the shotgun dropping from my hands. He opens his mouth and his breath escapes, as though from a leaky tyre.
“Dad!” My son’s face stares back at me, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. I fall to my knees, tears pooling in my eyes, and I pass out.
***
Robert Brooks is a young father, husband and sometimes writer of fiction and poetry! A lifelong Londoner he can be found making witty observations on twitter @robbrooks2 and blogs his poetry at www.rbpoetry.blogspot.com
Where Angels Fear To Tread
By Paul Murphy
Bright fluorescent lights gl
ared down on the pristine, white tiled mortuary floor, their dull buzz breaking the silence. One compartment door stood open, its gurney pulled out. A white sheet covered the charred remains of a body that had been found on the embankment by the River Thames in Central London.
“I’m afraid it’s not a pretty sight, Sergeant,” warned the pathologist pulling back the sheet. “This is what fire does to a person.”
Detective Sergeant Colin Blakely looked down at the shrivelled corpse; hairs on the back of his neck stood up and an involuntary shiver convulsed his shoulders and arms. The smell of burnt flesh wafted up to him, and he pulled away, slightly nauseous. He noted the blackened peeling skin; split and blistered, the curled bony fingers where the flesh had fallen away, the melted face and hairless blistered scalp. “Jesus Christ…”
“Yes, quite… I’ll make this quick, Sergeant. A female, mid-teens, brutally raped; anally as well as vaginally. There are deep lacerations to her limbs, torso and head. Cause of death was from a coronary seizure. I would say someone, or more likely a group, raped her repeatedly, and then as she lay in a foetal position hacked at her with a very large blade, probably a machete,” the pathologist shook his head and sighed. “She was still alive at this point. They poured petrol over her, I assume to cover any evidence, and set her alight. She has third-degree burns to entire body.”
D S Blakeley felt his stomach churn. He looked away, towards the corridor and the echo of the approaching footsteps.
A stout, middle aged woman in a white coat entered the room, reading from a clip board. “Dental records have come back, Sergeant. Natalie Smith, age seventeen, from Ripley in Surrey.”
D.S. Blakely took a deep breath, shaking his head slowly. “Jesus, what is the world coming to? Thanks Doc.” He turned and left the room.
*****
Captain Mark Smith’s legs buckled as Colonel Victor Maltravers told him the news; the Colonel caught his arm.
“Sit down, Man.” The Colonel directed the Captain towards an armchair. “I really am so very sorry, Mark. I don’t know what to say, she was such a beautiful girl. We all worshipped Natalie; you know how much she meant to us. She was a great kid, full of life. And it’s only been two years since the loss of your wife…” he slowly shook his head, a deep hollow in the pit of his stomach, before muttering, “fucking cancer.”
Mark Smith slowly slumped into the chair, his blank expression crumpling into a twisted vision of pain. He squeezed his eyes shut then drew a long deep breath, struggling to control his emotions and released it slowly. “I can’t believe it, Vic; this can’t be happening, not to my Nat?” His eyes pleaded with his commanding officer for it not to be so. “You’re certain?”
Vic Maltravers closed his eyes, and then looked back at Mark. “I took the call from your father twenty minutes ago. I’ve checked with the local Police, the Met. I’m afraid it’s true, Mark.”
“Jesus,” Mark put his head in his hands.
The Colonel sighed and sat on his desk. “Look, Mark, I’ve taken you off operational duty. You’re on compassionate leave from now. Take as long as you need.”
“But my troop? The squadron’s off to Afghanistan,” he trailed off and looked up. “Oh, Nat….” Tears welled up, threatening to flood down his face.
The Colonel crossed the room and put his arm around him. “Let it out, Mark.”
“How did it happen? How did she… ?”
The Colonel winced; he’d been dreading this moment. The uncompromising and brutal end was the hardest explanation he had ever had to convey. He looked at one of his finest officers in the regiment and slowly began to explain.
The threat of tears evaporated, replaced by a cold and menacing fury which enveloped Captain Mark Smith of 3 Troop, B Squadron of the 22nd Regiment of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service.
*****
“Is this it? Nothing else?” asked Smith, dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket. He stood by a desk on the fourth floor of New Scotland Yard.
D.S. Blakely handed over the few personal belongings to Smith. A charred handbag, make-up and purse sat in the bottom of a clear plastic bag with a set of gold earrings.
“No necklace?”
“That’s everything, Mr Smith. My condolences, Sir, we’re doing everything we can to identify and apprehend the perpetrators, but…”
“But?” asked Smith
“Well, I’m afraid that we don’t have a lot to go on at present. We think the person or persons were high on crack cocaine, but I’m afraid...”
“Murderers,” Smith cut in “it’s not persons we’re talking about. They’re murderers.”
“Yes, of course, Sir. Well, what I’m trying to say is London’s full of crack heads. Listen, Mr Smith, I know you’re an officer in the army, I know you’ve served your country, you’re hurting, but leave it to us to catch them. If you go poking about in the wrong place you could get hurt. It’s... well, it’s a jungle out there.”
“I’ve known a few jungles in my time, Sergeant.”
“That’s the wrong answer,” muttered Blakely
Smith nodded and turned to leave but paused, “One thing?” he asked.
D. S. Blakely raised his eyebrows, “Yes?”
“How much have you got to go on? Any witnesses or leads?”
Blakely looked at Smith, taking in his appearance; tall and broad with that lean look of an athlete. He felt slightly overawed and uncomfortable by Smith’s steely grey eyes boring into him. Here was a man who could see a lie before it left someone’s lips. He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. There were some samples the pathologist recovered, but nothing showed up on the DNA data base.”
“Samples?”
Blakely winced, and then looked Smith in the eye again, biting his lower lip. “Yes. Semen was recovered, internally, but we couldn’t find a match. It will stay on file.” Smith looked unconvinced. “Look, it’s early days yet, but I’ve been doing this job for a long time. I will find the bastards who did this to your daughter.”
Smith shook his head slowly, his eyes burning into Blakely. “Not if I find them first, you won’t.”
Blakely opened his mouth to speak as Smith turned and walked away, but then closed it again. He had felt a raw power emanate from Smith; a primeval fear that had gripped him for a fraction of a second before he realised he was holding his breath. He sat down hard expelling his lungs with a single thought in his mind. Jesus fucking Christ. You scary bastard... I hope you do find them first.
*****
That evening Smith looked down at his father-in-law slumped in an arm chair, back at the family home in the village of Ripley in Surrey.
“Vicky’s necklace wasn’t there, Ron,” he said quietly. “You’re sure Nat was wearing it?”
“She never took it off, Son, not since her mother died.” The old man wiped a hand across his eyes, “God, I’m dying inside, Son, I can’t take this pain.”
“I know, Ron, I know.” Smith put his hand to his temple, massaging it.
“You’ll get the bastards; the bastards who did this?”
Smith looked down at the old man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll find them, don’t you worry. And then I’ll deal with them.”
“Make the bastards suffer, Mark, for our little princess. Make the bastards suffer…”
*****
Early the next morning a Range Rover with blacked out windows pulled up on the gravel driveway. Two burly men dressed in bomber jackets got out and walked up to the door.
“Boz, Wilko, what are you two doing here?” asked Smith as he opened the door.
“The Colonel sent us down, said you might need some help. Sorry to hear the news, Boss,” said Wilko, anguish etched into his face.
“Yes, well, come in, Boys.” Smith turned quickly, his forefinger wiping away a small tear from the corner of his eye, and led them into the lounge. He hadn’t slept all night, with pictures flashing into his mind of Natalie growing up.
The moment she was born
, the sheer joy on her little face on Christmas’ mornings, her first day at school, birthday parties, holidays in the South of France on a sandy beach with her bucket and spade, all coming at him one after another. But one vision kept repeating itself; her crumpled face, sitting at her mother’s bed side, as she had lost her fight with cancer. That memory tore him apart every time he closed his eyes. How can life be so cruel? Deep regrets about his time away on operations with the SAS shackled him with guilt; time he should have shared with them. And now they were both gone; stolen from him. Anger, regret, pain, all had weighed heavily on him. The tears had flowed all night.
Smith cleared his thoughts and focused on the new arrivals after they had seated themselves. “So, any news?”