The Killing Games

by Antony J Woodward

  “Does it fit the MO?” Jean returned, he was already groping for a new cigarette.

  “No, the victim doesn’t look the type…” What Arron meant was the victim didn’t look like a homosexual. Was it a homophobic comment or simply a detective’s intuition? The whole Fairy Killer case was making interesting ripples through the station, exposing a large volume of heterosexual men to the secret machinations of the gay world. They were trying to navigate and dig into a world that made a lot of them uncomfortable. So frail was their masculinity.

  Jean didn’t identify as a homosexual, despite his liaisons with men, he just enjoyed fucking them from time to time. Much like he coveted the young black detective before him. His smooth chocolate skin and boyishly attractive face seemed ripe for being corrupted with his seed. He’d never made a move, Arron was very much in love with his wife and desperately trying to start a family. Jean would get an opportunity one day, Arron had his sights set on a job in the city and the only way he would manage that is through Jean. His reputation and clout could open doors for many people, but of course there would be a price.

  One day Arron Lemaire would be bending over his desk and letting Jean breed his little ass in an effort to further his career. Until that day Jean could wait.

  “You think it’s another John Doe?” Arron probed as he stepped out of a plume of cigarette smoke.

  “John Doe the third…” Jean remarked dryly. It seemed there was two separate series of murders playing out in this town of his.

  “So-”

  “We’ll run the tests, we’ll scan the records - we’ll do it all but we won’t find him.” Jean cut the man off. He stepped towards the dead body. The bald male was laid on his back and turned stiff. The gouge in his throat was black with dried blood. His glassy expression saw straight through the detectives. “You saw the van on the bridge, it was clean.”

  “Another John Doe, we get that…” Arron sighed.

  “The question is why. Why is he deliberately unidentifiable?”

  The younger man hesitated for a moment. This new avenue was ripe for exploration.

  “Why is he in town?” Jean added. He plucked the cigarette from his lips and turned to the young man.

  “You think he’s an illegal immigrant?” Arron finally voiced aloud.

  The disappointment in Jean made him want to land a fist in the guy’s face. Really? Was that the best he could think of? A good detective was able to picture the unpictureable, imagine the unimaginable…

  “No murder weapon again…” Jean prodded him to the conclusion he wanted.

  “The perpetrator took it with him…” Arron nodded.

  Then a moment of silence fell and Jean had to bite his tongue. He took a few drags on his cigarette but it didn’t seem his colleague was going to get there.

  “For Christ’s sake he’s a hitman,” he sighed in a plume of smoke.

  “A hitman?” Arron recoiled. It was that surprising that he would probably never have reached that conclusion himself. “But… Who was his target?”

  “The perpetrator…” Jean concluded.

  “So the perp used John Doe’s weapon against him?” Arron wasn’t rooting for an answer, he was finally starting to get up to speed with Jean.

  It had taken Jean a little while to come to the realisation himself. The three John Doe’s were a curious case, and he’d struggled to draw the connection. The first victim had been murdered and then burnt, rather poorly. It was a rather bungled cover-up and Jean suspected it had been the perp’s first attempt at covering up his crime.

  The second time the killer had attempted to use water to dispose of the body, but the rocks placed in the victims body hadn’t been enough to stop it from floating to the surface of the ville. It seemed with this third death the killer hadn’t even bothered. The dead body had been left clear as day, no attempt to conceal it. He suspected the autopsy report would highlight signs of a fight and struggle, just like the other two dead hitmen. Jean’s running theory was that the target overpowered the men and killed them. Perhaps a little ironic that the prey had killed the predator.

  It was a little odd for such a little town as this, it made him wonder quite who had moved into the neighbourhood and why they had brought a storm like this to town. He had already scouted to see if anyone in a witness protection programme had moved in to town recently, but the only case in months was a little old dear who was in no way able to best three grown men. As ugly and frustrating as this case was, Jean was inclined to think that it would never be solved. Instead the target’s luck would probably run out and he would end up on a slab in an unrelated murder. Depending on the merits of the hitman it might even be the perfect concealed murder and nobody would be any the wiser.

  It was still admirable that whoever this target was, he had managed to kill three of his attackers.

  “Do you think this is something to do with the Jackal…?” Arron enquired keeping his voice down. For a moment Jean wasn’t sure what Arron was getting at, surely he wasn’t suggesting that these hitmen were coming after the Jackal? No, surely he wasn’t that stupid.

  “Nobody would think to come after him…” Jean dismissed. Only the fucking stupid would think of taking on the Jackal.

  --------------------------------------------

  The college was a tech college, so wasn’t a sixth form and was far-far removed from the halls of Callinghurst. It seemed fit to burst with young teens trying to be adults, but maybe that was because Chris had spent so long in isolation he’d forgotten what crowds were actually like. He’d been admitted into the college despite the fact he’d never went and collected his GSCE results. It was probably the tragic story of his mother’s death that lubricated his entry into the French world of academia. His aunt had accompanied him as he enrolled in the main office. The entire process had been a peculiar three-way conversation spoken in English and French. The office worker had spoken in clean and crisp French, his Aunt working as a translator speaking in both languages and Chris only speaking in his soft English. Perhaps Chris should’ve admitted he could speak French, but he’d found the entire process to be amusing and perhaps he could milk some benefit by pretending to be the stranger in a strange land who doesn’t know the language.

  It did however surprise Chris that his Aunt hadn’t clocked the French Language books scattered around his studio. It had taken him only three months to maximise his fluency in French. Something it took years for others.

  An hour later and Chris was sat in a classroom surrounded by a hum of French excited chatter and a tutor who had gone to great lengths to acquaint everybody. His English was passable, his style however most certainly wasn’t. It was bewildering. He reminded Chris of a comedian he’d seen once, a rather funny Scotsman with a penchant for story-like jokes. He had the same sort of grey scraggly long hair and a goatee. He had little half moon spectacles that perched on the end of his rather short nose. It was his dress senses that was the travesty; he combined the concepts of a baseball cap and corduroy trousers with braces, a loud and garish shirt and neon sneakers. As if the outfit wasn’t tacky enough, the cap had the phrase “juicy” emblazoned on it. His name was “Juno”, but Chris wasn’t entirely convinced it was the name he’d been born with. He looked the type who might’ve legally changed it though, like those curious cases who rename themselves in an obsession with something. He was the atypically eccentric older artist, and Chris vowed there and then he’d never endure the same fate. Suicide would be better than living on as a shambolic mess of desperate youth and self expression. He skulked around the room, dropping into conversations that were happening over the group art projects especially interested in the females. The pretty little girls that showed great promise, both in their bras and in their artistic credits. He’d placed everybody, as an orientation task, into little groups and the idea was to make a composite of the perfect partner with your fellow group mates. It had occurred to Chris that perhaps this little test was for Juno to get the heads up on t
he lesbians, gays and heterosexuals in the class. He obviously didn’t want to waste time hitting on the lesbians.

  Chris had been lumped into a group of three girls and one rather sullen boy. Two of the girls were best friends and had been quietly conferring to one another. He’d picked up that their names were Adelisa and Celie. They were both young, blonde and girly. Their makeup was thick, acting as a mask for their insecurities. Adelisa was dressed in a little red dress and black cardigan she’d mistakenly thought was cute, instead she looked frumpy. Celie had opted for a teal blouse, black jeans and a denim jacket. The spiked collar was probably a lame attempt to appeal to the alternative crowd, now that she was all grown up at college of course. Beside them sat a girl who had been studying Chris since he’d first entered the room, she too was a blonde. She had a long and symmetrical face, an expression that screamed ‘resting bitch face’ and a love of black eye liner. She had opted for the grunge look, wearing a red chequered shirt, black jeans and a grey tank top. She had a baseball cap hanging off one of her many belts wrapped on her slim waist. Everything about her was long and thin, from her hair that touched down to the base of her petite breasts to the long legs and long arms. She had accessorised her look with black nail polish and spiked bracelets. She made Celie’s poor attempt look even worse. Poor Celie desperately wanted to look like a girl cutting loose and going bad, this blonde was the real deal.

  Her cool blue eyes hadn’t left Chris yet and he’d noticed. He’d not caught her name.

  Between this blonde and him sat a forlorn figure who was idly colouring in his journal before him. He was something of an attractive sort beneath the black eye-shadow, the half shaven head and spiked black hair. He was dressed in a faded Marilyn Manson T-shirt, a leather jacket and blue skinny jeans. His handsome face was soft, which only served as a juxtaposition for the harshness of his nose piercing. He was so punk that Chris wanted to ask him if he had a dragon tattoo beneath those clothes, but he probably wouldn’t understand the reference. He adjusted in the chair, too absorbed in his journal to care for the group activity. Chris had noted that his thick black style of drawing was rather interesting, but he’d not passed comment.

  Chris himself was dressed rather conservatively in a green hooded top, blue jeans, white trainers. His long hair was spilling down past his neck and down his front. He hadn’t quite known what to wear for this first day at college, a shirt seemed too formal and stiff.

  Nobody in this little group of five had participated and the paper and pens sat unused before them.

  “Oh my! Too shy?” Juno appeared, he slid in between Celie and Adelisa (of course) and gestured towards the paper. He realised he had spoken in French to the curious English boy, so he repeated himself in stilted English. Chris smiled a little, but didn’t move.

  “Oh come on guys!” he tried to encourage some enthusiasm but nobody moved.

  Celie and Adelisa giggled between themselves and the other blonde’s eyes rolled.

  Realising that nobody was going to take the bait and make the first move, Chris slowly reached across and procured one of the pens. He then loosely sketched out a face, leaving it rather genderless. His drawing skill was ok, if a little rusty. He then stole a thick black marker from the boy’s pencil case, finally attracting his attention. Juno closed in, his curiosity whetted.

  Chris accentuated the eyes with thick black lines, he then turned to Juno and said in clean English “to see through the bullshit,”

  Then he accentuated the ears, this time turning to the giggling French girls and saying “to hear the bullshit,” in perfect French. Their jaws dropped as they realised their little conversation about the English boy hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  And finally he accentuated a pair of lips, “to speak no bullshit,” once more in English.

  Chris sat himself back in his seat and cast his eyes over the table. The French girls were hiding their embarrassment, Juno was nodding impressed, the blonde was smirking in amusement and the boy had turned his blue eyes towards him intently.

  Chris readjusted his approximation of the boy, he was very attractive. Very much outside Chris’ usual taste in men, but something about the boy whetted Chris’ appetite.

  “You pull no punches, honesty… good stuff.” Juno fired a thumbs up at Chris and turned to carry on his journey around the room.

  Chris’ actions hadn’t perpetuated the entire room, but he’d definitely left a mark on the four sat before him. That was the point he guessed, to leave his mark.

  He scanned his eyes around the room and decided that this art class was exactly what he wanted, and needed.

  A new avenue.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Lunch was an interesting assault of choices. He’d not been sure whether to expect atypical French cuisine, or fast food. What he got was a weird mishmash of cultures. He took a seat at an empty dining table with his packaged sandwich, fries and a rather unhealthy pudding of chocolate roll and custard. It was very student-style and he wasn’t sure whether he should be ashamed, or proud.

  He dropped his tray on the table as he took the hard seat. His trainers squeaked on the linoleum flooring and it took him back several months to Callinghurst. If he closed his eyes, he could almost mistake the humdrum of the students around him as those from the private school he’d left behind. The smells were almost the same too. In fact, it didn’t feel that far removed from England at all.

  He unpackaged his sandwich, his mind wandering. The walls were a very pale blue and lined with allegedly appetising photos of food. The furniture and fittings were all made out of chrome, which probably was supposed to make a groovy sort of atmosphere with the black and white tiled effect on the floor. Instead it just looked a little too gaudy.

  For a moment Chris almost missed the confusing labyrinth that had been Callinghurst. He had been a King there, protected and cocooned in his good boy image as he enacted wicked mendacity games on others. Here, he was very inconsequential. He was insignificant. He wasn’t the shark in the pool, he was just another shark in an ocean. While it was a sobering and uncompromising realisation, it wasn’t without its positives. He was anonymous here, free of the shackles of his blessed existence, of his celebrity status. Gone was the veneer of the perfect and oh-so-talented artist, the model student the head teacher used as a leverage to rub shoulders with the supposed glitterati. No, here Chris was nobody. He wasn’t the best artist in the room either, he was just one of many.

  It suddenly occurred to Chris, that for the first time in his life, he had competition. It was an exciting prospect. He bit into his chicken sandwich and resulted in a mouth full of bread and very little else. Well, it seemed not everything could be as exciting as his new Art class. There had to be disappointment somewhere.

  “It’s a relief you know. No longer am I the only English kid…” it was the blonde from his art class. She didn’t wait for an invitation, she dropped her tray before his and took a seat opposite. She was a lot taller than he’d expected, it had been misleading in the classroom.

  “Alexis Bourgh,” she extended a hand.

  “Christopher Bourgh,” he shook her hand and the pair of them took note of the same surname.

  “How curious,” she smiled.

  “I do hope we’re not related…” Christopher joked lightly. He wasn’t familiar with every single minute branch of his family tree, but he was pretty adamant that he wasn’t in any way connected with this blonde girl before him. Yet, sometimes truth was stranger than fiction.

  “No, we’re definitely not,” Alexis suddenly stepped around the subject with such a faint whiff of sadness that Chris was curious. “I don’t think our little gigglers will be sitting at our table again,” she swept off in a different tangent before Chris could sink his teeth into the thought.

  He noted the use of the word “our”, like she was insinuating that he and she were the most important members of the table and thus had laid claim to it. He might have allowed her that assumption if she hadn’t been t
oo afraid to step up to the plate and break the ice.

  “Perhaps not,” Chris remarked with a shrug. “What about the boy? Do you think he’ll be staying?”

  “You mean Pierre? Oh I don’t think he’ll move…” She plunged her fork into her poor impression of mashed potatoes. “But who cares when we’ve got each other right?”

  It seemed that Chris, regardless of how he felt on the matter, had found himself a friend.

  And wasn’t that what first days were all about?

  ----------------------------------

  Chris had sat in the classroom and attempted to start on the first task of the academic year. Juno had set everybody the interesting task of presenting their best and worst selves. Any medium and any style. After this assignment was done, then they would all learn more traditional techniques and styles, before the final assignment would be to redo this very one. The idea, Chris guessed, was for all the students to identify how much they had grown in both technique and style, and also what had changed about how they had perceived themselves at the end of the year. They had a week to do this assignment and already majority of the class were whining it wasn’t long enough. Juno was well versed in dealing with artists, and their high maintenance needs, and just shrugged paying them no heed in the slightest. He sauntered off elsewhere and left them to it.

  Chris had sat alone in the classroom as most students filed into the accompanying computer room and perused the internet for inspiration, or as was most likely the case, slack off and procrastinate instead. Some, including Alexis and Pierre had gone straight into the studio adjacent to the classroom and begun work.

  Chris was sat staring at a blank piece of paper and wondering why no inspiration would come. He’d thought if he compiled a list of qualities about himself, it would help inspire exactly what form his work would take. However, nothing would come.

  What were his best qualities? He simply didn’t know.