Streamed to Kill

by Emmy Ellis

  He stood with eyes closed, his back against the wall. Waited. Held his breath, his lungs screaming for him to release it. What he’d anticipated came then. The grind and squeak of the pipes getting hot. It gave him a settled feeling. He’d always liked that noise. It reminded him of his childhood when he’d huddled in the corner with Sally, while his parents had argued. The pipes in their old house had been dreadful, loud, but they’d helped drown out the voices—except the one in his head. How had he gone so many years without knowing Mr Clever’s name? Why had he never thought to ask what it was before now?

  “Because you thought I was you, didn’t you, David?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “While the knickers dry, go and get Sally.”

  David returned to his bedroom. The tumble dryer in the kitchen worked its warming magic on Cheryl’s clothes, the hum of it filtering through. Sally sat on his bed where she always was until The Time. Two fluffy brown scatter cushions propped her up, the polyester fibres stroking her arms with the help of a breeze coming through the window. He shouldn’t have left that open and strutted over to it. Closed it tight and locked it. None of the women had ever tried to jump out—but then he hadn’t given them the chance to.

  He moved back onto the bed, picked Sally up. She sat in his lap quite nicely, her chubby legs sticking out and resting directly on his thighs. She’d been with him through so many things, and if he ever lost her, he’d be heartbroken. It wasn’t often people found themselves still in possession of their childhood friend two decades later, was it.

  He ran his hand down Sally’s springy blonde hair, the nylon feel and smell still the same as ever. She stared ahead, plastic arms by her sides, fingertips touching the red-flowered material of her sleeveless summer dress. The cord handle in her back, once a crisp white ring but now an aged cream, dug into the top of his belly, and he shifted her forward so he could pull it and listen.

  A melody tinkled out of her, full of sweet, high-pitched notes, the tones soothing him. He closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, bringing with it memories of the past when Sally had been there for him with the women. She’d watched from her position against the wall as he’d done his thing and she’d played her tune, never letting him down, always saying, “Goodnight!” in her chirpy little voice at the right moment.

  “I love you, Sally.”

  “Goodnight!”

  “Yes, it’s goodnight for now, but I think I’ll be coming back to get you soon.”

  * * * *

  It was The Time. David was surprised at that, but he shouldn’t have been, not with what he knew. It was Friday, and he needed to make Cheryl go home-home today. He couldn’t risk leaving her over the weekend when he went to work. And Monday might be too late. If that Oliver fella managed to speak to her or she to him…

  No, she had to go now. Sad, because he’d enjoyed bathing her, making her so clean her hair had squeaked as he’d washed it. The bleach had turned it a nasty colour, though—nasty because it was an orangey-yellow blonde. He didn’t like blondes.

  Another reason why Cheryl had to go.

  Sally was in place beside Cheryl’s bedroom door, a prime position so she could see it all and not miss a thing. Awake and naked, Cheryl crouched at one end of the mattress, squished into the corner. She’d bent her legs and hugged them, resting her chin on top of her knees as David had walked in. Her heels covered her private garden. He was glad about that. He didn’t want to see the horrible redness of it. The hairy, horrible redness.

  She stared at Sally as though she was a piece of shit.

  That wasn’t pleasant to see.

  “Sally is here to let you listen to her wonderful music,” David said in a voice he’d begun using with woman number two, a soft, melodious one much like Sally’s tune. “Smile at Sally, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl smiled, albeit a tentative one, but it was enough. At least she hadn’t disobeyed him. And maybe she liked Sally and just didn’t know how to express it.

  He glanced at his dolly, trying to see her through Cheryl’s eyes. All right, she wasn’t the prettiest, what with her face being a swirl of melted plastic where she’d found herself in the fireplace after his father had thrown her there. Her eyes sagged downwards, just like his mask, and her mouth was a ragged stretch of its former self. David had rescued her, though, pulling her out of the flames and rolling her in the rug like he’d been taught when the firemen had visited the school for a chat about safety. The back of her hair hadn’t caught—her blonde hair—and he realised then, with sudden clarity, that was why he didn’t bring blondes home.

  There was room for only one in his life, and that was Sally.

  “I want you to take some more medicine so you’ll be in that place you need to be.” He approached Cheryl with a loaded syringe. “Everything will be okay soon.”

  She tried to lose herself in the wall, pushing back with her palms splayed on it, fingers bent at the knuckles, spiders’ leg joints. He waited while she came to the realisation she wasn’t getting anywhere, him patient, yet longing, to go into the bathroom and start dressing for the occasion. A few seconds passed with Cheryl whimpering, then she flopped out one arm, offering her vein to him.

  “There we are,” he said quietly. “So good. Aren’t you so good?” He waited for her nod, then, “Yes, you are.”

  He did the necessary and eased the needle in, squeezing the magic potion into her body. This draft would keep her lucid yet pliable enough for him to manage her, to not have to worry that she’d lash out or run amok in his flat. She dropped her head back and stared at him, but not seeing him clearly, he reckoned. He’d be a blurred shape, his mask possibly more frightening than it usually was, all skewed mouth and hanging eyes. Smooth cheeks.

  He threw the syringe in the waste basket on his way out, heading for the bathroom. Pausing at the radiator, he picked up the knickers and, satisfied they were dry, lifted them to his face. Because she’d been a dirty girl and messed them, they didn’t smell like the other women’s. That annoyed him, but he controlled himself and remained calm as he stepped into them, pulling them up over his jeans.

  Back in the bedroom, he stood in front of Cheryl and curtseyed, then did a pirouette so she could see how he looked in her underwear. She widened her eyes, her facial expression showing her disgust, her terror.

  “You don’t like them on me?” He stepped closer so she could get a better view. She hadn’t been able to see them properly, that was it.

  She moved her head, but he wasn’t sure whether that indicated a yes or a no.

  “Answer me, there’s a good girl. Aren’t they lovely?”

  She slurred out a yes and gave a definite nod.

  “I think so, too.” He reached out and swiped her white bra from the top of her clean clothes pile on the floor. With the practise he’d had, he was able to put it on over his polo shirt quickly, enjoying the way the cups stood out. “And this? How do I look in this?”

  She nodded again, faster this time, and her lips twitched.

  He took that for a smile.

  “I like wearing girly clothes,” he said, impressed with how his voice had sounded.

  Lilting.

  He sat on the mattress, glancing at Sally to make sure she was still watching. She was, so he turned his attention to Cheryl. He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Her skin was divine, like nectarines, or maybe even the velvet of the sofa they’d had when he was a child. Sally had always liked that sofa, although they hadn’t sat on it often. Sitting on it was a treat, something to be relished, because it meant his parents were getting along and he didn’t have to stay in his room to avoid their spats.

  Cheryl blinked, and a faint tic pulsed beneath one eye.

  She didn’t like him touching her.

  They never did. All they had to do was like it, and he wouldn’t have to send them home-home. All they had to do was enjoy him stroking their cheeks, tell him they hadn’t had enough of him, and he would be happy. Instead, they�
�d all cringed, all hated him, and it made him do what he did.

  “Mmmm, this is nice,” he said. “Say it’s nice, Cheryl.”

  She opened her mouth, flapped her lips, but no words came out. He hadn’t given her that much medicine—she ought to be able to answer.

  “Tell me it’s nice, Cheryl.” He didn’t sound so melodious this time, more like his other self. He licked the sweat from above his top lip to remind himself of just who he was now. Applied more pressure to his cheek strokes.

  She did an outright wince this time, and a knot of anger bunched in his belly. He’d try one more time to get her to speak, and if she didn’t…

  “Tell me it’s nice, Cheryl.”

  “S’nice.”

  “Tell me you want me to keep doing it.”

  “Keep doin’ it.”

  “No.”

  He stood abruptly and stared down at her. She appeared confused, deep frown lines fucking up her brow, and that got him happy. He pranced about the small space on tiptoes, arms out by his sides, and listened to Sally’s tune playing in his head. Soon he’d pull the cord in her back and let her music fill the room for real, but for now she’d be content to just sit and take it all in. Sally was a good girl, the only one who liked him stroking her cheek, what was left of her hair.

  Euphoria spread through him, his steps lighter. He closed his eyes and let the music take him away, to that place where everything was fine and nothing mattered except what he was feeling. He was aware, deep in the back of his mind, that Cheryl would be watching him, wondering what the hell he was doing and why, but her opinion wasn’t something he cared for. He didn’t think he cared anyway.

  The imaginary music came to an end, Sally’s perky “Goodnight!” filling his head, and he smiled, slowed his steps, then stopped. He remained where he was, eyes still closed, and lowered his arms to his sides. Took a moment or two for himself, to soak in the warm feeling of being exactly where he needed to be.

  He snapped his eyes open and found himself facing the door, Cheryl’s gaze hot on his back. She could stare all she liked. Maybe she was secretly admiring her bra and knickers, how they fitted him so well. Wondering why they’d never looked as good on her. That would be nice.

  Mr Clever had questioned him once as to why he put them over his own clothes, why he didn’t strip and wear them against his skin. He hadn’t been able to answer because he didn’t know why. He’d thought about it, though, but nothing had been forthcoming. Mr Clever then suggested he was entertaining his feminine side while at the same time retaining his persona as a man, but David didn’t know if that was right either. He did know that he liked wearing them, and that explanation ought to be enough. He shouldn’t have to explain.

  “Why do you think I like wearing your things, Cheryl?” He gave Sally a knowing look because they all answered the same way.

  “Dunnow,” Cheryl said.

  Ah, she hadn’t called him a freak, a weirdo, a nutcase.

  Interesting.

  “Aren’t you curious?” I am. I wouldn’t wear them as my other self. I’d call any man wearing them a nasty name.

  “Your biznizz,” she said, voice slurred.

  Her response threw him. His business? He quickly turned to face her, to catch any facial expression that belied her words, but her vacant stare was glued to Sally, and she exhibited blankness, as though nothing mattered anymore.

  The next phase could begin then.

  He sat on the mattress again, leaning down, and pushed his lips out through the mask hole so they were millimetres from her cheek. “Have you had enough yet, Cheryl?”

  “Enough o’ wot?” she mumbled, eyes drifting closed.

  “Of me.”

  “Had nuff o’ this,” she said.

  Oh. Right. She hadn’t had enough of him?

  “What about me, Cheryl?” he singsonged. “Have you had enough of me yet?”

  “Remember your mother, David?” Mr Clever asked. “I’ve had enough of you, you little bastard. Get the fuck out of my sight!”

  Cheryl shook her head.

  David held his breath. Frowned, unsure what to do or say. He tried a different angle. “Do you want to leave here, Cheryl?”

  She sniffed. “Want to go home.”

  “I see.” His hot breath bounced off her cheek. “Home to where you live, or home-home, the place where we all go in the end?”

  “Where I live.” She’d sounded like a slowing gramophone record.

  “Oh. That’s a shame. It isn’t possible, good girl. Mr Clever wants you to go home-home.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered. A tear spilled.

  He withdrew sharply and stood. Went to the chest of drawers and picked up a new syringe full of medicine. He’d have to visit The Stick again soon. His supply was almost gone. He gazed at Sally and smiled, letting her know she must play her part now. He’d swear she wiggled her toes in excitement. He scooped her up and stood beside the mattress.

  “Now, Cheryl,” he breathed. “You can go home.”

  He handed her the syringe. She held it in a loose-fingered grip, staring at it as more tears fell. She appeared uncomprehending, as though not knowing what the syringe was doing there, how it had got there. Perhaps she was going through a strange spell, the drug doing weird things to her. Maybe she’d be back to normal in a minute—well, as normal as she could be in the circumstances—and she’d understand exactly what she had to do next.

  “If you don’t take your medicine, it will get worse,” he said. “Mr Clever might tell me to do other things to you, and then you’ll use the syringe gladly.”

  She lifted it. Sat upright and leant forward, her head seemingly too heavy for her neck. He stared at the cords standing out in her throat and wondered how much effort she had to put in to keep her chin from dropping to her chest. She jabbed the needle between her toes like a true heroin addict who knew where to hide those telling holes from the suspecting eyes of family members and friends. Squeezed the syringe until all the medicine disappeared.

  “There,” he said, voice quiet and even. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  He pulled Sally’s cord and smiled as the music played. Cheryl took the needle out, rested back, and closed her eyes, the syringe falling from her grasp. He stared until the song was almost complete then ran with Sally to the door, going out into the hallway and closing it a little, positioning Sally halfway up the jamb so she peeked into the bedroom.

  “Goodnight!” Sally said.

  Chapter Seven

  Langham and Oliver walked into the newspaper office. The bolshy editor ordered Oliver to let him in on the gossip, give him something for tomorrow’s edition.

  “No gossip at this time,” Langham said, holding a palm up.

  The editor opened his mouth to protest, and Langham levelled one of his stares at him that said: No further orders. No further prods for a scoop.

  “Tell me what you know about Cheryl’s absence,” Langham said.

  “She wasn’t due in to work the past couple of days, so her not being here wasn’t a concern.” The ed shrugged. “This morning, I was pissed off she hadn’t shown because we had a shitload of makeup and feminine hygiene articles that had needed going over, and Cheryl had been chosen to do it. Her not coming in meant Colin, the dopey little shyster, had had to take over, and what the hell does Colin know about makeup?”

  Langham suspected quite a bit, going by Colin’s blush, the remnants of eyeliner, and the quick glance from where he sat in the corner at his desk.

  “I need to see the CCTV,” Langham said.

  In the editor’s office, it was brought up on screen. The footage showed a man—late twenties, black suit, white shirt, grey tie, floppy dark hair, nothing like the bloke they were after—come bursting into reception like he’d been chased up the stairs. The woman behind the desk tried to stop him from going through to the offices, but he pushed past her, raising his voice and saying he had to see Cheryl and make sure she was all right.

 
; “Bloody lunatic,” the editor said. “Almost made me shit myself, the way he stormed in here. Thought he was some nutter at first—we get a lot of those—but once he calmed down a bit and explained… He reckoned she was supposed to have met him for a date and hadn’t turned up. Couldn’t see it myself. Cheryl usually goes for the more laid-back type. Casual, modern clothes and all that. You know, T-shirts and jeans. This bloke? Suit and tie? Nah.”

  Langham and Oliver left after that.

  Now, Langham sat at his desk. Evening had arrived at one hell of a pace, darkness falling without notice—one minute the late afternoon sun had been thinking about going to bed, the next it had disappeared and the moon was wide awake.

  Oliver dozed in the chair opposite, hands clasped over his stomach.

  Langham mulled things over. What if the killer was Cheryl’s usual type? What if he’d appealed to her in his sweatshirt and jeans while she’d been out walking her dog? She could have taken a fancy to him and let him get close. Totally forgotten about a murderer on the loose, taking women and offing them. He’d got hold of her dog, then her…

  There was a lot to think about. Officers, the new shift, would shortly be sent out to walk the banks of the stream to check for her. The previous victims had been dumped in close locations—well, close on a map but quite far apart on foot. Still, the killer had chosen to keep them all together, so to speak. Langham brought up a map of the area on his computer. He studied it and the surrounding area. Around the section of stream the killer favoured was a forest. He had to be using that as cover when carrying his victims to the water. Beyond the forest and on one side of the stream stood a housing estate, but farther up, where the stream broadened and headed out of the city, were farmers’ fields.