Dead Head

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘You are helping me, like I am helping you.’

  ‘I’ve paid you to help me. And I don’t know if you’ve ever dug a grave before but it is bloody hard work in this heat. I’ve been at this for days.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you didn’t tell me there was rattlesnakes in those fields either.’

  ‘I don’t expect they caused you much problem, a couple of little snakes. You’re a serial killer after all.’

  ‘I didn’t kill them. I don’t kill willy-nilly.’

  ‘You just let Willy and Nilly bite you?’ he chuckled.

  ‘No, I stayed away from them.’ He looked at me funny. ‘They weren’t me doing any harm.’

  He shook his head. ‘You are more loca than I gave you credit for. If you didn’t do so much pissing and whining, that hole would be done by now.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ I griped, wiping my brow and grimacing at the caked mud under my fingernails.

  ‘It harder to kill when you are the one who has to dig the graves, eh, Rhiannon?’

  This little exchange stayed with me all day, seeing as I had a ridiculous amount of time and space to think about it. Why did he care who I killed or if I killed? What did it matter to him? And I wondered if it was some sort of lesson – hard labour for my crimes against humanity. It didn’t make sense.

  It came up again a few days after when I was walking past his office.

  ‘Hey, Rhiannon. You are blowing up in Europe.’

  ‘What, literally?’

  ‘Your story. You’re everywhere. Every news show, it’s your face!’

  ‘Cool,’ I said, settling into his swivel chair. ‘Should we be looking for me online though? What about the search getting flagged by the police?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Tenoch. ‘My computer has a re-routed IP address. Means the searches are coming from somewhere else. You’re safe here, I promise. Take a look.’

  Almost a week after my confession broke, the UK was suitably obsessed with me, and America was waking up to Ripperella too.

  I was everywhere. Every thread. Every paper. All the headlines:

  BRITISH BOBBITT WHO CUT OFF MAN’S PENIS IS CHILD BRAVERY AWARD WINNER

  LET HIM OUT:

  Wilkins expected to be freed from jail this week

  IT WAS ME: RHIANNON LEWIS CONFESSION

  Boyfriend innocent, reveals diary. Exclusive by local newsman who got the full confession

  I was the subject of endless chats, Twitter threads, Facebook discussions, YouTube crime enthusiasts creaming their mum-ironed jeans over my ‘magnificence’, my ‘audacity’, my ‘savagery’. There were more fan pages, thousands of new site members every day, memes created of my bored little face taken from one of the PICSOs’ parties with the tagline It’s Monday again, kill me now. Someone had even made a GIF of me walking across the farm shop car park from the CCTV footage with the tagline Big Dick Energy.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, looking up at Tenoch who had his arms folded and was squinting down at the screen over my shoulder. ‘I’m famous.’

  ‘Yeah. You are. You like it?’

  I did like it. It had got my adrenaline pumping, my heart thumping. It had brought back that rippling, crippling can’t-do-anything-else-but-kill sizzle. Every thread, fan site, and Reddit thread was a tiny back pat, a tickle under the chin, some human acknowledgement of appreciation. That I was admired. That I might even be loved.

  Caro said I deserved to be loved. I wanted to believe that. A small group of kids in the UK were calling themselves the ‘Dead Heads’ and had set up a Tumblr, posting daily pics they had drawn of my killings, imagining what it was like to cut AJ into pieces. Imagining they were there standing at the quarry when I pushed Julia down, when I torched the Blue Van. They all said they hoped I was seeing this. They all said they loved me.

  ‘It’s better to be sick with someone than healthy and alone,’ I suggested.

  Tenoch’s face was blank. Like Mum and Dad’s when I swore or did something to get a reaction – like smashing a glass or cutting Seren’s hair.

  But my growing crop of Dead Heads were giving me inner strength. Right or wrong, they renewed my belief in myself. Refreshed my energy for getting the hole dug. And they made me think, just for a short while, that someone truly cared about me. And that feeling is fucking addictive.

  Thursday, 24 January – Hacienda Santuario

  REDDIT

  Posted by rhiannonlewisiloveyou666 1 day ago

  1.2k Comments

  I’M IN LOVE WITH A SERIAL KILLER

  OK so I know this is going to sound nuts but I think I am in love with Rhiannon lewis. i sleep with a photo of her under my pillow. the fact that her sister lives like 600 miles away from me is so incredible – i think if i met rhiannon, we would get along. like, i think she might even be my soulmate. i’m thinking of getting a sweetpea tattoo on my ankle, wdyt???

  498 Comments

  JoDiVaggio39 points

  Check out the Wikipedia entry on ‘hybristophilia’. And see a psychiatrist ASAP.

  KendrickLaMarshmallow24965 points

  I totally get that. She offed sex offenders so if I had the chance to date her I totally would. I’m fascinated by her. And her diaries are so charismatic. I totally get her. Is that wrong?

  TheOverlordShallCometh23 points

  Anyone know where we can write her? There’s a lot of fake social media accounts pretending to be her ATM but I’d love to get a message to her and tell her how much I love her.

  rhiannonlewisiloveyou66612 points

  Glad I’m not the only one! I’ve written letters to her and sent them to her bitch sister in Vermont. I know a ton of people on Tumblr who’ve done the same. And I sent some gifts too, but mainly letters.

  BingedrinkerForLife729 points

  I know a guy who once wrote to Dahmer and he got a response. A good guy by all accounts. Apart from the whole pesky murder, pederasty, rape and cannibalism thing.

  JoDiVaggio4 points

  Probably not to the people he murdered or their families.

  MissMagickPluto96122 points

  I relate to Rhiannon a lot because of the bullying aspect of her life talked about in the confession. I totally see why she did that to Julia, and why she tried to pin the thing on Greg. I think when you’ve experienced early trauma, it’s bound to eff you up.

  rhiannonlewisiloveyou6667 points

  I think I do have that hybristophilia thing because I had a huge crush on Dylann Roof when that whole thing happened. I had, like, a ton of pictures of him on my laptop and my mom found them and I had to pretend they were for a school project about mass shooters. I love how unpredictable mass killers are. I never liked a female one though – until my beautiful Rhiannon.

  rhiannonlewisiloveyou6662 points

  Rhiannon Lewis is a hero, she never did what she did because she enjoyed it – she did it to get the scum off the streets.

  JoJoMamaBaby61614 points

  OMG I love her too! And I’m, like, in my forties now but she’s so amazing, isn’t she? In a way I kinda hope she is caught so she is sent to prison so then we can all write to her and she will see our words and know how much we love her.

  Saturday, 26 January – Hacienda Santuario

  Every single one of the Golden Girls

  The singer of the theme tune to The Golden Girls

  The sadistic motherfucker who wrote The Golden Girls

  Guy Majors

  Tenoch

  The temperature in Rocas Calientes rarely dropped – it was sweltering all day and stifling all night. The sun went down but the heat lingered, close and uncomfortable like a scratchy blanket. Coupled with my copious mosquito bites, it made for regular bouts of irritability.

  But hey, what’s new?

  Anyway, I got used to it all. To Mexico. I knew my place – digging the hole. I knew my master – Tenoch. By and large, he left me to my own devices but he was always there somewhere and that made me feel sort of safe. It
took me a full week to finish the hole and push each of the men down inside it. And having shovelled the earth on top of them, I stood back in the fading sunlight on the Saturday afternoon, leaning on my shovel, a week to the day that I had broken ground. My spine was like jelly, my arm muscles on fire and I stank like a walking armpit. But I had finished it. I had done it, all by myself.

  Tenoch had given me his little DAB radio which I had placed on the side of the pit to listen to while digging and the song playing was oddly catchy – some jam I’d never heard of called ‘Ophelia’. I danced up and down the plough lines, stamping out a rhythm, windmilling my arms and laughing manically into the warm air until it echoed between the surrounding hills. It was the first time in a long time I’d actually enjoyed my own company.

  And when I walked back up to the pool terrace, I dived in the pool, fully-clothed, soothing my itching, aching, dirty body from head to toe, coming out the other end like a whole new girl. Nearly.

  As I slapped into the kitchen, Tenoch was browning the meat for our evening tacos in a skillet. The theme song of The Golden Girls trilled in from the sitting room. He didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at my soaking wet state.

  ‘You did a good job.’

  I could barely hear him over the sizzling skillet. ‘Huh?’

  ‘The field. It looks good.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’

  ‘There are girl clothes in the cabinet in Marisol’s room. Next to the one with my wife’s dresses in. Take a few for yourself.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want another little job?’

  My heart sank. ‘How many more stiffs have you got around the place?’

  ‘No more,’ he laughed, juicing a lime. ‘I see you dancing in the field. It makes you happy to be outside, doesn’t it? Keeps you out of trouble.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘That why they call you the Sweetpea Killer? Because you like flowers?’

  ‘They called me Sweetpea at work and I hated it. When I catfished men I made some of ’em carve flowers into their skin. But you know that, right?’

  ‘You like the flowers though, yes?’ He threw the spent lime half in the trash behind him without even looking. Hole in one. My dad used to do the same with apple cores.

  ‘Yes. I love flowers.’

  ‘I’ll order you some plants and seeds. You can refill the borders out there. You do all the work.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I used to like seeing them grow. Marisol loved playing in the fields of cempasuchil at the back of our house when she was little. A golden mile.’

  ‘This house?’

  ‘No, on our farm near Puerto Vallarta. She never saw this place.’

  ‘What is sempa—?’

  ‘Cempasuchil? Marigolds. The most beautiful colour you will ever see.’

  ‘I’ll need some quality manure that I can dig in. That will re-energise the ground. It has to be well rotted though or else it will scorch the rhizomes—’

  ‘You sound like an expert.’

  ‘My mum liked gardening. She spent all her time planting and digging and deadheading after what happened to me. She said it soothed her.’

  ‘After your brain injury? Well, it’s cute that you used to help your mommy in the garden and all—’

  ‘—no, I wasn’t allowed to help. I watched her through the window.’

  ‘Why you not allowed?’

  ‘I wasn’t a nice child. She said I didn’t deserve nice things.’

  ‘And you deserve nice things now?’

  I dried my hands on the tea towel and slapped across to the fridge to get a soda. ‘Probably not. I’d still like to plant the flowers for you though.’

  It wasn’t until the tortillas had been assembled and pushed towards me on a plate that he spoke again.

  ‘You can do the little garden. Add whatever plants you want to the internet order. It’ll keep you happy while you are here.’

  I was excited, up until the point he said ‘while you are here’.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, more mutedly than I’d intended.

  I was starting to cling, like I had with Caro. I thought maybe, if I did everything he asked, he’d let me stay. I could cook and clean, get the flowers growing, become a real asset to him. I’d suck his dick if I had to. I’m not averse to dick-sucking if the situation calls for it – it’s just that my urge to bite down has always been too strong before. But I would do it, if it meant I could stay permanently. I think at that moment, I’d have done anything.

  Monday, 28 January – Hacienda Santuario

  Our delivery driver – Manuel – who brought the wrong fabric softener, seeded instead of plain bagels, and who banged the box down on the doorstep, breaking three of the eggs. Then laughed. Endless prick.

  Tenoch’s housekeeper, Celestina, who puts the scissors in the wrong drawer, folds my towels weirdly, never vacuums properly and can’t wash forks

  This Motherhood Dare shite on Facebook and any Motherfucker who shares it

  Men who smell of BO and don’t know it.

  Novak Djokovic

  I didn’t realise at first how much Tenoch’s housekeeper Celestina did for him. I thought she was just a cleaner – swept a few floors, made the beds – but she did a ton of other things around the Hacienda like mowing the lawn, laundering the bed linen, mending anything broken, restocking the bar, replacing the tapes in the CCTV and chlorinating the pool.

  She was naturally beautiful – the kind of woman who can just roll out of bed and get on with it without trowelling on a full face of make-up. But though she was only a couple of years older than me, her hands and knees looked twenty years older. She had a work ethic the like of which I’d never seen, certainly never experienced. Put my lazy arse to shame.

  Celestina came to the Hacienda every morning dead early, around 6 a.m., and was usually gone by the time I’d surfaced at 8. One morning, though, things hit a little different. My eyes opened to see a tiny girl, no more than three, standing at the foot of my bed.

  I thought I was imagining her at first, like she’d crawled out of a dream. ‘Hola.’

  ‘Hola,’ said the girl, moving her black hair out of her eyes and squatting back down on the carpet to play with Richard E. Grunt and the pink bunny, having helped herself to both of them from my bag.

  ‘Quién eres tú?’ I croaked.

  ‘Mi nombre es Mátilda,’ she answered and carried on playing.

  Shortly, before my eyes fully opened, Celestina came barrelling in, scooping up Mátilda who dropped the bunny to the floor.

  ‘Lo siento, señorita,’ she gasped. ‘Ella no debería haberte molestado.’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ I was at pains to say as I swung my legs out of bed. ‘I don’t speak much Spanish, sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. I speak a little English.’

  ‘She’s a cute lil button,’ I said, looking at her daughter sitting comfortably in her arms in her tiny dungaree dress and green T-short, big eyes twinkling, big thumb being sucked.

  ‘Thank you,’ Celestina smiled. ‘I am sorry for her being in here. I have to bring them. My mother looks after them but she is out of town. Tenoch said it was OK as long as they – mantente fuera del camino – uh, stay out of way.’

  ‘Them?’ I said.

  Celestina had two other kids downstairs watching TV. David and Saúl were eleven and seven respectively. David had a smile that could blind and wore a Spiderman T-shirt, while Saúl was short and tubby and, like myself, the type of kid to ‘laugh if the cat’s arse was on fire’ as the saying goes. The TV was at the lowest volume and the boys were watching from the sofa – some badly-drawn Spanish cartoon.

  ‘I can watch them for you, if you want?’ I said. ‘Uh, puedo cuidar, si?’

  ‘Oh no, they will be fine.’

  ‘They look pretty bored. I don’t blame them either – cartoons like this make me want to throw a toaster in a bath and take a fuckin’ run-up.’


  Celestina looked pained – I’d gone beyond her understanding, it seemed. This wasn’t an unusual expression for me to see on someone else. Nevertheless, as soon as I started pinching out my seedlings from the trays and transplanting them into the ground, the children gravitated outside to watch me more closely. Kids are like magnets to me, I swear. I think on some level they know they are safe in my company.

  ‘You can plant the new seeds, if you like,’ I told the eldest and pointed to the new stack of packets on the countertop. ‘And you can decide where they go,’ I said to the younger boy.

  ‘Quiero ayudar,’ said Mátilda.

  ‘OK, you get the most important job – you’ve got to water them. Darles agua?’ She nodded vehemently.

  Each one of them just got on with it and afterwards, I paid them in warm chocolate chip cookies. Best friends for life.

  The boys they knew about the climate in Rocas Calientes so I bowed to their knowledge on where the sunniest patches were. Lavender, cornflowers, verbena, salvia and the special sun-loving shrubs all down the eastern border of the lawn; roses, passion flower, evening primrose, agapanthus, cempasuchil, osteospermum and some Mexican orange blossom all along the western edge. Mátilda mostly ate the herbs and buried Richard E. Grunt in the soil for me to find.

  ‘Little pig man is hiding, señorita. You find him,’ she sang at me, giggling behind her hand. ‘Warmer, warmer, hotter, now you’re colder.’

  At the back fence, along the baseline of the lawn, went all the edibles – tomatoes, cilantro, epazote, chiles, chayote and the like. Sitting outside with the kids, a mug of real coffee in my hand, dipping our feet in the pool and laughing at the rock squirrels nibbling the sumac or watching quetzals drink from the red salvia, I fell in love with being alive. The sun warmed me through as the backs of my legs cooled against the marble. My extensions had gone, my real hair was getting longer and my fake tan had faded, replaced by one naturally browned by the Mexican sun. I allowed myself to imagine the place was mine. That this was my garden – sometimes, that these were my children.