by Gavin Graham
“On her arse?”
“Aye, just a wee one, but it’s definitely one of those Devil-worshiping symbols.”
“You need to give me more to work with here, Son, I can’t arrest one of our best Detectives on suspicion of being a serial killer with nothing more to go on than American cop shows and arse-tattoos.”
“I checked all the timings, her whereabouts when the murders took place, she could have easily pulled it off. Another thing, too, I spoke with the guard that was on duty when she went to see Moffat in Broadmoor…”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he said there was some weird stuff going on between them, he was even convinced that they were involved in some sort of a sexual relationship.”
“Please, tell me this isn’t true, it’s a wind-up…”
“It’s true, Boss.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, this cannot be happening, it just can’t be bloody happening.”
“What do we do, Boss?”
“We need to find her, and stop her, before she strikes again…”
Chapter 78
Lock up your kids, for it wails like a banshee
As he walks into this world, he shall walk out, just like that…
Wellington College went into lock-down protocol, no children were allowed to leave the premises, huddled together in a room under lock-and-key until parents could safely arrive to collect them. From Camberley to Bagshot, alarms sounded, wailed like a banshee, no ordinary alarms…no…these were the alarms that no living soul in that area wanted to hear, out of pure fear, for a criminal lunatic had escaped from Broadmoor.
John Moffat, a convicted sex monster, a.k.a. The Casanova Killer, a violent and sadistic predator, was on the loose. Whilst on cleaning duties, he overpowered three guards and locked them in a broom cupboard before heroically jumping out of a window; it was as simple as that. Nobody could understand how such a security lapse could be possible but it also took time before officials recognised his disappearance, precious time, time that he needed on his hands in order to make the escape a successful one. All neighbouring towns and villages had set up check-points, door-to-door searches and all women were advised not to leave their homes under any circumstances.
The spot he finally chose was a bush, on the side of a road, by a bus stop.
He took shelter there, wrapped himself in a green plastic bag and he just hid there, not moving for days. He came close to capture on one occasion as a search-party member poked him with a rod – once, twice, three times – dismissed as an old bag of rubbish…
Eventually, an opportunity arose, for him to pounce on a passer-by. It was an old man with a beard, a dirty looking chap, but most importantly he had a similar build to himself, so the clothes would fit.
The hat that he wore was key; a man can go far with the right hat.
He was stood there alone, waiting for a bus, and Moffat just glared at him from the bush. He appeared to be unsteady on his feet so he approached him from behind and put his right bicep to the side of the man’s neck and he squeezed with all his strength as the man struggled and he dragged him back to his secret enclosure of bush and shrubbery, his frail feet flailing pathetically across grass and dirt. He kept squeezing around the neck, not as easy as it looks in the movies, even if the victim happens to be a poor, old pensioner, but the face soon turned beetroot-red, broken veins pronounced. The man stank, of cheap drink and bad body odour, it made him heave. He kept squeezing until the poor old bastard didn’t struggle anymore and there was no more flailing of those pathetic shoes.
The man’s walking-stick was left at the bus stop.
With his new clothes and a little bit of money, he made his move, via bus and train Casanova ventured on his final journey – to the place where it all began and it would all end – back to Glasgow.
Chapter 79
A jar of severed members & a letter written in blood
Madness lives in evil as evil lurks in madness…
“Jimmy, arse up here, now!” Mac yelled down to The Swede as he stood in the doorway to Siobhan’s ‘secret room’.
The blonde Detective galloped up the stairs to meet the DCI. He immediately saw what he was looking at – the wardrobe – the one he’d seen that night and that had tweaked his curiosity just before he’d shut the door and felt ashamed of himself for snooping around in Siobhan’s private space. He’d blocked it out, that wardrobe, he honestly had forgotten all about it, or he’d chosen not to think about what she might have been keeping stored in there. Now, it was clear, by the blood that now seeped and flowed in a slight trickle from a gap at the base of the wooden platform, a gradual pooling upon the oak floorboards.
She’d kept souvenirs for herself, the severed penis of each adult-male victim, in a jam-jar that was overflowing with blood.
“What the hell is that?”
“Looks like a jar full of cocks, Boss, that’s what it looks like to me. Souvenirs, as we know, most serial killers often hold onto little keepsakes. But, this? It’s certainly a knew one on me…”
“I know that, Jimmy, I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you have and I know a jar of cocks when I see one. What I’m referring to here, is the blood, why would she preserve them in blood?”
“Inspector!” a voice bellowed from downstairs where the living room was.
They both turned and took a few steps to the top of the stairs.
“What is it?”
“I think you better come down and have a look at this.”
It was a note, addressed personally to Mac, written in blood:
Those who think they can see are blind and those who know darkness are the truly blessed children. That was always your problem, Mac, you could never see the woods from the trees, you know the darkness, but you’ll never see the Glory.
So, catch me if you can…
Siobhan, The Unsung Satanist
Mac read the note and took a deep breath.
“Are you OK, Boss, what does it say?”
“It says – I know you’re onto me, so let the games begin…”
Chapter 80
The Junior Suite of a luxury hotel, perfect sheets to be stained by her crimson spill
If you get into bed with The Devil, sooner or later, you get fucked…
She met him at the Malmaison hotel, paid for the Junior Suite, and she was naked as he arrived to the room.
She opened the door in the bare flesh; it was him, he made it back, just as they’d planned.
“Are you ready?” he asked her.
She smiled at him, naked, for she was ready to die, her ooze was icky and sticky. She still had the bag of heroin-laced Afghan hash that she’d swiped from his abode and she’d rolled him three joints to smoke with his bottle of Buckfast.
The sight of her naked folds aroused him as he threw his disgusting rags to the floor. Within seconds, they were on the bed, entwined arms and legs, bare and frantic as their bodies were pressed together and they touched and rolled on the angelic white sheets.
“Fuck me,” she growled like a dog, giving herself to him, offering herself up, her seedy gush. “Fuck me and kill me,” she spoke harshly with gritted teeth, begging him to use her and abuse her, to sodomise her muck.
The power of the demon is strong…
The spell has worked well…
He was softer with her than she expected him to be, almost disappointingly so, she wanted to feel his wrath and all of his delicious wickedness.
His eyes were barely open as he gazed down into her pupils, pushing into her, deep and firm, with a good rhythm, treating her almost as a dark equal more than a victim, perhaps that is what they truly were, kindred spirits after all.
“Harder,” she whispered, as he bit her lip, moaning and groaning, pushing his way to an orgasm, not even an inhuman or demonic one, but a heightened state of connection with a fellow demon, a demon he wanted to kill nonetheless. “Please, punish me,” she told him matter-of-factly, bitterly disappointed that there was no violen
t intrusion as she felt his hot seed flush into her. “Fuck, give it to me, give me The Devil’s seed,” she accepted him for what he was, but, she would get her wish nonetheless…
Chapter 81
Murder, indignity & the disgusting power of social media
The bottle was never the enemy, not to me. A friend, yes. A lover, yes. A steadfast anchor, that’s what it always was, and what it always would be. When my son died, the drink was there, and when my wife died, the drink was there, and when the drink was there, my love came back. It’s kind of surreal, isn’t it? The drink was my saviour. Ha, try saying that in an A.A. meeting, they’ll have you down as an addict in pure denial. When I put a gun in my mouth and I was ready to pull the trigger, the drink was my saviour, my guardian angel…
So, what is it, my love?
What do you ask of me?
Were you nothing more than a demon in disguise?
Should my pursuit of you be my final journey into the valley of darkness?
It’s hard to tell, but my world has no place for the dead, so that’s why I had to cut you off. You may be a figment of my imagination, or you may be real, a spirit that is intent on haunting me, whatever you are though, things have to move on, I have to do it, for the sake of my own sanity, and for the safety of the general public. You used to hate it when I said things like that, thought I was being all High and Mighty, all up myself, self-righteous, the great copper that would save Glasgow from all evil deeds. Well, that’s me I suppose, the haunted copper, damaged goods, but one thing I am certainly not, dear, is up myself…so…goodbye…
Clack.
He pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
He’d never been much of a winner when it came to ‘games’, and with Russian Roulette, apparently, it wasn’t going to be much different; just another night home alone.
He was about to grab for the bottle, to pour another dram, but a sharp sound rang out.
Ding – Ding…
He picked up his phone to see that Jimmy had sent a WhatsApp message – BOSS YOU’RE GOING TO WANT TO WATCH THIS - THINK YOU’LL NEED A DRINK. He read it again, confused, it was just a list of links to Internet sites, namely YouTube and Instagram.
What the fuck was it?
It was a strange thing to see a person you know being killed on the Internet.
The Casanova Killer had uploaded video footage of a female Detective, proclaiming herself to be The Unsung Satanist and telling the world that she had killed on her own terms and that the time had now come for her to dwell with Satan in the eternal Hall of Fame, begging to be taken by the blade, by the almighty Ash Man, to die with indignity, to be spoiled and raped and sullied to the extreme. She screamed and laughed and made orgasmic sounds as he violated and sodomised her in the utmost tradition of violent rape. He cut the sides of her buttocks and smeared their bodies in blood, and they both looked into the camera, evil borne into them, as he slid his red, blood-laced fingers into her mouth and she licked them like a fiend, revelling in the sordid taste of blood.
“Evil and death will fall upon you all, because The Devil is real, I am The Devil,” Moffat spoke to the camera with wicked glee. “Watch now, as I take yet another lover, and she falls for my enduring spell.”
She had her tongue out and her eyes were closed, sensually, as Moffat raised a baseball bat up into the air and struck down with it. She took the final blow to the side of the head and fell mute and splayed as blood sprayed delightfully across the room, specks coating the lens of the video camera. He unmounted her and rolled her body off the bed, letting her corpse fall to the ground, naked and bloodied and sexed. He repositioned the camera and got down upon her once again where he slid himself with ease into her anus and he continued to sodomise her dead body, getting off inside her with sharp jerks, before proceeding to smash her head into the floor until he was sure that her skull was broken to pieces. Then he got up and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her corpse up-close to the view of the camera and he just left her there, her mutilated face with bloodied strands of hair stuck to the sides of her cheeks, just staring into the screen, dead, so that all viewers would see. In the background, they would also see him, John Moffat, The Casanova Killer.
Naked.
Casual as you like.
Sat on a luxuriously soft velvet sofa with a bottle of Buckfast and indulgently smoking a joint that would put his brain to the high-heavens.
YouTube.
Facebook.
Instagram.
It was all over the Net, and by the time authorities got to the room, there’d be nothing left but the musty stench of alcohol, dope and death…
Chapter 82
The final flame that burns, not even The Devil can escape it
We’re off to never-never land…
The diagnosis and consequent treatment of a mentally-sick serial killer inevitably involves giving the subject feedback. Most are aloof, it has to be said, but some are receptive and even responsive in their own way. After all, rehabilitation is the primary objective of all imprisonment, and let’s not be fooled, a mental hospital is a prison.
Schizophrenia – a serious mental disorder that makes an otherwise normal individual perceive his or her reality in an abnormal way. Hallucinations, delusions and disorderly thinking are just a few of the symptoms that may embody this condition. Paranoia and violent tendencies are to be expected from most criminally-minded schizophrenics. Life-long treatment is ultimately required. Why? Because the condition will only get worse. If they are extremely violent and have a murder niche, then that niche will not escape them, they will kill and kill until the day they day or the day they get caught.
A lot of things had been explained to John Moffat, and, he’d been receptive to a degree. But, the shrinks, in all their wisdom and glory, had limited minds, for none of them were acutely aware of the esoteric mould. It is one thing to know that you have a condition of the mind, but to have a condition of the spirit, to be possessed, that is another thing entirely. It confused him, the ash, was it a hallucination? Or, was it something real, something from the other side, that came to him in select moments and told him to do it, to kill, to violate, to mentally rape his victims? Because, one thing for sure, he had done that. He had done things that were not explicable by any clinical text book of clinical psychology or criminology.
He hadn’t excepted it, shooting match and all, no.
But, it had tamed it, somewhat.
So, when he killed the girl, the copper, The Unsung Satanist, up there in that hotel room, he wasn’t the old ‘Johnnie Boy’ that he used to be, no, because he knew, deep down, he always had known, what had to be done in the end…
Enter Sandman.
Bung, bung, bung, bung-bung…
Bung, bung, bung, bung-bung…
Sleep with one eye open!
Gripping your pillow tight!
The flames were raging, all around the premises, and the cameras had come to see. Newspaper journalists with fancy lenses. News channels with heavy-duty video equipment. They came to see the show, the final Death Show of the elusive Casanova. This was it, what he’d dreamed off, he was sat there, naked, on a chair, in the very spot where he’d hammered his father to a miserable death and fucked his own mother by the bleeding corpse. All his bare flesh was exposed, head-to-toe, erect too as a strange form of arousal had struck him, unexpectedly so, for he was getting turned-on by the coming of his own death, and the cameras were on him, he felt eyes crawling upon his skin. He saw the flashes between the flickering flames, and the smoke grew, dense like fog, black as coal.
He slowly began to pull at his erection as he watched the orange flickering, and the smoke, and the flashing cameras. He wasn’t smiling, he should have been, but he wasn’t, his mouth etched in a stroke-like silent scream, a painful and sad one, like those distraught paintings of Jesus on the cross where he just looks up and accepts his fate. He had a half-smoked joint hanging at the corner of his mouth, smoked to the high-heavens agai
n, and an empty bottle of Buckfast sat defiantly at his feet; the last fix for Casanova. He started to cough and lowered his head as he surrendered to the black wall that was about to consume him, the Abyss, it would take him, wrap him up in its hideous blanket, it would swallow him, and he wanted to be swallowed, on his terms, his way, because this was his exit.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember, something good, anything good, but there was nothing, just the music and the high and the smoke. He opened his lungs and he allowed himself to be taken, smoked and choked and he pulled more till the seed spilled upon the young flesh of his inhuman stomach…it was the way he wanted it…he felt good about it too…because there was no expectation…there was no ash on that last occasion, just a consuming flame…the fire soon roasted him to the bone in a flaming inferno…the smoke barely had a chance…
Chapter 83
Justifiable cause?
Evil is both a circus and a circle that tends to come back, at some time, in some manifestation or another, it always returns…