Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “Then I’m sure we will find other uses for you,” says Shade, stepping inside the room himself and holding the door for her. If Lydia is going to bolt, she knows this is the moment. But before she knows it, she is inside, and the door has closed behind her. Reckless. She imagines Alex’s face if he could see this. He would be furious. Maybe she will tell him, she thinks, when it suits her purpose.

  “Uses?” she asks, snapping back into the moment.

  “Like our friend here,” Shade gestures to the man in the chair. “Nasty piece of work. Enjoys the taste of human flesh. Can you imagine?” He wrinkles his nose in disgust, but his gleeful eyes suggest to Lydia that Shade doesn’t need to imagine. She tastes bitterness at the back of her throat as the panic rises from deep within her. She badly underestimated the warden, and now finds herself at the mercy of a monster.

  “You see,” Shade continues, giving no sign as to having noticed Lydia’s discomfort, “our friend here can no longer contribute to society, so now he contributes to our research effort instead. Don’t you?” Shade smacks the helpless man upside his head, and Lydia watches tears form in the tortured, barely alive creature’s eyes.

  “I hope you’re not threatening me,” she says sharply, summoning as much bravery as she can muster and rounding on the warden as he makes his way to the computer bank where two doctors are poring over their data. Both are old, and frail, and neither says a word to their guests. It’s almost as if she and Shade are ghosts visiting a spirit world, Lydia thinks.

  “My dear, I have no reason to threaten you,” says Shade, poking one of the scientists and pointing to a switch. “I have the utmost confidence that you will not betray my trust.”

  Lydia opens her mouth to reply, but as she does so the doctor reaches for the switch and turns it hard to the right. The lights dim and a deafening buzz fills the room, followed by blood-curdling screams as thousands of volts of electricity surge through the wretched young man’s already fried brain. Lydia feels all of the strength leave her body in an instant, and has to grab on to a table to stop herself from falling.

  A moment later, the screaming stops. The lights return to their original brightness. The buzz is gone. A sudden, eerie peace.

  “Electricity is a reliable force,” says Shade, with the air of an English general casually explaining the destructive power of a new weapon to a stunned civilian. “No matter who we put in that chair, it will break their mind as surely as stone breaks glass. Even a brilliant individual,” he turns to Lydia, black eyes twinkling with malice, “such as yourself. We could fry your brain in seconds, toss you in a cell and just tell people you went mad writing about all these freaks.”

  Lydia stares at the broken test subject, his eyes rolling independently in their sockets, drool running down his face and neck, hollow cheeks, wasted flesh. She is frozen, unable to move, or speak, or even to breathe. This is what pure terror feels like.

  “Do we understand one another?” Shade’s voice reverberates through her very soul, a deep and timeless evil.

  Lydia nods weakly, still winded from shock.

  “Excellent,” says Shade, smoothly. “Now, would you like to stay a while and watch? It’s really rather fascinating.”

  Lydia shakes her head, her eyes fixed upon the victim in the centre of the room, slumped, twitching, broken. This is the heart of darkness, she thinks. This is worse than death.

  Twenty-Six

  Heart of Ice

  Howling winds churn falling snow against the black night, swallowing everything in a thick, wet, suffocating cold. Frost creeps down the window of Lydia’s hotel room, hiding the worst of the storm from her as she hurries to dress. Here in the warmth, within these four reassuring walls, the warden of Mortem’s threats feel almost like a dream. But a dream that she knows will haunt her every waking moment until this story is put to bed one way or another. And in order to do that, she will have to return to the asylum. The very thought makes her feel sick.

  Alex will be here soon, she tells herself. He will protect me. She believes it too, up to a point. Alex is strong, and capable, and smart. Not smart like her, but savvy. He thinks like a cop. That can be useful. But Lydia thinks like bad people do, and the man in the cage whom she needs to break, bested Alex for a long time.

  A gentle knock bounces off the door and Lydia jumps. She’s not ready. Bare feet skim over the carpet to the door, which she opens with a coy flourish.

  “Hi.” She smiles.

  “Wow…” Alex replies. He’s wearing that same leather jacket over a clean, white shirt and black jeans. For him, Lydia knows by now, this is dressed to impress. Simple, but, she admits to herself with a tremor of pleasure, pretty attractive nonetheless.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She blushes, looking down and shaking her luxurious blonde curls before flicking her eyes back up to him. She’s wearing a fitted two-piece bodice of rich ebony-hued fabric, with hints of an intricate swirling pattern in dark purple embroidery. Lacing of the same rich, royal shade cinches it closed at the back, perfectly enclosing her breasts and revealing a small area of toned stomach. The bottom section flares over her hips, below which a midnight blue skirt, slit front and back, falls elegantly to the floor. Clear crystals encircle her neck, and the ever-present ruby ring.

  Alex mouths a response, but finds his lungs suddenly devoid of air and unable to project it. Lydia grins and motions for him to come in. “I just need a moment to finish my make-up,” she says, heading for the bathroom. “Make yourself at home.”

  “You look amazing as you are,” he calls after her, relocating his voice.

  “You’re sweet,” she replies through the half-open door. Alex sinks gingerly onto the foot of the bed and picks up the nearby TV remote. He points and clicks, and a local weather report appears on screen. The volume is low, but it serves to settle his nerves a little. His leg is twitching, restless, venting off some excess tension. He hasn’t spoken to Lydia since the incident with Jason. What does she think about that? About him? Has it changed? Would she even say if it had? His eyes dart around the room, seeking comfort but finding only an unsettling order everywhere they alight. Everything is too straight, too perfect, from the radio on the bedside table to the shoes arranged perfectly next to the wardrobe, and finally the desk; a closed laptop, pens laid neatly together and a small notebook. Alex glances quickly towards the bathroom and then back to the book. He hesitates, then snatches it up like a cobra seizing its prey. Eagerly, he flips to the most recent entries.

  What is evil? Reference historical figures.

  Focus: Jason’s family history, genetics, ancestors – looking for psychopathic tendencies.

  Birth of twin brothers – colour, relatable.

  Childhood – relationship with brother (Finley), how does death affect Jason? Blame from father? Guilt for mother?

  School with Cecil – friends? Bullied? Grades?

  Teen years – romantic relationships? Hostile ones?

  Young adult – drug abuse, theft, peer pressure, circumstance, home environment.

  First kill – how, why?

  Birth of the Krimson Killer – influences, inspirations? What do his methods tell us about him? What about his targets?

  Downfall – confession, guilt?

  Mortem – my POV.

  A toilet flushes, ripping Alex from his trance. In a panic, he throws the notebook onto the desk and then, eyes flicking back and forth between it and the bathroom door, lunges to correct its position, perfectly aligned to the right of the laptop, and centred beneath the pens.

  “Hoped it was my diary, did you?” asks Lydia. Alex snatches his hands away from the desk and whips around to face her.

  “I just…” he stammers.

  “It’s okay, Alex.” She smiles, leaning against the frame of the door. “Curiosity is a normal human trait; I’m not going to punish you for it.” She walks towards him, hips swaying meticulously. “Unless you want me to?”

  “I, uh…” Alex swallows, his mo
uth suddenly dry. “Sure.”

  Lydia takes a moment to enjoy the thrall that she has over him. She does like him. He’s kind, funny, good company. But first and foremost, right now he is useful as a bodyguard and source of information. She doesn’t feel bad about using him. This is the way the world works. Human beings are inherently selfish and self-serving. She’s only obeying her natural instincts, using the tools that Mother Nature has gifted her.

  “I’m kidding, you dope.” Lydia turns and snatches up a pair of black heels from the floor, then sinks into a chair to put them on. “Well, what did you think?”

  “Of what?” asks Alex, confused.

  “Whatever it was you read in there,” she says, nodding towards the desk.

  “Oh.” Alex glances at the notebook. “Well I guess… it was interesting to see your thought process. The way you structure things, you know, plan them.”

  “They’re just bullet points.” Lydia smiles. She likes that he admires her mind, but doesn’t wish to seem arrogant. Or at least, any more arrogant than might be strictly necessary.

  “Well,” says Alex awkwardly, “they’re very neat bullet points.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia laughs, standing up. “Shall we?”

  “Sure.” Alex jumps up.

  “I still don’t know where we’re going,” she says in a deliberately breezy fashion, grabbing her coat from the back of the door.

  “I told you,” Alex replies, “it’s a surprise.”

  Lydia’s instinct is to be irritated, but she isn’t. She hates surprises, doesn’t she? Always has. Could it be that she doesn’t mind the uncertainty when she’s with him? Could it be that she’s changing? Is the ice queen melting?

  This is a surprise.

  Twenty-Seven

  Winter’s Waltz

  A small, silver car ploughs through winter’s wrath, wheels skidding on the icy road, headlight’s dipped against blinding banks of snow. Behind the wheel, Alex Gilbey concentrates hard while attempting to convey an impression otherwise. His gently misting breath gives him away, however, as it forms and swirls with increasing force and frequency. Lydia sees it.

  “So,” she says, casually, “where are we going?”

  “Nice try.” Alex grins, snapping his eyes off the road for a split second, just long enough to capture a fleeting image of Lydia’s twinkling eyes, framed by those shining blonde curls.

  “It is safe, right?” she asks, uncertainly. Alex wasn’t stupid, but he was still a man and might easily underestimate Lydia’s insecurity in light of recent events. Especially as he hadn’t been privy to all of them.

  “Of course it’s safe,” he replies, genuine. “I’m looking after you, aren’t I?” With a cheeky, boyish smirk he rests his hand upon hers for a sweet moment, then Alex proceeds to steer the vehicle’s wheel, steadily moving them past a struggling blue hatchback. Red tail lights from another car ahead flare up, and he eases onto his own brakes, slowing then turning left.

  “Is it… public?” Lydia prodded.

  “No,” Alex deadpans, “I’m taking you to the field where I buried all my other bodies.”

  “That’s not funny,” Lydia scolds. Alex grins at her.

  “Come on, Lyd, we’re just going to dinner. No one’s going to knock you out in the car park, I promise.”

  “Is it loud?” she asks. She feels like swimming in a sea of noise and life might wash away some of this terrible tension.

  “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “It can be less,” she says pointedly, “if you tell me where we’re going.”

  “Do you make an effort not to have any fun?” asks Alex with another quick glance at her.

  “I find knowledge fun,” she replies. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

  “Maybe,” says Alex, lifting his chin as though daring her to play the game.

  “You can’t say maybe!”

  “Why not?” Alex’s concentration lapses for a split second and the car wobbles on the ice. Lydia grabs his arm and he looks smugly at her. She releases it at once. “Why can’t I say maybe?”

  “Because that’s not how twenty questions works!” Lydia replies, exasperated. “Yes or no?”

  Alex pretends to think hard. “Perhaps,” he says finally.

  “God, it’s a real battle of wits with you, isn’t it?” Lydia rolls her eyes and sits back in her seat, facing straight ahead.

  “You’re just mad because you’re losing.”

  Lydia ignores him and reaches to push the power button on the stereo.

  Here comes Santa Claus,

  Here comes Santa Cl—

  “Ergh…” Lydia growls, stabbing the button again with a crimson talon. “No.”

  “Got a problem with Santa Claus?” asks Alex, one eyebrow raised, trying not to laugh. Lydia opens her mouth to reply, but Alex spots their destination up ahead. “Murray’s!” he announces cheerfully. “Here we are.”

  Lydia peers through the windscreen at the front of the restaurant. It looks nice, sophisticated. Simple signage with flowing lettering, and through the window the soft glow of chandeliers illuminating crisp, white tablecloths. It seems pretty full of well-dressed clientele. Lydia eyes Alex’s jeans uncertainly.

  “Looks nice,” she says, hopefully.

  “I’ve only been once before,” Alex replies, “but it was great. They have singers, dancing, drinks, a little bit of everything. You can have whatever kind of night you fancy.”

  “Very thoughtful,” she says with a smile.

  “I have my moments.” Alex grins back.

  “There’s a space!” says Lydia suddenly, one slender finger shooting out to indicate a gap between two parked cars. Alex slows down and swings wide to approach it, but a sleek, black car sweeps in front of him to steal it. Lydia sees his knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. “Dick!” she yells at the car.

  “Wow.” Alex peers at her, surprised. “You’re really serious about your parking spa—”

  “There’s one!” Lydia’s finger jabs again towards another spot across the road, then she grins at the look on Alex’s face. “What?” she asks, innocently. “Everyone has a talent, don’t they?”

  “Sure,” Alex agrees, manoeuvring into the space, “I just thought yours was, you know, writing.”

  “That’s just my day job,” says Lydia, unbuckling her seatbelt as the car comes to a halt.

  “You’re in a funny mood.”

  “Probably just the hunger talking.” She pushes the door open and slides out, elegantly. “Careful,” she calls out as Alex emerges from the other side of the car, “the ground’s icy.”

  “I know.” He boggles at her. “I was just driving on it.” He comes around the back of the car and offers her his arm. “Besides, you’re the one in ten-inch heels.”

  “Okay,” Lydia says, taking his arm. “Well, these are four-inch heels. There’s no such thing as ten-inch heels unless you’re a stripping giant.”

  “Only on the weekends,” Alex replies, as they navigate their way across the slippery tarmac. “Weather’s supposed to get worse tomorrow too,” he mutters, with a glance up to the sky.

  “You’re a glass half full type, aren’t you?” Lydia observes.

  “Depends what’s in the glass.” Alex grins. “Speaking of which.” They reach the door of the restaurant and he holds it open for her. A blast of warm, delicious air hits Lydia’s face and she begins to salivate.

  “Thank you, sir,” she says, and makes a point of touching her necklace as she passes him.

  Murray’s is even grander than it looks from the outside. A large stage at the back hosts an entire orchestra of musicians and singers entertaining a packed dance floor. Above the revellers a giant crystal chandelier sparkles, while candles flicker on the tables all around. There is an upper balcony too, over which beautiful faces peer down at the revelry, and dark corners and crannies where those less inclined to the limelight might lurk. Every inch of the place is rich with cream and gold,
warmth and comfort.

  “Welcome to Murray’s,” purrs an impeccably presented maître d’, appearing beside them.

  “Table for Gilbey,” says Alex.

  “Of course, sir, right this way.” They follow him through a sea of fine suits, fur and feathers to an immaculate little table with a perfect view of the stage. “May I take your coats?”

  “Thank you,” says Lydia, slipping her long, cherry coat from her shoulders and offering it to him. She notices several men seated nearby glance up from their food and conversations, and enjoys their lingering eyes upon her. Alex notices them too, but he seems less pleased.

  “Thanks,” he says, handing over his leather jacket.

  “A waiter will be along directly to take your drinks order,” says the maître d’, holding Lydia’s chair for her.

  “Thank you.” She smiles, settling herself. “Gosh, it’s lovely here,” she says to Alex across the table.

  “Yeah,” he agrees, looking around. “Just how I remember it.”

  “What made you think of this place?”

  Alex shrugs. “I just have this memory of a perfect night here,” he says a touch wistfully, “and that’s what I wanted tonight to be.”

  “A perfect night with your wife?” Lydia asks gently. Alex looks down at the table.

  “Yeah…”

  “I’m sorry,” Lydia says, somewhat uncomfortable, “I shouldn’t have mentioned… I’m stupid.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” he replies, looking up with a small smile. “It’s okay, Lydia, yes I came here with my wife before she ran off with a bartender and it was great.”

  “That she ran off with—”

  “The night here was great.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Though you’re doing your best to ruin my happy memories.”

  “So make new ones,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.

  “May I get you some drinks?” asks a young, penguin-like waiter at Lydia’s shoulder.

  “Gin Martini,” Lydia replies, smiling up at him. “And Jack Daniel’s and Coke for the gentleman.”

  “Very good, madam.” The waiter gives a curt nod and disappears back into the shimmering haze of luxury.