by Will Carver
Carla is still on my mind, I want to make sure that I get this one right. I want it to be undeniable that my next girl is the one I should use. She has been selected and I know how she must die, but I need to be certain.
I have to be patient.
January
‘I’VE GOT IT,’ Paulson says as he enters our room. He’s sweating, which is something he does a lot as a consequence of his lifestyle. He stops in the doorway and buckles slightly at the waist, resting his left hand on his knee and catching his breath. All the time holding the letter in his right hand high above his head, as if he is under water and saving it from impending peril.
‘Fuck, Paulson. Get a grip.’ I fiddle with the marker, taking the lid off, putting it back on. Taking it off, putting it back on.
‘All right, Jan,’ he pants, ‘I haven’t even read it myself, yet.’
Seeing him struggle for air is infuriating. Having an active mind does not mean you can neglect your physical health. I pace over to him and snatch the envelope from his hand. The envelope was opened when it was originally delivered, so I only need to pull out the flap that has been tucked inside.
The card is the same as the one we received for Carla. I extract it slowly. It’s almost exciting; I see my hand shaking, but this might be because I need the Scotch in my drawer. Carefully I grab the top of the card, only using the tips of my fingers. As it emerges I see the black ink and the same rounded handwriting as was inscribed on the other card. I read the message in my head once, then out loud.
C7 to B4.
‘C7 to B4,’ I say aloud for Paulson and Murphy’s benefit.
‘Another move?’ Murphy asks.
I move over to the whiteboard. In the space below Dorothy’s chessboard diagram I write C7 to B4, then pause to look back over my shoulder at Paulson and Murphy. I see them literally edging forward in anticipation. I turn back to the board and plot an arrow for these directions.
I feel the mood in the room fall flat.
We all rock back on our heels. Stunned.
It doesn’t make sense. No chess piece can make that move from C7 to B4 in one move alone. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach and hang my head in disappointment. I know I need to compose myself, to be a leader, but everyone has their breaking point.
‘So it’s not chess.’ Murphy’s idiotic, ill-timed, comedy rhetoric is one thing too many for me to handle after all the setbacks and the lack of sleep, and I overreact.
I take the lid off the pen again and start to scribble erratically over the diagrams, growling as I do so. Then I raise my voice.
‘No, Murph, it’s not … fucking … chess.’ I say each of the last three words with a pause in between so that I have time to grit my teeth and scribble further, trying to keep my frustration in check. As I curse, I press the pen down on the board too hard and the nib disappears inside the plastic tubing, making a scratching noise against the board.
I continue to scratch against the grid, despite the pen now being broken and I repeat, ‘It’s not fucking chess,’ then I whip around and throw the marker viciously, striking Murphy in the chest. It wasn’t on purpose, but it looks that way and I can’t back away from that, otherwise I come across as weak. They are both dumbfounded by my overreaction. I don’t know what to tell them.
That we can’t give up? That I won’t give up just because of a few setbacks. I won’t be lazy like the police that stopped looking for Cathy. I won’t let my superiors convince me that this case is not important, that it’s over. I won’t allow another girl to vanish like my sister and I won’t let another family live the rest of their lives feeling the way that I always do. But we have nothing.
Nothing.
Right now, in the depths of this despondency, I think the only way we can get a handle on this is to wait for him to kill again.
We need another girl to die.
Girl 4
WHEN I GET home January is sat alone on the Chunky Arm Cuddler in vintage shabby natural leather that I ordered for us to snuggle up on and watch films together. There are three oak blocks next to the chair that I never really had use for, but thought they looked bulky and interesting. It looks as though January is using them to store his empty wine bottles on. There are two empty bottles on the lowest block, a Tempranillo and a Merlot, and a half-empty bottle on the highest, Shiraz.
It’s affecting him.
‘You’re late.’ His voice is croaky, like he has just woken up, but that’s not the case. It’s because he is drowsy. Two days without a minute of sleep, running on adrenalin and disappointment, drinking to fight the effects of his body trying to shut down.
‘I had some things to finish in the office and I stopped off on the way home to pick up some wine.’ I look over at the oak blocks to see that the bottom of the Shiraz has stained the wood. ‘But I see you have already done that.’ He looks at me with bleary eyes, then over at his stash and chuckles with a slight snort. I can see he’s finding it difficult to keep his eyes open.
‘Have you eaten?’
He shakes his head.
‘Do you want to?’
He shrugs his shoulders.
I wonder whether I pushed him too far on the phone earlier. Maybe I sent him over the edge. Maybe this is all my fault.
‘OK. Stay here. I’ll be back in a second. Try to stay awake. I haven’t seen you properly for days.’ I leave him to wallow on the seat built for two that he is managing to completely occupy, sandwiched between his own self-loathing and pity.
In the kitchen I pull open the drawer where the bottle opener lives. January has put it back in there, at least, but has left the cork from the Shiraz attached to the corkscrew. I pull it out of the drawer and slam it shut. But it doesn’t slam, because I had all the drawers and cupboards fitted with a hydraulic system that slows them down an inch before they impact to keep them silent.
I unscrew the cork with my hand and dispose of it properly, then open my own bottle – a Pinot Noir from Mount Difficulty. Normally I would let it breathe for a minimum of thirty minutes, but I don’t have the time tonight as I’m playing catch-up with my fiancé. Leaving the bottle on the work surface, I move over to the refrigerator. Opening the large door, which is roughly my height, I’m hit by a refreshing gust that cools my temper. On one of the shelves inside the door sits the remnants of a bottle of Cloudy Bay that I almost worked through the other night. I take it out and lift the bottle to my lips. So uncouth, so unlike me, but I down the last sixth of the bottle in record time. It hurts my teeth. But I feel I have given the Pinot some respect by at least letting it sit there for even a short while.
When I re-enter the living room, Jan is leaning over the side of the chair looking intently at the tallest block. He is unaware that I am watching him from the doorway. I see him lick the end of his index finger then rub it ferociously on the burgundy ring that has already soaked into the oak.
‘Leave it, Jan.’ He jumps at the unexpected sound of my voice and swivels around until he is facing forward again.
‘Sorry, babe. I didn’t think.’ He looks so innocent as he says this. So subdued.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s just a piece of wood.’ I bought it from a website that seemed ethically sound and they promised that all of their wooden furniture comes from a sustainable source. I think it was around £79, so not that expensive. Expensive for a coaster, sure, but replaceable.
‘How was your day?’ he asks, not really caring. Just going through the motions.
‘Same as ever. You know?’ He doesn’t know. I’m not sure he really understands what I do each day as the head of the company. ‘Business is steady, nothing to worry about.’ He nods and stiffens his lips in approval.
‘Good. Good.’
I don’t know whether or not to ask him about his day, because clearly it isn’t going well; the litres of wine tell me that much. ‘Apparently the hen night is all set. I just need to bring a party frock and a sense of fun.’ I smile as I say this and take a gulp
of the Pinot Noir.
But first I take a sniff. Blackberries and dark cherry. The taste is underpinned by a spice I can’t quite identify, but I’m definitely getting liquorice. It’s exactly what I need.
‘I’m worried about what Paulson has planned.’ It looks as though I have escaped the depressing work talk. ‘I said no strippers, but he says that a stag night without strippers is like vodka and tonic with lemon. Wrong.’ He shrugs.
‘I don’t care if there are strippers there, Jan.’
I do.
I don’t agree that this is the last night of freedom. We’ve been together for the last two years; that isn’t freedom, that’s togetherness, monogamy. So, to go out and let a half-naked whore writhe about on a part of your body that, technically, only two people in the world should be seeing or touching, is unacceptable. How would he feel if I decided to be ‘free’ with a male stripper or escort?
‘It’s the last night that I will allow you to be anywhere near a stripper, so you might as well enjoy it.’ I don’t know why I said that. Maybe there has been too much confrontation today. Maybe I’ll save it for some time in the future.
‘Well, I don’t want one. Just a few beers, a few laughs, tell some old stories, hammer out some clichés about married life. Nothing major.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I say, raising my glass to toast. January finishes the last mouthful and turns back to the blocks he has ruined, to refill. As he turns his back on me I empty my glass of its contents straight down my throat. There’s so much in there that it takes me two gulps. The second gulp is harder to take than the first. As he turns back to me I am pouring more wine into my bulbous glass and walking over to where he is sitting.
I can easily fit on to the chair with Jan, it’s the reason I bought the thing in the first place, but I don’t want to invade his space just yet; he clearly needs it. So I perch myself on the floor next to the seat, not quite kneeling. I rest my weight against the leather and put my left hand on his thigh. We touch glasses to toast the end of another difficult day and say nothing as we sip our chosen inebriant, looking each other in the eyes, knowing exactly where this is leading.
For a while we sit in silence. I lean my back against the sofa, my legs stretched out in front of me, slightly resting my side against Jan’s leg. My arm covers his thigh and I stroke him lightly as we both stare through the wall opposite. I imagine myself walking towards January at the altar, him smiling back at me slightly nervous. Jan is doing the same, but his thoughts are not on the important day that is less than three weeks away now, but on his sister and the two girls that have been so inventively culled over the last months.
He moves his glass into his left hand and strokes the back of my head sensually with the other. It’s so relaxing and I tilt my head up to the ceiling in half-ecstasy to show my gratitude.
I leave my head where it is, my eyes closed, feeling January’s strong masculine hands massaging my head; it’s heavenly. Even though my eyes are closed I still sense him as he draws ever closer. Leaning down, he kisses me softly on the lips. I open my eyes to see him above me, his weathered face and bloodshot brown eyes peering intently into mine.
‘I love you, Audrey,’ he says meaningfully, and I believe him.
I take my hand off his thigh and grab a handful of hair on the back of his head to pull him back in and kiss again, this time with a little more vigour.
As our heads move apart I give him a smile and push his chest up, so that he is back in a seated position. All in one movement I manage to stand up and corkscrew myself around to end up straddling him. I lean over and place my glass on the stained wooden block, pushing my breasts into his chest as I do so. I grab the back of his hair again and yank his head back against the shabby brown leather. Playfully, I grip his bottom lip in my teeth and pull at it slightly, while also moving my hips subtly back and forth.
Then I stop, look him directly in his weary eyes and say, ‘Yeah, me too.’ Then I kiss him one more time before I take control of everything.
Eames
I DON’T KNOW whether it’s pride or self-promotion. Maybe eighty out of the one hundred people that leave the building are wearing their company lanyard around their neck. You can tell which ones do this through necessity or ease of use and which ones feel it is a status symbol.
I’ve seen people walking to the Tube in Shepherd’s Bush wearing them. I’ve noticed them at King’s Cross trying to look important, like they matter.
Amy leaves the BBC building and puts hers straight into her bag. I watch her do this from the grassy area where so many of them congregate for lunch to talk about work even more. To jabber on about contracts and rights and talent and nothing that is important.
I can sit here behind a book on my own and nobody will notice me or converse with me, because it would mean that they might have to stop talking about themselves for a second.
Amy has vibrancy. She stands out from the drones that are too afraid to admit they have nothing in their lives apart from their work, and they hate their work.
I see her take the time to talk to another girl in sign language.
And I know that she is worthy.
I hear her talking about a hangover, as if it is as normal as eating cereal.
And I know that I can kill her.
She listens to what people have to say and appears enthusiastic about everything.
To take the life of someone who truly appreciates what they have, someone who understands the privilege of existence, is far more rewarding; it feels like an achievement.
When someone is convicted of a crime and they confess to preying on the weak, harmless and unsuspecting, that’s not me. That’s indolence. For some, death is a privilege; those that I do not kill are already dead, living in their personal hell.
Weak and harmless is simple. There is no reason for it.
For Amy, her death should be the greatest thrill of all. For both of us.
I wait until she passes me on the path that bisects the two green areas populated by asymmetrical haircuts and designer stubble and protruding lanyards and ego. She is with two work colleagues, one male and one female. They look to be heading out for lunch.
I wait until they are through the first crossing, then I stand, locate the bobbing blonde head of the effervescent Miss Mullica and begin my stalk, throwing my book into the first rubbish bin I see.
I assume they are heading towards the market, because there really isn’t much in the area apart from White City Tube station, some flats opposite that appear to have perpetual scaffolding attached and the official BBC car park. A building site on the left will house a large shopping centre in the next few years, making the A40 even harder to negotiate during rush hour and weekends.
Along Uxbridge Street there are plenty of eateries that accommodate the plethora of diverse cultures that make Shepherd’s Bush what it is. It reminds me of the Swiss Cottage area that Carla was from, only this has so much more colour. But even a serial killer has to be aware that this is not the safest area of London to be in.
The first hundred yards of the street are filled with chain eateries, but past the market are places like Pizza Corner, Chicken Cottage and House of Pies. For the more adventurous there are Indian, Thai, Vietnamese and Caribbean restaurants. There are Polish delis and large independent Asian supermarkets, but Amy, the same as last week, has walked the mile from her desk to the market in order to buy Palestinian falafel.
While most would make an event out of this, perhaps saving this as an end-of-week treat or something to break up a laborious Monday, Amy is different. I’ve seen her here on Thursdays mainly, the occasional Tuesday and seldom on Wednesday. She just does it because she likes it. Just from watching her I can see that nobody could make her do something that she didn’t want to.
This is the challenge.
This is my thrill.
This is what sets me apart from the impulsive, sexually minded, cross-dressing, habitual killers that have come before me.<
br />
I have class. An agenda.
My résumé would list my abilities as organised and determined to drive a project through to its conclusion, working under pressure to defined deadlines and targets, a proactive worker with a mind on achieving the final goal.
I also have a lifetime of experience in this industry.
I see Amy through the window of the falafel shop laughing with the owner, pointing at her work friends. I see how she commands attention with her presence. She doesn’t seek it, she just has charisma. I can imagine her in bed with me. I can see her on top of me, below me, on the floor in front of me, her hands tied to her feet, her back arching as I watch the last bit of breath leave her body, her sound muffled, her tears silent.
Carla nearly ruined everything.
Amy will be my redemption.
I can’t wait to fucking ruin her.
January
AUDREY IS GONE.
Even though we are getting married in just over a couple of weeks, I feel a little used. Like it was a one-night stand. As though she was just getting something out of her system.
I can feel those bottles of wine creeping up on me, ready to assault my senses, for the numbness to wear off and the pain to ensue.
The bed covers are sticking to me. My body is damp with a clammy sensation that feels as though I am sweating alcohol, like my system is attempting to expel all the poisons inside me in any way it can.
I feel like water will help. Two pints of water. Or a glass of Scotch to take the edge off.
As I try to sit up I feel the blood either rushing to my head or away from my brain. Either way, it makes me dizzy; it temporarily paralyses my intentions and my head falls back on to the pillow. Even that hurts.
As I stretch my arms up behind my head I brush the top of Audrey’s top pillow with my forearm. She has left a note on there for me to find when I wake up.