Girl 4

by Will Carver

  I can start to smell the fabric around me, now that my brain has registered it. I can smell urine.

  Then the heat of the spotlight that switches on above me alerts me to the fact that the material is red and opaque. I try to make out shapes in the room, but it is empty.

  I sigh. That is when I hear the familiar sound of the shuffling feet behind me.

  And I know that someone else is going to die in the next twenty-four hours.

  Girl 5.

  I need to pay attention. The clues are here. They always have been. This time I have to take notice.

  From side to side his feet shuffle, but something is different this time. His usual flat-footed scraping is replaced with a light click, as though he has learned to lift his feet off the ground as he moves. His heels metronomically keeping beat as they hit the wooden floor beneath them, hypnotically calming me.

  His large hands touch my head and I flinch backwards. He releases his touch and calms me with the tap of his feet again, slowing my heart rate, gaining my trust. And he repeats his attempt. This time I remain still as he unties the knot from atop my head, allowing the air to seep in through the gap he creates.

  With the knot now loose, he lets go, but doesn’t pull down the sack. I sense he hasn’t moved. Shaking my head vigorously, the hole on top becomes larger and larger until it drops down past my face and rests on my shoulders.

  He is stood in front of me, smiling. His eyes alight with what looks like genuine pleasure to see me.

  I almost smile back.

  But I resist.

  He turns and walks towards his spot slowly, slower than normal. As he gets further away I notice that he is taller than usual. Around four inches taller. The exact height of the high heels he seems to be wearing. I look around from side to side, as if someone might be there that can confirm I am not imagining this, scrunching my brow in disbelief.

  He turns at the end like a catwalk model and places his hands on his hips. Then, he makes his way back to me, crossing his feet at the front to give a swagger; he is so comfortable and confident in stilettos.

  Stopping in front of me, he bends at the waist, just as he always does, and pushes his smile into my face. His hands remain on his hips as he scrutinises me. Then he straightens his back. I haven’t realised that his hands are now on my shoulders. With the cloth screwed up in either palm of his giant mitts he tilts his head to the side and distracts my concentration. Then, in one swift movement he yanks at the bag above both my shoulders.

  It doesn’t tear.

  I don’t move.

  The Smiling Man holds it up in front of him, then whips it around the back of his neck and ties it into a knot like a cape. He makes his way back to his favourite spot.

  I wonder when the torture will start. When he will pull a gun or knife. When he will produce a razor blade and make tiny incisions all over my body, before throwing salt over each wound or pouring my favourite Scotch over my head to painfully seal each gash.

  But he doesn’t want to hurt me this time.

  He wants to put on a show.

  I haven’t even noticed the music playing.

  He is my beat, my rhythm.

  My guide.

  Untying the knot that wedges itself underneath his immense Adam’s apple, he shakes out the sheet in front of him. It appears to get longer with every flick of his wrists, rippling further, getting closer to my face and cooling me down in the process.

  He stops the motion and the sheet drops to the floor at his feet in a heap, visibly longer than when it was a cape, more fabric than it had when it constricted my movement as a closed sack.

  He holds his end at waist level, the top of the sheet taut from his grip. He moves it up to his chest, then back down to his waist. Back up to his chest, then returns to waist height. He does this three more times, not looking at the sheet, always transfixing his distended eyes at me, continually smiling that dirty grin in my direction. Then with one movement he throws the sheet into the air, so that it goes above his head.

  Nothing could prepare me for what I would see next.

  As the sheet floats downwards it shows a different Smiling Man. Almost instantaneously he has changed into something else.

  He is still the same height, the same bulging eyes, the same haunting expression, the same long black coat, but my gaze is drawn away from his smile.

  His hair is now down past his shoulders, peroxide blonde and in bad condition. His eyelashes are noticeably longer, his teeth whiter and his face brighter. Those dark cheeks that bookend his memorable smile are bright pink with blusher. He is wearing blue eyeshadow, mascara and a bubblegum lipstick that seems to plum his mouth up more than I thought possible.

  His coat is buttoned shut. Normally I can see his trousers, his black shirt and belt buckle, but it is evident he is not wearing that now.

  In a microsecond, he has become someone different.

  Below his coat a pair of lightly coloured stockings display his beautifully smooth, almost attractive, legs. Where the coat parts at the chest, it is clear he has no shirt on any more. It is also frighteningly obvious that he has breasts. Ample handfuls of beautiful real breasts. Not augmented. Natural.

  He is like The Smiling Transvestite.

  The Smiling Transexual.

  The Smiling Woman.

  For the first time since he appeared I find myself wanting to look at his mouth and nothing else.

  Swaying in time with the music he grabs the lapels of his manly coat, pushing his hips from left to right in an exaggerated, almost childlike, innocent way. Like he is trying to tease me.

  He takes four steps forward. I count them, suddenly apprehensive.

  Stopping, he repeats the hip movement, attempting allure. I try not to convey my inner cringe.

  I can’t avert my eyes. I am drawn in as he seductively runs his hands, now complete with white nail polish, up and down the lapels of the dirty coat, which is the only original feature left of the man that frequents my subconscious.

  Two more steps towards me.

  He opens the top of the jacket outwards to bare his new nubile chest, the ebony nipples pointing at me like the bullets he placed in my mouth the first time we met.

  One more step.

  He sways again, his breasts springing east and west, his smile remaining, his gaze fixed.

  Then he stops.

  And the coat drops to the floor.

  There, standing before me, not four feet from where I am sat, my hands and feet bound to restrict movement, is the resemblance of a man I have learned to fear and respect. The giant Smiling Man, now naked, with make-up, wavy fake blonde hair, near-perfect breasts, lengthy muscular thighs and four-inch heels.

  And that smile.

  And those eyes.

  And no penis.

  Female genitalia. Firm and clean. His pubic hair shaved into a tidy rectangle. The transformation is beyond fascinating. I try to speak, but no words come out. So I stare at it in disbelief. And I see blood start to trickle down the inside of his legs. Her legs.

  Feeling the moisture, The Smiling Man tilts his head to look down where his dick should be and sees the blood on the inside of both legs. His eyes protrude even further as his stare returns to my expression, then they glaze over. He looks like he might cry. But he doesn’t.

  He takes his right hand and puts it between his legs to feel what he is missing and locates what must be a wound of some kind.

  Upon the detection of nothing but soft tissue and blood he brings his hand up to his mouth as if miming ‘Oh no.’ As he lowers his hand I count the five bloody finger marks left on the lower half of his face.

  He holds his sinned hand out and takes one more step towards me.

  *

  I flinch and wake up, the light of day just creeping through the window of the office, the hard drives still spinning out a low-key hum.

  I don’t know what it means yet, but I now know that I have to share this. If this information can stop another girl f
rom perishing, then I know that I have to tell someone about the things I see.

  Girl 5

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON IN the office is always the same. I hear them talking to each other. Talking about what they are doing tonight, where they are going, who they are going with. Arranging to bump into each other or meet for a drink, but never including me.

  I pretend I don’t hear them.

  I make out that I’m fine with it.

  I’m invisible to them.

  Still, at the end of every week I stay behind a little later than everyone. I tried walking out at the same time once, cool by proxy, pity invite, but all I saw were the backs of suits and blouses. Josh, from corporate, even said, ‘See you next week, Rich.’

  I got the message. I’m not invited.

  But every Friday, I go out. Not necessarily with the people from work, but at least in the vicinity.

  I stand outside their booth or sit at the bar on my own near where they congregate and laugh at jokes that aren’t funny, drinking their livers into oblivion.

  I wait. Maybe one week it will be different.

  I wait for some humanity.

  Every week I drink on my own and wonder what I’ve done wrong. But I never say anything.

  I wonder if they’ll even realise that I’m dead.

  I wonder if I know I’m alive.

  They leave the office in packs. I hear a whisper of ‘’Ave a good one, Richard’ and ‘See you Monday, Rich’ and I feel happy that they know I exist. But they must know that I don’t stay much later than them. I don’t sit here all night or travel straight home to boost my online gaming credibility.

  I wait. Again. Until all the wolves have left the office. I pretend I have a few things to finish off, maybe leave a spreadsheet open on my desktop, some kind of pivot-table. I’ve started to use the same one each week now. They won’t notice.

  Standing over the far side of the office I see the crowds gravitate towards Smollensky’s on the corner. The typical starting point for them and the place I usually end up staying when they all move on, the last to leave again.

  Our office cleaner potters around behind me, pulling cups and crisp packets off the desks and filling her bin liner.

  ‘Not meeting your friends for drinks tonight, Mr Pendragon?’ she says in her Caribbean accent, her English less broken than when she started here.

  ‘They’re getting the drinks in for me tonight. I’m off to meet them now,’ I lie to her face, grab my jacket, swing it over my shoulder and saunter out like I mean something, like I have something.

  Rounding the corner of the street I see the black signage outside the bar. Through the window, hordes of people pack in, sweating on one another, sharing champagne and sampling cocktails; never the same drink twice.

  I take a breath, ready for the same humiliation as last week and the week before that.

  Ready to give them all another chance.

  I’m not ready to be injected, tied up in a bag, locked in a casket and painted to look like a woman.

  I’m not ready to bleed to death, because some psychotic maniac masquerading as an artist thinks it is acceptable to strip me naked and cut my fucking dick off.

  January

  I CALL PAULSON early, when I wake up at my desk again. It’s a couple of hours before he is due in. I ask him not to come into the office and to just meet me outside the Canary Wharf Tube station at 9.30. He should come with Murphy.

  ‘What’s this about, Jan? You got a lead?’ he asks, audibly fatigued.

  ‘Something like that. Definitely something that might be worth discussing.’

  And I leave it at that.

  Getting there for 9.30 gives me enough time to shower myself down, shave, use the toilet, change my clothes and all in record time, so I don’t have to spend a second longer than is necessary in our marital home. The home we should both be living happily in.

  I’m first to Canary Wharf and wait opposite the Underground exit, leaning against the concrete of the bridge, watching the share prices scroll past without really understanding what I’m looking at. I try to figure out the full company names from the abbreviations and acronyms.

  Losing time somewhere in the game I have created for myself, I don’t notice Paulson and Murphy have arrived together, so, when they approach and startle me, I pour black coffee down the front of the clean shirt I have forced myself into.

  ‘Oh fuck it,’ I say, looking down at my shirt, pulling it off my skin to prevent myself from being burned.

  ‘Sorry, Jan.’ Paulson fusses over me, not knowing what to do. I swat his hands away and waft my shirt in a futile attempt to dry it out a little.

  I still haven’t looked at them.

  They’re going to think I’m crazy.

  ‘OK. It’s fine. It’s fine. Let’s go and sit down and grab another coffee, eh?’ It’s clear that I’m agitated.

  We walk over to Carluccio’s and take a seat outside. The weather is mild, but I’m hoping the breeze off the water will help dry out my Americano-stained shirt quicker.

  The coffees are brought to our tables; our usual drinks. Paulson grabs a pasticcio di cioccolato for himself. Not many people can handle a chocolate bread-and-butter pudding for breakfast. Murphy and I share the selection of biscotti.

  I watch Paulson shovel in a portion of his breakfast dessert. Still chewing on the bits of bread he didn’t swallow immediately, he asks, ‘So, Jan, what have you got on this guy?’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to say.’ I pause. They wait. Total silence. Total concentration. Paulson even stops eating for a moment.

  I dunk my biscotti into my coffee, then eat the soggy section of hazelnut goodness. Leaning back on my chair I tell them, ‘I’ve had a dream.’ They look perplexed, as if this is a joke. It’s the same look my father gave to my mother when she tried to explain about Cathy.

  I’ve seen it before.

  I know what they are thinking.

  I’ve thought it myself.

  ‘A dream?’ Murphy speaks slowly, elongating the word dream to convey his scepticism. Paulson says nothing.

  ‘Hear me out.’ I tell them about the dream I had last night, about The Smiling Man transmogrifying into a giant bleeding woman. I explain that the night before Girl 1 died I dreamed of having a bullet thrust into my mouth; before Girl 2 the hot pokers seared through my muscles in exactly the same positions that we found the arrows in Carla’s body. I tell them that before Girl 3 I had the most vivid dream where hundreds of Smiling Men crowded around me pushing cigarettes into my mouth until I could no longer breathe.

  ‘So … you think you’re psychic?’ Paulson asks, genuinely curious.

  ‘I’m not psychic. I don’t see exactly what is going to happen. It’s like I get clues to how these women are going to die or something. I don’t even really understand it myself.’

  ‘Jan, are you sure you’re OK?’ Murphy asks, patronising me in the same way my mother was treated.

  ‘Oh fuck off, Murph! I’m fine. I’m trying to explain this to you.’ He sits back in his seat, shocked. ‘All I know is that I have these … er …’

  ‘Dreams?’ Murphy offers.

  ‘Visions,’ I correct him. ‘I have these obscure visions and the next day, twenty-four hours later, a body turns up.’ I can see that Murph is not convinced at all, but that Paulson, at least, wants to believe. He’s willing to give it a go.

  It’s all we’ve got.

  ‘Look, I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to believe it at first. I tried to fight it, but the similarities are there and you can’t refute that.’ I don’t know why I’m even bothering to try to justify this to Murphy; he doesn’t have the mental capacity to digest what I am saying.

  ‘What about Audrey?’ Murphy asks.

  ‘What?’ I say abruptly, almost cutting him off.

  ‘Girl 4,’ Paulson interjects. ‘He means what about Girl 4.’ He gives Murphy a look that almost turns him to ash.

  ‘I didn’t have a vision of that,�
�� I say, trying to calm myself, knowing that Murphy is trying to catch me out, to pick holes in my theory. How dare he?

  ‘Well, that’s odd,’ he continues to goad me.

  I don’t want to tell them about the night before the wedding, when he appeared on stage. They were there. I know they didn’t see him. This would certainly trivialise the rest of my story. It would lose credibility.

  ‘But she’s alive, Murph,’ Paulson says slowly, piecing things together. Murphy just looks at him as if to say So what? ‘Maybe Jan only sees the girls that this psycho is actually going to succeed in killing. Is that right, Jan?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand it yet myself.’ I gulp at my coffee and look down at the stain on my shirt one more time, which seems to be drying nicely. Some men in pinstripe suits walk behind and go through the doors into one of the glass buildings that surround us. Asian tourists have already started to congregate, taking pictures in front of buildings and signs they believe might be landmarks.

  I go cold. The same way I felt in the library while investigating Girl 2. The same as I did when visiting Mum. That’s how I know it’s Canary Wharf. At least, that’s what I think the feeling is.

  It’s not.

  This is the feeling I get whenever Eames is near, whenever I sense his presence as much as I do my own. He’s watching me again. Sat in the bar next door, the same bar that he took Girl 5 from yesterday. The same bar he will have Girl 5 delivered to tomorrow morning, mutilated beyond recognition.

  ‘That means we have less than twenty-four hours until the next girl is killed.’ It appears that Paulson is willing to go along with this idea, even if Murphy is showing some resistance. He is willing to put some faith in the fantastical now that all other avenues appear to be exhausted.