by Will Carver
I decide that Paulson and I will stake out the area this evening and Murphy can take the graveyard shift. He is there when the chest arrives in the morning containing a naked Richard Pendragon in a blood-soaked bag, his penis detached and his face painted to look like a woman.
And Murphy’s thoughts instantly go back to this very conversation.
Girl 4
I’VE BEEN LYING here unconscious for two days now. All the nutrients and drugs that my body requires to heal and survive are administered intravenously. My five-a-day passing through a tube as a viscous liquid that absorbs quickly into my blood.
If I’m supposed to be dreaming, I don’t know what about.
If I’m supposed to be in pain, I’m not. The dosage would be near euphoric if I were awake.
But I’m not.
I’m asleep with no thoughts or feelings and no control. Everything that happens now is in the hands of others. I have to trust that they get it right.
My current state is a gift. Anything that can delay me from seeing January right now is fine.
But, in two more days my consciousness will return and the first face I see will be the man who put me in this position in the first place.
This time to finish what was started.
Eames
WHEN DETECTIVE INSPECTOR January David thinks that he is getting close, he doesn’t realise just how near he already is to me. When he looks at the scarred body of his once beautiful wife, is he torturing himself for not protecting her? Is he convincing himself that he still loves her, blocking out her adulterous behaviour? He knows what I do to each girl before I execute them. When I deliver the fifth girl to him, neatly packaged like a birthday gift, is he going to let the fact that it was once a man misdirect him like he has been doing with all the other girls?
Come on, detective, you should have figured it out by now.
I thought you were worthy.
I feel lazy for the way I have taken the fifth girl. Anybody in my line of work could have done it. A novice. An idiot. He could have been chosen at random. It could be the work of a cut-price Eames, a substandard copycat killer. That’s not me. That will never be me. That is not how you create a legend.
With Detective Inspector January David avoiding his domicile of imploding marital bliss, I order a courier to collect the chest containing the very lonely, very pathetic, very dead Richard Pendragon from his address, Audrey’s address.
I wait on the doorstep and hand the courier the wad of cash required to have such a large, heavy package driven through London to Canary Wharf for 9.30 in the morning on a weekday. I even help him lift the useless lump into the back of his van.
The ease of this execution is allowing me to have too much fun with it. This is where mistakes can occur. Complacency is death.
I debate whether to sign the electronic touch-screen device as J. David, not even attempting to forge his signature. A joke between us. A way to show that I am still winning. It may even buy some time while I complete the masterpiece.
But now is not the time for ad-lib.
Improvisation would be my weakness.
This is not my role.
I stick to the plan and sign it Eames.
To give him something.
Before I take everything.
Girl 5
LYING IN MY tomb, the blood that once gushed from my crotch is slowing to a drip; the pain I originally felt when Eames cut away the one thing that made me a man has given way to delirium as my brain swirls and my eyes roll back in my head. In and out of consciousness, I submit to death. I have no choice.
But my life doesn’t flash before my eyes before I die.
Whoever said that was lying.
I have to make myself think of all the important events I have experienced in my twenty-six years.
So that I can forget that I can’t breathe. So that I don’t focus on the burning sensation of the glue that fastens this degrading wig to my scalp. So I can shut out that I am no longer a part of mankind.
I think about the time I wet myself at school and the way that story followed me until university; there was always someone who remembered it. I move straight on to my university years, completely skipping childhood and adolescence where, apparently, nothing happened. I think about going to the student union for the first time and being too scared to talk to anyone, even though we were all in a similar position.
I think about work and how I acted exactly the same there. Complaining inside at the behaviour of the pack without admitting any self-blame.
These are the moments in my life that I run through before my blood pressure drops to insignificance. These three incidents of nothingness are what I use for comfort as cold sweats begin to kick in, as my air hunger worsens.
No wonder there was no flash of life.
I’ve done worse than merely exist.
Instead of reminiscence I opt for hope.
I hope, as I edge closer in my dizziness to the next life, that there is no next life. Because I’m bound to fuck that one up too.
I don’t want a bright light to head towards.
I don’t want to be reunited with those that have passed before me.
In your last moments of life, just before everything ends, you find out who you really are.
I am here to feed the worms.
I am ash you should flush down the toilet.
January
I FINISH THE shift with Paulson, but I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go back to that huge house full of Audrey artefacts. Pictures of us both on the wall looking happy; the furniture we picked together; the design elements of the house that Audrey takes such pride in; the details.
So I stay at the office again with my Scotch and my sister’s file. With the desk as a pillow and my self-loathing as a blanket.
If my vision was correct, it means that there are four hours until Girl 5 will be dead. I left Paulson two hours ago when Murphy took over the shift from us. We didn’t really know what we were looking for in the pinstripe crowd; we were reduced to my senses. I was hoping to get a feeling for the killer’s presence.
But persistence paved the way to nothing.
It was two hours ago that I lost my alibi.
And two hours is long enough for me to kill Girl 5.
Girl 6
IT SEEMS UNFAIR to me that I leave no legacy.
Girl 1, Dorothy Penn, was lucky. She was the first. She was important enough to be picked to start this entire project. Nobody will forget her.
Girl 2, Carla Moretti, proved that this was not a one-off. It was the start of a serial-killing spree, the likes of which have not been seen in London. She made it real for so many of us.
Girl 3, Amy Mullica, stayed in the capital’s minds for so long. The way she died was the most brutal to date, and we were left to ponder this for over a year, wondering if this madman would return.
Girl 4, Audrey David, was obviously the most important. She managed to get away. She is intrinsically involved with the case. Her husband is investigating it. The entire mystery hinges around her regaining consciousness.
Girl 5, Richard Pendragon, was not even a girl. Of course, that will be remembered in all its crudity. Suddenly, fear for this unhinged sociopath extends further into London. He manages to double his audience overnight.
Girl 6, that’s me. His latest trick.
In less than two days, I will be found. But I am just a composite piece to the larger accomplishment. I don’t have my own story. I’m here to serve the greater purpose.
I’m the misdirection.
When people look back at this in years to come, they will remember all of this information, but the details of Girl 6 will remain hazy in their memories.
Audrey David is the rabbit in the hat.
Stacey Blaine is the joke that makes you look the other way.
January
I GET A call from Paulson at 9.42.
‘Jan, Murph just called, he’s got something,’ he says half-ur
gently, half-worried.
I stand to attention at my desk, pushing the file back into my drawer. ‘Well, we’d better get down there then. I’ll meet you there.’ I start to head for the door to leave.
‘No, Jan. I’m coming in. So is Murph.’ I stop in my tracks.
‘What? What are you talking about?’ Confused by this, I find myself turning in small circles under the doorway.
‘It’s too public. Murph has called it in already and has been told, from on high, that debriefing is to happen at the station.’ I’m angered by this and grip my phone in my now sweaty palm, holding it away from my ear and squeezing the life out of it as if it were Murphy’s neck, accidentally pressing buttons that beep a tune in Paulson’s ear. I take two breaths to calm myself down.
‘Jan, are you there?’ I hear the faint sound of Paulson’s voice checking to see whether I have thrown the phone out of a window or dropped it in the bin.
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘Look, Jan, I don’t have any more information than that. Murphy wouldn’t tell me what the body looked like. He said that he couldn’t.’ He leaves a pause for me to fill.
‘Couldn’t? What’s got into him?’ We had an agreement to work this case together. If any new evidence was turned up, then I should be the first point of contact.
‘I don’t know. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, so just sit tight and wait for me. I’ll see what else I can dig up in that time.’ His heavy breathing is cut off abruptly as he hangs up the phone.
As soon as I press the red button on my own phone it starts to ring again. I don’t even look at the name on the screen before whipping it back up to my ear.
‘Murph?’ I ask, anxiously, hoping that he has come to his senses.
It isn’t Murph.
A doctor from the hospital is calling to update me on Girl 4’s status. She is responding well to treatment and tests show that all her levels indicate repair. There are no signs of paralysis and feeling has returned to her limbs. She is stirring more now, which is a sign of brain activity and that she could wake up very soon.
If I miss her waking up for the first time because Murphy has suddenly decided to show some ambition, I will fucking kill him.
‘Thanks for keeping me updated. Much appreciated. If she wakes up, please call me first. Any time of day or night. Thanks.’
Paulson is eighteen minutes away, but Murphy is only four and a half.
That means Paulson will be thirteen and a half minutes too late.
I don’t know what to do with myself. What could Murphy have that is so important that it needs to be kept from me? I am the lead investigator on this case.
I sit at my desk and sort it into a neater pile where the largest item is on the bottom and pyramids up to the smallest. I walk over to the whiteboard and wipe it clean. I screw up a piece of paper into a ball and aim it at a bin around ten feet away. It misses.
I pick up a deck of cards from Paulson’s desk and shuffle them a few times. I try to guess which card will end up on the top of the pack.
I grab some notes from the desk and pretend to read them. My mind can’t handle this tension; nothing I look at makes sense. I’m on death row, waiting for Murphy, the officer I have mentored, to come through the door and dictate the details of my case to me.
I grab the back of Paulson’s chair and swivel it around and around for a minute.
I try to ring Murphy, but he doesn’t answer.
I put my mobile phone in my mouth and bite down on it with all my force.
Then he walks through the door.
‘Murph. What’s going on?’ I plead, moving closer to him, using all my might not to grab him by the lapels and pin him to the wall.
‘January,’ he utters calmly. I find it disconcerting, he never uses my full name. Nobody in here is ever called by their real name.
‘Yes,’ I answer, trying to prompt him into discussion.
‘January David, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Richard Pendragon.’
‘What?’ I’m stunned at this brazen display of confidence. He seems petrified yet committed to his convictions all at the same time.
He continues, unfazed, ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.’
‘Oh fuck off, Murph. What are you talking about?’ I say as if I think he is joking, but I can see in his expression that he is deadly serious. Two constables arrive behind him in case I struggle.
‘Anything you say may be given in evidence.’
Oh, Murph. What do you think you are doing?
Girl 4
THINGS ARE DIFFERENT now. I feel more aware.
When the nurse rubs the sole of my foot with what feels like a wooden drumstick, it tickles me, so I flinch. When they prick my legs and arms with pins, it hurts. Suddenly I have feeling. I’m still asleep, but conscious of the events that are unfolding in my room.
I can hear everything that is being said.
When an enthusiastic nurse tells you to talk to a family member that is in a coma, when she tells you that the person in the persistent vegetative state can hear your voice and that your words can help them or are a comfort to them, it’s not true.
Talking to somebody on that much pain medication, in that unconscious state, is as useful as discussing existentialist motifs in Russian literature with a heroin addict who has recently shot up.
I can only assume that January has been to visit me. I couldn’t say whether he sat holding my hand for three days feeling guilt and shame, talking non-stop. But something is different now. I don’t know how long I have been out for, but I do know that I will be awake again soon.
When I am awake, when they can talk to me properly, I could give them all the information they would need for a conviction.
I know everything.
In this state, I am useless.
Awake, I am dangerous.
January
IT FEELS DIFFERENT on the other side of the interrogation desk. Automatically you feel guilty, even if you are not. I can hear Paulson and Murphy arguing on the outside of the door, while I am left to stew on my own.
‘Shove your good-cop, bad-cop routine up your arse, Murph. This is Jan. What the fuck are you thinking?’ I should have realised that Paulson was the trustworthy one; I should have invested my confidence in him alone. This was a huge mistake on my part in a game with no room for error.
It’s all in the details.
‘Oh grow up, Paulson.’ I’ve never heard this side of Murphy before. In a strange way I’m almost proud of him. ‘Dreams? Are you kidding me? Thoughts. More like thoughts. Recollections of what he’s done to those girls.’ Then I hear them muttering and shuffling about before the door swings open.
Murphy leads the way.
Paulson is silent for the rest of the time. His protest over this idiocy.
I’m at a disadvantage, because I don’t know if this is even real. If I am awake, or at my desk, tanked up on Scotch waiting for The Smiling Man to inflict his latest dose of cryptic mental torture.
So, when I can’t think where I was for two hours after leaving Paulson at Canary Wharf, I start to question myself.
Could I really do something like that?
Where was I when the other girls were killed?
This must show on my face, because I see Paulson’s body language towards me change. As if doubting myself transfers uncertainty to my only ally.
I stare out at the air over Murphy’s shoulder, screwing my eyes tighter, trying to recall specific moments in time over the last fifteen months. When you have nights where you don’t sleep, when that turns into two days or three, it is difficult to determine a Monday from a Tuesday, a Wednesday from a Friday.
The tape recorder is not on. Murphy cannot conduct this investigation. He tries to make me think that this preamble is a courtesy to me, because of our relationship.
‘Who is Eames?’
‘Eames. Who is he? Is he your alter ego? The name you use when you kill these girls?’ Murphy is really sticking it to me here. A barrage of questions to unsettle me, make me sweat.
Paulson looks at me with hope; he wants me to deny it so that he feels justified in his belief in me.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective Murphy.’ I smirk as I say the word detective and he becomes visibly agitated with my petulance. Paulson thinks it’s funny too.
Murphy goes on to explain how the courier that delivered a dead man in a giant chest, sealed with a padlock and sword, to the financial heart of London, collected the package from my address and that it was signed for by Eames.
‘And you think I’m this Eames character,’ I tell him. It is not a question.
Is it even possible that I am Eames?
Could this just be another vision and The Smiling Man is late?
What day is it?
‘Why don’t you get the courier in here to identify me?’ I ask.
‘We will, January,’ he responds confidently.
They won’t.
Eames may have signed for the package and it may have been electronically recorded, but it could never end there. No loose ends. No connections.
The courier had no chance.
Of course he was going to be disposed of. He’ll be found later this evening. As an added insult and another declaration of his brilliance, Eames delivered the package himself, then dumped the truck with the young courier’s body in the back. Nothing elaborate, a simple strangulation.