The Participant

He waited, partially hidden by the twilight shadows, which were playfully dissolving day to night. The neat semi stood proudly in a street of almost identical houses, its small front garden decorated with a tidily pruned hedge. He lit another cigarette, the flame of his clipper briefly illuminating his twisted features and still he waited. The semi was still a hive of activity, lights illuminating each room, coloured walls proudly displayed to the outside world. He waited tirelessly and his patience was finally rewarded. Curtains were drawn and lights dimmed, children he knew lived there were put to bed. Time seemed to limp on for an eternity before the house was plunged entirely in to darkness, he licked his lips nervously, and the time had come.
Emily snuggled beneath her duck feather duvet with a wide yawn. It was barely 10.30pm and she was shattered, she looked longingly towards her trashy romance novel perched on the white iron bedside cabinet. She sighed with frustration knowing it was no use, within 5 minutes she would be asleep, it was pointless to even bother picking the book up. Instead she sensibly checked her alarm was set for the morning before flicking the lamp off, inviting night in to the room. She lay in the dark for a few minutes listening to her heart beating a steady pattern in her chest, before her breathing evened out and sleep consumed her. Next door her five year old twins slept easily in their matching beds, adorned with pink princess canopies, not even stirring when the security light blinked lazily in to action in the back yard.
He had expected the most difficult part of this whole excursion would be obtaining entry to the quaint semi detached and its heavy duty outer doors. Surprisingly this was by far the easiest; she had left the back door open. He was shocked when the handle clicked and the door swung open, ‘silly bitch’. He stepped silently in to the room he knew was the kitchen, a smell of food still lingered heavily in the air and moonlight from the small window cast an eerie glow on the linoleum.
‘Silence is golden.’
He whispered to himself, feeling a bubble of excitement rise up like a clot in his windpipe, threatening to jump out of his mouth as a noisy explosion. He stifled it with calm collective breaths, before continuing his journey. The kitchen led to a still warm living room, orange embers still murmuring on the coal fire, which was now dying out. He didn’t stop, purposely moving a little faster now, his black gloved hand on the door handle. He didn’t pause in the grandly decorated dining room just moved to the bottom of the carpeted staircase. He looked up to the head of the stairs, unsure for a moment, confused by what he was doing, and then he pushed on regardless. The stairs didn’t make a sound as he climbed them, easily reaching the top in seconds. Now he was here, it was time to get on with his plans. He paused outside Emily’s door, his ear pressed against the grained white wood, listening. No sounds came from within and he knew she was sleeping soundly.
He made a quick decision; he would slaughter the lambs first. No sense in their mother waking them from a sound slumber. The twins were sprawled comfortably across their pink and purple beds, their small cherubic faces, angelic and unblemished in sleep. He swallowed hard at the lump in his throat and steeled himself for the task he faced. Chloe was first; his gloved hand pulled back the voile canopy, the silky material whispering softly in the silence. He drew his knife, a trusty heavy object, rosewood handle, 10inch in length. Moonlight reflected from the blade, making it glint seductively. He softly smoothed Chloe’s golden honey coloured hair back from her face and with one deft movement, dragged the sharpened blade across her exposed throat. Her skin seemed to resist for a moment before it gave way and blood began to seep from the open wound. She never woke up and he hoped her dreams had been glorious. He gently laid her body back on the pillow, watching with morbid fascination as her neck bled out her life ebbing away. Then he turned to Amanda, again he stroked her hair away from her face before raking the knife across her small throat. Amanda was feistier than her sister and he almost panicked as her wide blue eyes opened and she began gurgling nosily from the exposed gash in her throat. Blood spurted out of the wound, seeping through his dark shirt. It turned cold quickly and the damp material clung to his bare chest. He held Amanda tightly feeling the life draining quickly from her small body. She emitted one last chilling gurgle and a bubble of blood popped out of her throat before her struggles ceased. He laid her small body down on the pink sheet.
Emily’s door opened noiselessly and he slipped in from the hall. He could make out her petite sleeping form in the middle of the king size sleigh bed. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he could see her delicate features, relaxed and unwrinkled from any worries. Her long blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, framing her face like a halo and her pink lips were slightly parted. He stood in the resounding silence of her safe haven, watching her sleep. He felt frozen, his feet glued to the thick cream carpet like it was quicksand. Time seemed to stand still and his legs began to ache but still he couldn’t force himself to move. It was Emily that snapped him out the daydream, she stirred slightly in her sleep and he jumped as though a shotgun had cracked the nights calm. He moved forward quickly and began taking his tools from a small canvas rucksack. He unpacked them with the love of a mother for her child, laying them out neatly within reach of the bed.
Emily awoke suddenly, unsure why but knowing something wasn’t quite right. She lay still for a moment, her ears straining to hear anything unusual but silence reigned. She tried to turn, to find a more comfortable position for the night but discovered she couldn’t. A flutter of panic danced in her chest but she swallowed it down and tried to move again. She tugged her hands and realised they were tied by rope, maybe string. She attempted to kick her legs and realised they were also tied; her heart began to beat like a wild bird trying to escape from her chest. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the room and that was when she saw him, crouching by the bottom of the bed. He was shrouded in shadow and she couldn’t quite make out his features but she knew he was there.
Her eyes flickered open when he had completed her bonds. He drew a small amount of satisfaction when he saw the luck of panic flitter across her face. It didn’t take her long to focus on him and as she drew in air and began to scream, he cut the sound off with a gag. A look of distaste crawled across his face, her scream had tainted the proceedings and he found it distasteful. She quietened quickly under the gag, concentrating on breathing instead of screaming. He had memorised her bedroom and now he moved over to where he knew her nightlight was and switched it on. The dim bulb cast an orange haze around the plainly decorated bedroom, making everything appear softer. He blinked rapidly as did Emily, their eyes adjusting to the new light source in the room. Her struggle resumed almost immediately and he watched her with pity in his eyes. There would be no escape for her tonight; it was far too late for that.
Emily tried to remain as calm as possible. When he turned on the lamp she tried focused on his face straight away, but the sudden light made her eyes squint. When she could see again she carefully looked him over, she didn’t recognise this man and that scared her more than anything else right now. He was crouching again, she kept her arms and legs working the bonds that held her prisoner, but it was to no avail. She saw him stand and the blood in her veins turned to ice as she saw the knife he wielded.
He saw her body freeze momentarily as he stood with the knife. He had fondly named it his trusty tool of torture and it was clearly having the desired effect. He gently caressed the inside of her exposed milky thigh with the curved blade. The knife was beautiful, a survival knife with a serrated edge, the tip curved upwards seductively. Emily was still, she appeared almost afraid to breathe as he stroked her thigh with the knife. He lifted the edge of her pale blue nightshirt and held it to the knife blade. The blade cut through it as easily as a hot knife through butter and she was exposed. She had on a small white thong, plain and modest. Her breasts were bare, small and pert the nipples erect in the sudden cool of the room. He circled them deftly with his fingertips and she tried to shrink away, pressing her shivering form further in to the mattress. He angered quickly, like a storm cloud moving over him suddenly.
Emily whimpered as she felt the knife blade cutting her tender flesh. She was ashamed to be half naked in front of this stranger and she felt dirty, violated by his actions. Now he cut her flesh, her abdomen split easily under the sharp edge of the blade. She felt only a slight sting but saw the blood on the blade as he lifted it, almost as if to taunt her. Tears began to fall freely down the sides of her face, trickling in to her ears and fresh panic consumed her. Her babies were asleep next door and she couldn’t bear the thought of this monster harming them, stealing their innocence. She bit down on her gag, she would be completely silent, show no emotion. A secret hope crept in to her head, maybe if she was as lifeless as a wax model he would become bored, leave the house. It was a hope she could only cling to like a drowning woman who sees a life boat. Only Emily didn’t realise it was only going to get much worse.
He was obsessed with her, her skin, her hair, her face. She was perfection personified and he had a need to destroy this goodness, like pulling the wings from a butterfly. He saw the blood well up in the shallow cut he had made and his lips twitched with and odd half smile, half grimace. Playtime was officially over it was time to get serious. He climbed on top of her and she resisted, thrashing and bucking, worried he was going to rape her. Instead he sat astride her midriff, his entire weight preventing her from movement and again he gently caressed her small breasts. He brought the knife to her left breast and cupped it with one hand. She sensed something was going to happen and tried to buck him off but his bulk held her tight to the bed. The knife blade sliced clean in to the flesh, it resisted slightly at the muscle and an explosion of blood showered his face. He persevered and using a sawing motion removed her entire breast. The hanging flap of bloody skin was pathetic; he threw the disgusting mass in his gloved hand to the floor. She had drained of all colours and her golden hair was matted to her forehead with sweat.
The knife slicing through her skin was like a white hot searing sensation. She screamed inside, the sound echoing blindly around her mind. Her vision swam with black and white dots, consciousness swooning in and out. She prayed for the pleasure of passing out. He was grasping her right breast, she knew what was coming. Her body tensed in anticipation and she kicked her legs to appease the pain. He hacked at her like she was a lump of meat; Emily knew she was going to die. She was bleeding profusely and the pain made her entire body throb. Her throat felt raw even though she hadn’t screamed out loud, her limbs were heavy like lead. She saw through lowered lids, her right breast in his hand, she saw the look of distaste on his face. She saw him throw it to the carpet. Now he had removed both of her breasts, she knew he wouldn’t stop and she also knew with certainty this was how she would die. She offered a silent prayer to a god she didn’t really believe in to keep her children safe from harm.
He saw her eyes rolling to the back of her head and slapped her hard around the face. He didn’t want her passing out on him, not now. She seemed to catch hold of the lifeline and her eyes become round and wide. He smiled menacingly and moved back down to her feet. He leaned over her and using the blade sliced through her thong, removing it easily from her pale skin. He used his elbows to part her legs, she was hardly able to resist him now, her strength diminishing with the blood loss. He inserted the knife blade in to her, thrusting it as though he was pouring himself in to her. Mercifully she passed out on the third stroke and deaths kiss was quickly bestowed on her pink lips.
The sound seemed to come from a million miles away and in his deep dreamless sleep, Gerry’s subconscious was not penetrated. It continued relentlessly and eventually his eyes opened and he jumped up with a start. He recognized the sound of the telephone and he groped on his bedside table for the receiver. He didn’t recognize the young Sergeant’s voice but he could pick up the perceptible undercurrents of anxiety.
“Inspector, there’s been another one.”
“Where?” His voice came out thick, clogged with sleep.
“19 Broadleigh Avenue,,,”
The Sergeants voice was cut off as Gerry banged the receiver down. He knew exactly where 19 Broadleigh Avenue was, his ex wife and daughters lived there. He didn’t even dress, time was too important. Instead he grabbed his car keys and was out of the house in under a minute, blocking the thought that his precious daughters were at Broadleigh Avenue.


Chronicle of a murderer

How to get rid of the body?

The murder bit’s the easy part. As long as you’re fairly quiet, or use a gag, you can spend as long as you like. At home. Nice comfy surroundings. You know where everything's kept. Everything you might need. Took a lot of thinking through, though, beforehand. The plastic sheet on the bed was a good idea. Not very nice to work on, but when they’re terrified, bodily functions can come into play.

A quick rinse, a deodorant spray, and Bob’s your uncle.

In a way it's a shame she had to die when she did, but frankly, I'd run out of ideas. You can only play for so long then you start repeating yourself. I didn't want that. Still, I was fairly inventive by anyone's standards. It'll linger in the memory that's for sure. I'll be better next time.

Now, think! How to get rid of the body? What did the others do. The well known ones. The fact they got caught doesn't mean they didn't have any ideas. After all, some of them got away with it for years. Perhaps they were just sloppy when it came down to the detail. I certainly won't be. Most of them were as thick as shit!

Bury it? You've got to get it out the flat first. You can't exactly bury it here. It'd be a hell of a shock for Mrs Perkins downstairs. Flush it in bits? - Neilson did that. It doesn't bloody work! Congealed fat and gory bits and pieces trapped in the waste. You can't afford to move, can you?

Make a list, and make notes.

1) Take it out whole. In a suitcase or something. Need to fold it up as small as possible. Better do it before rigor mortis sets in.

1a) At night! - No, stupid! A bloody great suitcase, now weighing nine stone something, down the stairs in a block of flats at night? How suspicious is that?

1b) During the day? Audacious! If stopped by a neighbour I could be going on my holidays. - Brilliant, bonehead! Then where are you going to stay for the next two weeks? In a tanning salon?

1c) Wait for rigor, and roll it up in a carpet. Hire a van and park it outside, and away! - Roll it up in a carpet? And what will you say to the landlord next month when he does his six monthly inspection? I'll bring the carpet back. Say I've had it cleaned.- Oh, for goodness' sake! Too many details. Too many things to go wrong. Keep it simple!

2) Chop it up and take it out in a series of packages. Carrier bag size. Stick them in waste paper bins all over the city. Could probably do it in ten bags. Two days max! - No! Not in London! One full carrier bag in a waste bin and some busybody will mark you out as a mad bomber. Ring the police. You face will be all over the ten o’clock news with three quarters of the body left in the bath.

3) Chop it up small. Take it out piecemeal. Not too often, mustn’t be seen to change my habits. Maybe just a little bit each time I go up to the shop, and the pub, and the Chinese. Just the same as normal! Use Tesco's "carrier bags for life". (A touch of ironic humour never hurt anyone.) They’re all the same. Take a spare and then I could dump one and bring back something in the other, fish and chips, a bottle of beer, a tin of corned beef. All nice and normal! - It’d take about a month doing it like that! Think of the smell!

You should have thought this through before you killed her in a flat. You can't change it now. Can you?

Oh, bugger. How am I going to get rid of the body?

How do other writers do it? I've been staring at the page now for hours.

Who'd have thought there'd be so much fat? And so greasy. It took seventeen bottles of Fairy Liquid just to clean up afterwards. And thank goodness for Kitchen Devils - they always stay sharp.

Anyway, job done and no trace left. Shame really. It didn't really go according to plan. Clever move though; joining that creative writing site. When you're stuck for a solution simply ask for help from enthusiatic amateurs. Loads of ideas from those guys. Mostly useless, of course, but they have imagination that's for sure. Merge a couple of ideas, refine a little, and hey presto, bye-bye body. I'd have liked it to be the first in a series. But it was a bit of a mess really.

Perfect disposal plan now. As Sarah Beeny, the property guru, says, (and wouldn't I like to bump into her), location, location, location. I’ve bought a stable block and some pasture land in the middle of nowhere. Running water and a nice little well, dry and about 100 feet deep. I can certainly drop a few bodies down there and no mistake. “Come and see my horses, ladies”. Who could resist? And if they do? GHB and a white transit van. How anonymous is that?

Now for a theme. You have to have a theme. All serial killers in the movies, on TV, and in thrillers have a theme. The Seven Deadly Sins, Dante's Inferno, Grimm's Folk Tales, the Deaths of the Apostles, the biblical plagues of Egypt. They've all been done. Vincent Price had a smashing theme in "Theatre of Blood".

I've simply got to have a theme.

It's so difficult. I want to start straight away but with a theme it would be so much more fun. In between victims I can watch the press until, eventually, it becomes obvious and they'll try to second guess me.

So a theme. Simpson’s characters who have died? Not really enough of them. Bleeding Gums Murphy? Dr. Marvin Munroe? Definitely not, I only want girls.

Common names of flowers? No. How the hell are you going to find girls called Rose or Violet unless you go on a Saga holiday?

Dwarves! Kill a grumpy girl, a dopey girl, a sleepy girl, a doctor, and so on. Do you really want to limit yourself to seven?

Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Just concentrate!!!

Letters of the Alphabet? One called Ann, the next Beatrice, then Carol etc, etc. Who dun’it? Agatha Christie that’s who. The ABC murders.

The police won’t find the bodies so the theme must be in the selection and not the murder itself. So, something religious or really vague.

I’ve got it. Nursery rhymes. There are loads. I’ll follow a Nursery Rhyme theme and if the press or the police are really clever, (if only), the theme will point them directly to where the bodies are. Brilliant.

Now to find a shepherdess, a hill climber called Jill, a gardener called Mary. Here we go gathering girls in May…
Ding, dong dell. Tee Hee!
Such a squealer! She sounded like a cross between a small pig and a Swiss yodeling competition. I'm sure sometimes she could only be heard by dogs and passing bats. Great fun and so exciting while she lasted but I must do something about the noise. I don’t want some nosey rambler down the lane to hear something he shouldn’t. I quite like it here. It’s good to have a place that works. Loft insulation ought to soundproof it but it might make it too hot and uncomfortable. I do like to be comfy. I shall have to do some research.

This is such a lark and so easy. If I'd known it would be this easy and so much fun I'd have started ages ago. I really don't know why I didn't.

It's strange. I'm sure everyone wonders, sometimes, what it feels like to kill somebody. They probably just don't have the strength of conviction, or the brains, to see it though. Well, let me tell you, it feels great! So great, in fact, you can't help wanting to do it over and over. Funny really, the killing bit's an anti climax. (You'd have to be really sick to climax then. Ha, ha). No. It's what comes before that gets you. The selection. The planning. The.... (Ha! Nearly said "The Execution") But no, it's the bit after the planning, and the capture, and way before the execution that I like most. That's the climax for me. (And more than once!)

They just haven’t got a clue. The telly, the newspapers and the police; they’re all as dumb as a bag of spanners. Not a clue. It was a bloody waste of time spending so long thinking out a theme when they can’t put two and two together.

First off, a lesbian into S&M called Georgina. Dead easy she was: off t’internet, as Peter Kay would say. When she heard about my little playroom and the poor defenceless lamb I told her I was holding there. (Ooh! You’re such a fibber!) She couldn’t wait to come visit for the weekend. A bit backward in coming forwards until I told her I only wanted to watch, and then she was dead keen. Hee, hee.

Followed closely by young Polly from the café. Do you like horses? Do you ride? So easy. “My Mum will worry that I don’t really know you.” “ She sounds a very sensible woman. Don’t worry, I’m sure your Mum knows loads of people with horses you can learn to ride on!” “Well, I could tell her I’m going to the pictures with Sally. What do you think?” “If you’re sure. I’ll make sure you get back in plenty of time. Oh, do you think Sally would like to come too?” She didn’t want Sally to come. (Wouldn’t it have been just perfect if her friend had been called Sukie?) So Sally didn’t come. I’m fairly sure Polly didn’t. But I did.

I wonder if I should have taken trophies? Jack the Ripper and Ed Gein did. How many movies have been based on those two? Fred West did, and he was probably the most successful in Britain. You can’t count Shipman. He was playing a different game altogether. I wonder what Fred did with all the fingers and toes. He must have had something in his head; apart from that metal plate, of course. There was plenty of room; he was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

It doesn’t matter about trophies. They never come to light until you’ve been caught or the bodies have been found, and I’ve no intention of either of those happening.

That well is deeper than I thought. I’d nearly counted to three hippopotamuses before Georgina went crump. Funny noise. Still, the sound Polly made when she hit bottom was a bit different. I wonder if she did? Hit bottom, I mean, what with Georgina waiting for her.

Come on guys. It’s not difficult. It’s just Nursery Rhymes. Surely even you can spot that. And you’d better come up with a good nickname.

I’m really looking forward to watching the blubby Mum appeals on telly. It’s the Dads I feel sorry for. Sitting next to the missus with the whole world convinced that Dad did it. Not this time, he didn’t!

Oh well. Let’s go get the next one.
I really thought I’d found her. The next one I mean, just by using the internet. I love the internet. It’s so anonymous. It’s just perfect for hiding behind.

I’d had a crazy thought and decided to follow it up. How long will it take, just to look? First time out it worked. I felt as if I’d won the lottery. There she was. On the Arachnophobia Forum. Screenname: Miss Muffett. Just as I imagined she might be. Terrified of spiders and was that a cry for help I heard in her writing? (Perhaps, later…with a bit of luck. Aural sex.)

Enter stage left, Dr James Treadworthy, Cognitive Behaviour Therapist extraordinaire. Me! (Therapist seemed so apt, just one little space away.)

We sent little messages to each other. Over the course of the next few days I knew everything about her fears, how they had ruined her life, what she wouldn’t give to be free of this terror. So much less hit and miss than my previous experiences. So kind of her to have shared her greatest fears, and with me; the perfect person to help her confront those fears. We talked of her attitude towards drug therapy. (She didn’t agree with it). And she was so supportive when through her insistent questionning I was forced to admit that I had recently been asked to leave the BABCP as I refuse to recommend any form of drug therapy for most phobics; and certainly never for arachnophobics. It took a few days of mentioning the regular group workshops I hold at my country home before she eventually enquired as to the cost. She didn’t like to ask. Aah! She thought she was being presumptuous. Aah! Or would have to be referred by her GP. Aah! It’s just my regulars, says I, I could always do with some new blood, says I. How lovely, says she. It’s a bit difficult to find first time out, says I, I’ll collect you from the station.

I even did a bit of shopping. You’ve got to get into the part. Grey slacks, a double-breasted navy blazer, a perfectly horrid yellow bow tie and a pair of horn-rimmed specs: plain glass, for the psychotherapist about town.

I was at the station early, really feeling rather chipper. I was even singing, in my head of course, two of my favourite Sinatra numbers. “Stranglers in the night”, amazing how adding a single letter will perk up a lyric, and that one that always makes me think of the monsters in children’s nightmares, “Things like a walk in the park, things like a kiss in the dark…” And why wouldn’t they?

The train arrived. I thought I looked very dapper and just the right side of forgetful professor. I had my concerned face on and was considering what voice to use. Slightly superior with just a whiff of caring, sharing, ‘90’s ought to do it. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I could see, looking lost, an insignificant little man in a beige raincoat. He caught my eye. “Dr Treadworthy?”

Oh my God, she’s brought her father with her. It’s OK. Think on your feet. Using my chosen voice to maximum effect, I admitted that I was he.

With a smile, he introduced himself: “I’m Miss Muffet!”, he said.

The bastard. The sick, sick, bastard. What kind of creature would do that? Que le F*** was I going to do now?

I really couldn’t decide what to do with Miss Muffett.

Should I tell him how disappointed I was for his lying to me about his true identity? I feel that if someone is being offered, completely free of charge, a course of therapy for their phobia, they should at least have the common decency to be honest about the fact that they are not who they purport to be; before just turning up and presenting themselves.

I did feel rather let down, and more than a little hurt. Perhaps I should have told him there and then to get back on the train; that I wasn’t prepared to be lied to by a prospective patient. But then, I’d made all the arrangements and collected all my props.

Oh, well, off to confront those fears.

In the car he was quite chatty, nerves I suppose, he’d never been to a workshop before, and, other than online, he’d never met any fellow sufferers. My proffered hipflask was readily accepted. Greedy Miss Muffet. I hope he felt rested by his little nap; after all, he had quite a day ahead of him.

There are a lot of spiders available in a stable. Certainly enough for what I had in mind. Outside, in the bushes, were those big fat-bodied green ones. He’d mentioned that he was particularly frightened of those. I’d stored a few in a little box.

Well Miss M and I had fun for a time but it felt like I was just going through the motions. (The motions certainly went through him with spiders in his hair. Lots of disinfectant needed. I didn’t want to have to hose him down and wash away all his newfound friends). All in all, it just wasn’t terribly satisfying! I suppose I’m just not a man’s man, I vastly prefer the company of the ladies.

Sure, it ticked some of the boxes, but it’s like having an itch that hasn’t quite been scratched.

So, when I got bored, which wasn’t too long, we had to say goodbye. After I’d dropped him in with the other two and had a bit of a tidy up, I made myself a nice cup of tea to try to cheer myself up.

I’m a little uncertain as to my next move. They’ve found my first lady friend in the freezer. Perhaps I ought to change tack. I do want to be noticed soon and it’s getting harder to keep up with my chosen theme; although I have found a Dr Foster, (in Gloucester), and a Dr Fell, both of whom seem to meet my fairly exacting criteria. I’m just a bit disappointed that I’m putting all this work in and no one, so far, seems to care.

Maybe I ought to just drag out the three in the well, pop them in freezers, and drop them off at various recycling centres. It would certainly make my selection easier. If I put a proper top to the well, with a rope, a pulley, and a grappling iron, it should be quite easy to get them out. Afterwards, I could take off the hook and replace it with a bucket. That would look quite nice and ever so bucolic! Second hand freezers are a dime a dozen. I do like the idea that, after finding another one, poor old Percy Plod will have to start searching for more.

Imagine the headline: “Police to examine every dump in the Greater London Area” Tee Hee!

If this carries on I'll end up like poor old Adolf. He topped six million and no one knew about it at the time. It must have driven him bonkers. At least now we recognise his contribution. Like any artist, recognition post mortem.
So. Nursery Rhymes or Freezers? That is the question. Perhaps a notelet to the News of the World or Percy Plod might get things moving. Liquid paraffin for their little grey cells perhaps.

Dear Editor;

You reported recently on a missing young lady by the name of Georgina A. and another by the name of Polly B. I've not written before as I feared you may consider me just a silly old woman with too much time on my hands. I read with interest the details you published regarding young Polly, from the tea-shop, and the way she just disappeared after finishing work, and also about the disgusting sexual proclivities of that horrid Georgina person.

I had a dream where their disappearances were linked in some way. I have to tell you that since I retired I've gained quite a reputation amongst the other ladies at the WI as being something of a psychic.
In my dream, both of these ladies were being held in what appeared to be an Edwardian child's playroom, complete with a Mary Poppins type figure, with rhyming couplets written on all the walls. What could it mean?
Yours sincerely Mrs Leia Little.

Too vague for them? Initially, of course, but with follow up letters, and my "dreams" becoming more detailed they must catch on eventually.

Dear Plod
The body found in a freezer at a council dump.
Did it have a used by date on it’s bottom?
Was she frigid?
It’ll be a cold day in hell before you catch me.
Yours Iceman.

How to choose? Eeny Meeny Miney Mo. Catch a..... Of course! That might be fun. A little girlie schwarzer. It fits perfectly with the nursery rhymes but isn't so blindingly obvious that it wouldn't fit nicely if I went with the freezer motif. Chicken George? Thanks, Mildred, I don't mind if I do! It'll throw any profiler into absolute confusion.


Dear Chief Inspector;

If you are reading this then you must have outlived me. I can see you now in your comfy slippers, corduroys, cardie and a tie, sitting in your nursing home dribbling. I feel so sorry for you. It must have been simply awful. Reaching retirement with the greatest case of your career unsolved. How old are you now? Seventy? Eighty? Ninety? Has some nice young WPC come to visit you? Did she bring my diary? Can you still see? Or is she having to read it to you? Turn up the hearing aid. "How are you, dear?" "Do you need a bottle?" "Have you been?" Are you hoping at last to discover all of my little secrets? So you can die in peace? Or pain? From the first I thought I might be too clever for you. I don’t think so now! I know now! You never had a chance! After I’d solved the girl/freezer conundrum, I knew exactly what I was. You never had a Bob or a Maurice!

How to get rid of the body? K.I.S.S.
(In case you don’t know. Keep it simple, stupid!)

There I was, on the fourth floor, dead body, nosey neighbours. What to do? And then it hit me. A Nice big freezer! I couldn’t just stick her in and waltz down the stairs could I? I had to have a cover. So, local paper - “Freezers for sale”. There are loads of them. Quick call to a few. “What make? How old? How much?” Usual stuff. None of which really mattered. “What are the dimensions?”. A bit Goldilocks I’ll think you’ll agree, some too big, some too small but, after six or seven calls, hey presto! Just right!
They were about twenty minutes away. “Would you be good enough to hold it for me? It’ll take about an hour to get to you.”
Of course they would. Lovely people. Salt of the earth.
Quick call to B&Q for a tin of araldite, heavy duty gloves, wide brown sticky tape and a new toilet brush; then off to Curry’s, white goods superstore. Great shop Curry’s! And round the back lives Sid and a lad, surrounded by cardboard. Warehousemen, they call themselves. Very friendly; especially if you’ve got a favour to ask and a fiver in your hand. “I wonder if you gentlemen can help? I’m moving house and I don’t want to damage my appliances in the move. Do you have any boxes I could buy?” So helpful! They went to enormous trouble to find me boxes to fit my freezer, washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher. Shame I don’t own the last three but the boxes might come in handy some day. They even lent me a sack truck as long as I promised to let them have it back the next day.
Easy peasy! Work gloves on. Pick up freezer. The lovely couple helped me put it in the box and tape it up. Then home. “Oh, look! He’s bought a new freezer.”
Off with the packaging. Tidy up my lady friend. Toilet brush for those difficult to get at places. In the freezer. Bit of glue. Next day. “Oh, look! He’s getting rid of his old freezer.” Well, they might have said that if anyone had seen me on the stairs.
So. Now you know. Local paper and Curry’s! An unlimited supply of ready made coffins whenever required.

Bloody themes! I’m going about this all the wrong way.
Eeny meeny miney mo! So, off to St Pauls in Bristol, ( I was in Bristol on business), and visits to all to the local newsagents, the Pentecostal church notice board, and the soul food restaurants. Anywhere that would let me put my posters up.
“Just moved into area. NHS Chiropodist/Podiatrist. 15 years in London.

Nigel Townsend D.Pod.M.,M.Ch.S. State Registered Chiropodist.
I insist on a free interview/consultation before agreeing to take new clients into my list.
Please telephone XXXXXXXXXX to arrange initial consultation in the privacy of your own home.”
The ‘phone didn’t stop. Chiropody on the NHS? I booked my diary solid for two full days before I turned the'phone off and threw it in the river. Had some lovely business cards printed by the machine in the station. Took along a notepad. Dressed the part and off to meet a little black lamb for the slaughter.
Oh, God! It was awful.
They were all so old. Huge great fat black women looking like the maid from Tom and Jerry or wizened knobbly old crones. And why did they all insist on taking their bloody popsocks off the moment I sat down. After the first three I couldn’t take one more “nice cup o’ tea and a chocolate biscuit!”. They’ll write “persistent” on my tombstone. For two whole days the only highlight was when the door was opened by a pretty young thing who led me into the living room, and went off to make me a cup of tea. But the antimacassars told me everything. It was her Gran, not her, who needed my services.
What a complete waste of time!
So, I’ve decided not to be so literal. Find one who takes my fancy. Take her back to the stables. Hang her up by her toes for a bit. That’ll work........ And so, my glorious work continues!


A market for the dead

The two children ran into the darkness, and huddled together until they heard the hollow sound of a closing door. They were both under the age of five, and obviously brother and sister. After the closing
of the door, they both walked, hand in hand, to their hiding place.
“We can stay here before it’s time to go back out there.” whispered the eldest, who was attempting to comfort her brother.
The little boy wrapped his thin arms around his body, shivering a bit as he responded to his sister.
“I don’t wanna go back.” The girl responded by sitting next to her brother, and wrapping an arm around him.
“Me either, but we gotta.” The siblings huddled together for a while, the older one giving her brother a thin blanket that lay in a heap on the floor.
“I’m cold” Cried the little boy some time later as he shivered. All his sister could do was hold on to him a little tighter as she also tried to keep warm.
“You can have all the covers tonight, cause I’m not that cold.” The girl would not let her brother give her the sole, thin blanket they had, and it was not big enough to share.
“But what if you get cold?”
The brother and sister held each other, the one wrapped in the single blanket that they had. They weren’t allowed to complain, or ask for things. They should be happy, because they were taught that nobody else would take care of two orphaned children.
They quieted when they heard the footsteps, and held their breath when they heard a loud voice, on the other side of the door. The little girl was relieved as everything got quiet again. The little boy remained still, and silent.
“It’s going to be ok.” began the the girl, before looking ahead to a faint far away light. The little boy moved from where his body lay, and stood before tugging his sisters hand, and walking towards the light.
The light grew brighter, and they began to hear a faint noise as they neared it. The air grew warmer, and the darkness turned into light. Neither of the siblings were fearful as they walked into the light, and both were astounded at what they saw.
The boy let the blanket drop from his shoulders, and began leading his sister through a maze of wooden booths. Both children ran, happily past the many plain, and unattractive booths.
The little boy heard the faint sound of laughter from one of the booths, and poked his sister.
“I hear it too.” she said, as it got louder. They walked, looking to the plain booths on either side of them, and heard laughter, but did not see anything. They walked hand in hand for what seemed ages, until they saw a flash of bright color. Then a ball, with a star on it rolled out in front of them. The boy picked it up, and began
playing.
“We’re not supposed to play with that!” The little boy did not listen, and played happily with the ball. The girl then saw a happy child, and a happy mother walking by, smiling at them.
Not a minute later they passed another happy family, this one with children holding balloons, and stuffed animals.
“Your turn is coming soon!” said one of the children, as they happily walked past them.
The children walked for a short while longer, before they saw a booth draped in their favorite colors. Both could not help but to step into it. They were awed by the colorful tent, and candy cane poles outside of it. When they walked into it, they saw a bounty of toys and candy, and what seemed like a tall statue.
“It’s all yours my children.” smiled the statue, scaring the siblings. They held each other, until they saw the smiling face of the woman that spoke those words. “Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be
beautiful now. There will be no more pain, no more tears.”
The children were calmed by this woman’s voice, and the boy walked up to her, only to be taken up in this woman’s arms, and kissed. The girl ran up to the lady also, and hugged her.
“You’re the lady from the picture.” she stated, looking up at the woman’s face.
“I’m your mother.” smiled the lady, taking the little girl into her second arm. She held the children tightly. ”I’ve missed the both of you.” she said, before letting them go. “I want you two to play, and eat. My babies are entirely too thin.”

The twins played, and ate until their hands were sticky and they were exhausted. They played and played, happily until they both fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
The first thing the children could see when they awoke was their mothers sad and concerned eyes.
“What’s wrong Mommy?” asked the little girl, as her mother shook her head.
“I’m going to make things better for you.” answered their mother, with a sad smile.
“Can we stay here, forever?” asked the little boy.
“No. That’s not the way it works. This is where I wait.” The mother now was sitting between the children, holding one in each arm.
“Wait for what?” The children asked in unison, wrapping their arms around their mother.
“The time. And it’s not time yet.” The little boy did not look happy with the cryptic answer given by his mother.
“What time is it?” he asked, hoping that it was time, for whatever it was, so they could live with their mother forever.
“It is time for a change.” She answered firmly, looking each child in the eye.
“A change?” asked the little girl in a whisper.
“Hush now children. You have to go back, but let me give you something..and everything will be better.” The children quieted as their mother gave each of them a kiss on their forehead. ”I will always be with you…and now, you are strong enough.”
“We wanna stay with you.”
“It’s not time… Don’t you feel what I’ve given you? Do you feel stronger?”
“A little…are we going to grow really big?”
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Nothing can hurt you, ever again.”
The children stared at their mother and knew she was right.
“It’s time to go back now. But don’t be afraid, I will always be with you.”
“But we don’t wanna go back.”
“You must go back. Things will be better when you go back. You have the power to stop the bad things from happening.”
The mother led the children out of the tent, and held them once more before telling them to leave. They looked back once, before walking hand in hand back to the dark room.
When they arrived in the dark room, they realized that two children lay on the floor, huddled together.
“That’s us.” said the little boy, who’s still double lay cold and wrapped in a blanket on the floor.
“I don’t wanna go back.” whined the little girl, before re-entering her body.
The siblings heard footsteps the moment that they were both back in their bodies. They sat there, and waited for what was to come.
“That was the Market.” said the little boy, as they waited.
“I want to be dead again, so we can go back.”
“We can’t. It’s not time yet.”
“Nothing can hurt us ever again.” said the siblings in unison, as the door opened. They stood, hand in hand, ready to face what was in front of them.


Suicide?

I had that goddamned dream again. You’re standing on the edge of a cliff looking back at me. “Catch me, you coward!” you scream. Then you jump.
It’s obvious I’m too far away to grab you before you fall, so when you implore me to catch you, what do you really mean? You want me to jump after you so I can catch up to you? I was never your hero so I assume you wanted me to suffer your fate too.
I can hear you call me a coward again as you vanish into the unknown; you know I won’t follow you into the abyss, ever. I run to the edge: Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! But you’ve vanished.
Once again you torture me. Seventeen years of this, goddamn you. It hasn’t been easy maintaining a normal life with your fucking voice screaming in my head all the time. Twice I cracked and everything fell apart. Twice I had breakdowns like a whimpering child; I am sure you enjoyed watching me crash and burn both times; how you cackled with glee as my shaking hand reached for my bottle of Ativan and I popped several of them until I passed out. But both breakdowns were long ago. Now I merely suffer in silence. Age brings wisdom and wisdom means coping without breaking. That which does not kill me makes me stronger; you’re a cruel cunt for teaching me this lesson the way you did.
You were the coward, Petra Stein; you killed yourself and blamed me. I was an untrustworthy prick and a cheating asshole, sure, but I wasn’t worth your life. What a shitty trade you made. Worse: I would never kill myself over you. And I loved you more than anyone in this entire world. Did it occur to you I was unworthy of your self-sacrifice?
So do I have to spend eternity apologizing for your self-destruction?
Did it ever occur to you I hated myself and loved you, but hating myself made it impossible to love anyone very well? My hating myself led me into the arms of others; my hating myself destroyed your love for me; my hating myself certainly wasn’t your problem, and your solution sucked ass; you correctly blamed me but punished yourself, you idiot. Leaving me wasn’t enough; you had to punish me by leaving everyone. You were supposed to be the strong one, you coward.
And always in my head I hear you sing that miserable Talk-Talk song, “Talk-Talk,” like you’re serenading me from hell (or wherever tortured spirits go); it’s your suicide requiem: How ironic that this swan song of yours, this suicide requiem, was the song playing when I first saw you; what a harbinger of doom, that song. When I first saw you the club was packed and yet I could only see you on the dance floor, flowing red hair, pale skin, blue eyes, full red lips, freckles, perfect body; you looked so fierce, passionate, and intense; my Teutonic tiger, you. You were hottest piece of ass within 1000 kilometers... Self-hating coward that I was, I couldn’t just walk up to you and introduce myself, even though you looked right at me and beckoned me with your sparkling eyes; no, I just stood there hyperventilating and convinced myself that there’s no way this goddess wants me nearly as much as I want her. How many times had my cowardice denied me love? Would my courage fail me again?
Then you walked up behind me and pinched my butt. Your fingernails dug into my ass cheeks until I looked into your eyes; even a fool like me could take a hint. You smiled; I nearly fainted. We realized right away neither of us spoke the other’s language well enough to communicate, yet it didn’t matter—we communicated with lust and touching and the anxiety of knowing now was not soon enough for both of us. I was so in love with you the moment I met you that I had a horrific panic attack; I panicked because I realized how empty my life would be if I couldn’t have you. I had to have you.
And had you I did—for a while. And in that while, we had a torrid love affair. We were two young, beautiful, absolutely hot beings; when you touched me I felt as if I was being electrocuted.
And then one night you saw me walking out of the Kino with another girl. You never asked me why I cheated; you just blamed yourself and punished me by denying me the chance for your forgiveness. I remember your Aunt Claudia warning me that you loved me too much and I must be careful; I never imagined she meant that much.
You made your decision without consulting anyone; boy were we all surprised when you killed yourself! Not only that, but your family wouldn’t let me anywhere near your funeral; I might as well have slashed your fucking wrists, they blamed me so much. You were dead and the dead make lousy villains. So naturally I became their villain. I let them blame me because I blamed myself.
Seventeen years have passed. You’d be thirty-five now; you’d be Frau Petra, your boobs would sag a little, and there’d be lines on your beautiful face, and yet I’m sure you’d still be the hottest piece of ass within 1000 kilometers. Our kids would be bilingual wunderkinden. You’d be a doctor just like your parents. You’d never miss Germany because you always wanted to live in America. You’d be here to love me and protect me from myself. But you’re not here. I don’t even have photographs of you; someone I dated after you died burned them because she hated competing with your memory. It didn’t matter; she lost to you anyhow. When she left me she wrote “Fuck you and fuck that dead Kraut bitch” on my bedroom wall with a magic marker.
Seventeen years.
You made it clear you’d never forgive me the moment you opened your arteries with a #10 surgical scalpel blade. What a melodramatic little ceremony, your suicide; you waited for your parents to leave for their shift at the Krankenhaus; then you filled the bathroom with dozens of lit candles like a Catholic alter during Easter; you filled the tub with hot water and bubble bath like we used to do when we bathed each other and then fucked; “Talk Talk”—your goodbye note to me—was playing on your tape deck; a framed black-and-white photograph of me in my Army uniform was perched on the sink so you could look at me as you mutilated your arms and then slowly bled to death. How clinical; how dramatic; you stupid fuck!
Your family never spoke to me afterwards, so your best friend, Heike, related all the gruesome details about a year later when we ran into each other by chance in Saarbrücken at Club Gloria. Her grief over your suicide equaled mine, and we hated you so much for what you’d done that we fucked all night in your memory. In the morning Heike cried and left without saying goodbye. Did she cry out of guilt or because I called her Petra while I fucked her?
You knew I’d never love anyone ever again; you knew they’d all be mediocre compared to you; you knew I’d never let go of you; you knew I’d fall apart; you knew I’d hear your voice for eternity; you knew the emptiness I’d face without you. What were you thinking as you sat in that tub full of bubbles, bleeding profusely? Was I worth dying over?
Guess what? You killed me too, you hacked my wrists that night with that scalpel—I’m just taking longer to bleed to death than you.
See you in hell. I hate you, Petra Stein.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.01.2009

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Widmung:
A collection of short murder stories