Copyright©2014 by Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

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may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

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except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Although this story works as a stand-alone tale, to get the most of it you should have read

‘ART’and‘SEED’first.

Events from both of these books are touched upon in this story.

PSYCHOPATH

FOR

HIRE

M A T T    S H A W

CHAPTER ONE

NATHAN COLE

One Last Evening

I

I could stare into her eyes all night. I never believed the saying ‘the eyes are the windows into the soul’ until I found myself looking into her eyes and staring directly into the heart of hers. And what a soul it was; filled with a radiant beauty and a goodness not often seen in humans. Most, including mine, are tainted by various aspects of a life lived, but not here. In these eyes the soul reflected was something special. She closed them - stopping the possibility of any more soul searching.

I tenderly stroked her cheek and called her a, “Tease.” Her skin was soft and warm to the touch. Such perfect skin. No blemishes, no marks. Nothing. Flawless. I leaned forward and gave it a delicate kiss as was my want. A lick of my lips and she tastes of peach. Must be some kind of lotion she used.

I ran my hand down her body starting at the cheek I’d just touched, down the side of her face, her neck, her bosom - down to the blade which jutted out from her stomach. I took a hold of the handle and gave it a twist. She moaned and winced. I pulled the knife from her stomach and looked at the open wound left behind before the ever-spilling blood made it difficult to see inside. Looked bad. Daddy will kiss it better. I moved down her quivering body until I was face to face with the torn skin. A little lick and a strong taste of iron. She flinched. I couldn’t help but to gag at the taste. Even so, I flicked my tongue across the slit as though lapping at her clitoris. I looked up to her face, her breathing is getting shallow. I pressed my hand against her bare vagina and started to stroke softly. A quick little spit on my fingers first and I slowly pushed inside of her trying my best not to tear her up from too much force and not enough lubrication. She moaned and winced. A whisper from me to her, “Go with it,” as I slowly started to move my fingers in and out of her vagina. My goal is to send her to Heaven before sending her to Heaven. I wonder whether the feeling of this would be enough to compensate for the screaming hole in her stomach? She’s moaning and squirming around my fingers - a move I take to mean she is enjoying herself. I let go of the knife, dropping it to the tiled floor, and ran my spare hand over her body until it rested upon her heaving breast. A ripple of pleasure for her as I tickled her left nipple - now standing to attention. Enjoy it my love for you deserve it.

I looked up to her face. She opened her eyes (seemingly with effort) and looked directly at me. She closed her eyes again and rested her head back against the cold ceramic of the bathtub. A few more shallow breaths and her head fell to the side with her mouth agape. A final breath escaping her pink, full lips.

“Thank you!” I whispered to her. I withdrew my fingers and looked up toward the ceiling wondering whether she were up there, looking down upon her own empty shell and the man who helped to free her. “Thank you,” I repeated. I sat down on the cold tiled floor next to the bath-tub and looked down at the bloodied knife. Not finished with that yet. I took hold of it and leaned back into the tub towards the lady. I took a clump of her blonde hair in my left hand and pulled her head up so that her neck was stretched. With the knife in my right hand, I cut across in a neat line from one side to the other. If she wasn’t dead beforehand, she soon will be. Good night, my princess. Safe travels be with you. I dropped the knife into the bath and sat back against the wall as the blood trickled out. Should have done it whilst she was definitely alive as the blood flows more freely with the heart still beating. I couldn’t though. Just seemed cruel. I rested my head in my shaking hands and began to weep. It’s the same reaction whenever I kill someone. Tears. Spilt for both a life lost but also the thought of them now at peace in whatever Heaven their imagination created for them.

Sometimes I envy them as they lie dying in my tub. Sometimes I wished our roles had been reversed and it were me there with them kneeling by the side of the bath with the knife in their hands. I shook the thought from my tired mind and reached for a piece of tissue - torn from the toilet roll hanging on the holder next to the toilet. A quick wipe of my eyes and a blowing of my nose. No time to weep now for another lost soul. There is still much to do whilst the girl is still fresh.

I stood up and dragged her lifeless body up the bath a little so that it was lying at an angle; her legs higher than her head to allow for the blood to leak from the holes I had cut (neck and stomach). If things keep going on like this, it would most likely be worth my time installing some kind of pulley system to allow me to literally hang the corpses upside down so that the blood can drain easier. With her body in place I couldn’t help but give her a final quick glance before continuing with what needed to be done. Her death was such a waste. Such a shame. I shook my head and walked from the room.

II

The spare bedroom was lined with cupboards along all four walls. Maximum storage space for all of the clothes I had accumulated over the years. Some of them were purchased from charity shops I had visited in the nearby town and some of them were stripped from the people who’d come to my house. Technically I didn’t have to dress the people back in their clothes once they were dead - and sometimes I didn’t - but if I were to dress them I liked to have various options as to what they could wear. Just because they turned up in one outfit, it didn’t mean it was the best choice for them to be put back into. After all - maybe their outfit could have got a spillage on it during the course of the evening, or maybe it didn’t suit them as much as it could have done? Whatever the reason, I didn’t think it would hurt to have options.

The left hand side of the room belongs to women’s clothes and the right hand side belongs to men’s clothes and shoes for both sexes.

Unsurprisingly I have a greater collection more geared towards the female of the species.

In both collections - I have something for nearly every sized person you can imagine but the majority is geared towards ‘medium’ sized people. With regards to the outfits themselves I like to think I have something for every occasion. For the men I have suits, shirts, tee shirts, trousers, jeans, shorts, trainers, smart shoes and flip-flops (not that I’ve ever found a use for the latter) and for the females I have leggings, jeans, skirts, dresses, g-strings, thongs, french knickers and even some PVC. I had a latex dress here once too but I split the damned thing trying to squeeze a well-suited lady into it. A shame because she would have looked incredible with the rubber hugging her perfect form. PVC is close enough to latex for me and it’s a damned sight easier to get them into it. Take the red PVC dress I have, hanging in the far closet, for example - a simple concealed zip down the front of it…So easy to slip it onto the girls if the mood suits (which it tends to).

Tonight’s lady seemed too innocent for any of the PVC outfits I had stashed away. The look in her eyes suggests she had never tried such a garment on and I think it would be unfair of me to force her to do so - even in death. I opened the second cupboard - the one where I hung the various dresses - and picked out a long flowery dress; light yellow in colour and a thin material - perfect for Summer days where a lady would like nothing more than to relax.

I held the dress up against my own body as I looked at my reflection in a mirror which formed part of one of the cupboard doors. I didn’t imagine myself in the dress. I imagined her - as though she were here now, standing with me, trying it on. I think she’d look pretty in it. Certainly good enough for tonight anyway.

Satisfied with my choice, I took the dress from the room and headed back towards the bathroom where she’d have hopefully (more or less) drained by now.

III

I had been too eager. My date wasn’t ready to come out of the bath yet. Not without making an unnecessary mess on the floor at least and whilst that wasn’t really a problem I had enough to clean up after tonight without adding to the list. I was in the bedroom folding the clothes she’d been wearing earlier in the evening. They smell pretty fresh and they look clean so I won’t bother washing them. I’ll just hang them in the wardrobes in the spare-room on the off-chance I can use them again. She’s a pretty average sized woman so I’m sure I will.

I had let her use the bedroom to get changed. Funny really - giving her the privacy - considering I was going to be seeing her naked anyway. I’d also offered her a shower to cleanse herself. She’d gratefully accepted the offer. I had told her that the shower was in the bathroom - above the bath. I had waited for the water to start running before charging in there with the knife. I stuck it straight into her stomach and had given the blade a twist to really tear the organs up in her gut. She started to collapse as soon as the blade penetrated her but I had caught her and gently lowered her down so as not to have her bang her pretty little head.

Her handbag was next to her clothes, at the foot of the bed. I picked it up and started to go through it. Keys, hairbrush, purse, some kind of spray, lady products… Better safe than sorry I guess… and an envelope. That was for me. I took it out and put it on the bedside cabinet. I’ll take a proper look at it later; I’m sure it’s all there anyway. Back to the bag and that’s more or less it with the exception of crumpled pieces of paper and a small notebook with various scribbled notes within; nothing of any worth or interest. I was pleased to see no mobile phone. They know I do not like them. They think it is because I do not want us to be interrupted with a ringing cell but that’s not the reason. I don’t want the authorities to try and trace it. I’m still not sure whether that’s something they can actually do or whether it is only something you see in the movies but I figure there is little point in risking it. Much easier to simply say ‘no mobile phones’.

The purse was also worth investigating and I soon had it open. Various credit cards in the front compartment - I’m guessing most nearly maxed out or one hundred percent maxed out - and a few pound notes in the back section. No life-changing sums of money here but enough to make my weekly grocery bill a little easier on my own pocket. I took the notes out and folded them into my back pocket. I went to close the purse and noticed the girl’s driving licence. Jenna. Pretty name. Pretty girl too but you wouldn’t think it looking at the God awful picture on the identification.

I tossed the purse back into the handbag and threw it into the corner of the room. Tomorrow, I’ll burn it all.

IV

Our evening had moved back to my dining room where it had first begun. She was sitting opposite me in the dress I had selected for her. It didn’t match but I had put a scarf around her neck to hide the wound I had caused with the knife. I knew it was there and I knew why it was there but it didn’t mean I wanted to look at it whilst I role-played with her. I never used to cover the wounds up, used to leave them, but I realised I couldn’t properly relax into the scenario as I should have done and it left me with a bad taste for the evening.

The near-empty plates, which once had our meals upon them, were still between us from where I hadn’t cleared them away yet. There was a bell at the side of her plate. A small bell with a gold head and a wooden brown handle. I always put a bell next to my dates’ plates on the off-chance they felt the need to ring it in order to bring our evening to a hasty end, forcing us to go our own separate ways - much like a bell in a speed dating bar. It was always bittersweet when they rung it. On the one hand I knew they’d get to live another day and on the other hand I knew I wouldn’t get to role-play with them once the evening’s tasks were completed.

“Have you had a pleasant evening?” I asked.

I have. Thank you.

I knew she wasn’t speaking. I knew none of them spoke but it didn’t stop me from trying to imagine it regardless of their current state of health. When I imagined she’d said she had had a lovely evening I felt my face blush. Stupid really and I was grateful there was no one around to actually witness my awkward embarrassment.

“That means a lot to me, thank you.” I paused for a moment, “Can I get you any dessert?” I stood up and went to clear the plates when I suddenly interjected with a male voice asking my date who the hell I was. I looked towards the corner of the room where I had earlier planted a man I murdered the previous night. I had dressed him in a suit and - in my mind - he had come home from work only to witness his wife get into my car. He followed us back to my house and is now bursting in on us. In reality this man is nothing to do with the dead woman before me. Despite the two of them having so much in common - the two had never met.

“What’s going on?” I asked my date.

She’d tell me that it was her ex. She’d explain that they’d broken up a few weeks back and he had been pestering her ever since. A lass like this, I could see why he’d have a hard time letting go of her. She was beautiful.

“Look I don’t know what the story is but you’re upsetting my friend,” I told the stranger. “I think it’s probably for the best if you turn around and leave.”

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. He’d have a go at me. He’d call me all the names under the sun and he’d threaten me with clenched fists. I wouldn’t have to hit him though. I would never have to resort to violence. A look would be enough to quieten him. A look would be enough to make him about turn and leave. Of course - in real life - I’d happily resort to using violence in order to make a point but it wouldn’t work in this situation; not whilst I am role-playing. After all, it’s hard to get into a fight with someone who is already dead. Hard to imagine them hitting you, ducking and weaving your punches and - well - it just feels counter-productive using a corpse as a punching bag. Especially when the energy could be better spent elsewhere.

I threw a table cloth over the festering corpse of the man. He was still there but, in my mind and in the scenario playing through my head, he was gone. She thanked me for getting rid of him and I told her it was my pleasure. I went further and told her that, if he came back, I’d have a sterner word in his ear. Make sure he really got the point. I know the reality was different from the one playing in my head but I still felt as though I were a hero. I felt powerful. I felt appreciated. Don’t usually feel either.

I smiled at the dead girl and - in my imagination - she smiled back. She then invited me to go somewhere a little quieter with her.

It would be rude to decline such an invitation. Besides, I deserved this - what with all of the work I’d put into this evening. This was my right.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

The dead girl with the pale face nodded.

V

I had stripped her out of the dress and put her in some fine lingerie. I say ‘fine’ lingerie but, truth of the matter is, I had purchased it from the clothes section of a supermarket so - you know - it looked appealing to me but was actually cheap. Black lacy knickers with a matching bra and some suspender hold-ups - although the right one was unfortunately ripped when I was trying to squeeze her leg into it. I had re-brushed her hair too as all the struggling with getting her out of the dress and into the undies had made a mess of it. She looked good now though, lying on top of the bedding on my own bed. I didn’t put her under the duvet for two reasons; the first was that I didn’t want her dead skin staining the sheet underneath and the second was…I didn’t want to be underneath the duvet, getting hot and sweaty whilst I fucked her. I have to confess - that is currently the last thing on my mind though. There’s a different and new feeling swimming within me - one I am unsure of.

My mind heard Jenna ask me what was wrong. I felt bad for her death. I’m not entirely sure why because she wasn’t the first person I had killed. The more I thought about it the more I wondered whether it was to do with the beautiful soul I’d seen in her eyes. Seemed a shame to have released such a beauty from the body. More than that - it seemed wrong. Looking into her eyes now (holding the lids open to do so) and there was nothing there but a vacant look. A fog clouding over the corneas, concealing the soul. I wondered whether it was there, hiding behind the dead eyes, maybe lingering somewhere back there.

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I need to know.”

I pushed my index finger against the corner of the left eye and pushed in. It felt soft. Mushy. The noise was worse than the sensation.  I twisted my hand and hooked my finger around the eye before pulling it out in one fluid, quick movement. I dropped it to the floor and peered into the new hole left behind. No soul hiding there. No trace of humanity.

She tried to distract me in my imagination by asking me to make love to her. Hold her tight one last time; push inside of her with my erect penis and pump until I ejaculated deep within her. I can’t though. Normally I would have but tonight I’m just not in the mood.

“Do you mind if we just talk?” I asked.

I felt like a nervous teenager filled with angst. Confused and scared, caught in the headlights of an unsure life. She said she’d like that and so I climbed onto the bed and laid next to her.

I cuddled in and started to cry.

Jenna’s voice in my head asked if I wanted to talk about it. It went on to explain that it was good to get things off the chest - especially if they were troubling a conscience and it was fair to say certain things were troubling my mind. The most disturbing thought running through my mind was how I had ended up in this position; role-playing with the corpses of people I’d recently killed, such as Jenna lying next to me and Matty-Bob downstairs in the dining room - still hidden away by a table cloth. I never thought I’d end up doing the things I do.

I imagined that Jenna whispered to me that I looked troubled and I told her that I was. Funny. Of all the role-playing scenarios I have acted out with my friends - I never once acted out something like this.

“I’ve done bad things,” I told her.

She told me that it didn’t necessarily mean I was a bad person but I was. Anyone looking in from the outside would say I was before even getting to know me. They’d all judge, they’d all condemn and I’d be alone again. That’s the nice thing about dead bodies; they never leave. At least, not until you want them to. Nor do they judge. Jenna’s voice continued in my head - she was trying to reassure me, trying to tell me that just because I thought something was bad - it didn’t necessarily mean it was.

“I’ve killed people.”

She didn’t look at it as though I had killed people. In fairness, I hadn’t used to. She looked at it as though I had helped people move on to a better place. The world is a cruel place. It’s a hard place to grow old in and sometimes people struggle. She told me I took away the pain people experienced - or could have experienced - and set them on a brighter path; gave them a seat next to God and their already deceased loved ones. She continued - stating I should be commended for what I do. It wasn’t her saying any of that though. It was me. All in my head. Trying to justify my actions in an effort to make myself feel better for them.

“I won’t be forgiven,” I told her, “people like me aren’t ever forgiven. Only judged.”

I didn’t usually feel down on an evening such as this. I usually felt good about what I did to the people who visited my home - although I’ve always felt as though it wasn’t necessarily the correct way to feel. Truth be told I’m not entirely sure why I feel the way I do now - the guilt running through me for all the people who’ve fallen at my hand. I looked at Jenna’s cold body and couldn’t help but blame her for the way I was feeling. In my head she begged me not to. She wanted me to like her. They all did. I couldn’t help myself though. All because I had looked into her eyes and witnessed a rare beauty. A rare sight which made me realise what I was doing - how I was living - was wrong.

“What would my mum think if she could see me now?” it was a rhetorical question yet my evening’s guest still answered by stating that my mum would see a man grieving. But it’s not just a grieving man she’d look down upon. She’d also see a murderer. A sick individual. A twisted soul who liked to play with those he killed, creating make-believe worlds and scenarios that they could all live in. I know it’s not normal behaviour and yet I can’t help myself. It’s what makes me feel alive. It’s what makes me feel appreciated. Less lonely.

I can’t help myself.

Talk to me, Jenna said in the back of my mind.

Her voice calm, caring.

Sincere.

“I’m sorry,” I told the dead body, “it’s just…ghosts of my past seem to be haunting me.”

Jenna said that she understood. She asked me to talk about it. She told me it would make me feel better to say it out loud. And - even if it didn’t - it would help her understand what I was going through.

I felt a little bit uncomfortable. This isn’t something I tend to do - talking to my dates. Not like this anyway. I looked at Jenna’s face. There was a kindness in her expression I hadn’t seen before in any of my dates. Maybe it would help to talk?

“I guess it started with my mum,” I told her. I felt nervous. This was the first time I’d spoken out loud what I had been through; what lead me to this confused moment in my life.

CHAPTER TWO

BEFORE

Painful Goodbyes

I

I woke up with a pain in my neck from the weird sleeping angle forced upon my tired body by dozing off in the arm-chair next to my mum’s bed, just as I had done so the previous four or five nights. I could have gone to my own bed, it’s only in the next room, but I chose to stay here by her side. She was looking worse now. Worse than she had for a while. Can’t remember the last time she looked good. Even in my memories of her she had the same yellow hue to her skin as she does now.

Watching me at school, doing various shows or at different end of term presentations - she’d be sitting there, front row and centre, with the yellow tone to her skin and the expensive wig on her head. Smile on her face.

Standing in the kitchen slaving over a cooker, preparing dinner for us. Yellow hue. She’d turn to me and smile, ask me to come over and stir something whilst she prepared the vegetables.

Go back further to when I was around five or six years old; mum was by my bed with a book in her hand. Tom Thumb. One of my favourite stories when I was growing up. She’d be reading it to me. The yellow of her skin illuminating the room.

I looked at her in her own bed. Not even her proper bed but one that was lent to us by the hospital when they sent her home to die. I wiped a tear from my eye as I looked upon her. I hate the fact my memories of her have been tainted by her current ailing look. It doesn’t seem fair and I can’t help but wonder whether my old memories will be given back to me - untouched - when she has gone. I hope so. I don’t want to remember her how she is now. I want to remember her how she was. That brave, beautiful woman; the one who raised me to the best of her abilities after her husband, and my so-called father, disappeared.

She slowly opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw me - as she did every time she woke from one of her ever-increasing sleeps.

“Have you been there all night?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Scared I’m going to run off?” a slight laugh. She doesn’t even sound like my mum anymore. She sounds like a stranger. A weakness in her voice that I’m not used to hearing. I do not like it. Despite how she sounded, I was still grateful to hear her speak. Speak normally at least. Half the time she spoke to me, especially these past few days, she hasn’t really made much sense; the medications taking their toll. She’d tell of these weird and wonderful things she’d seen around the room. The way she spoke - it sounded as though she were in some kind of puppet film with friendly puppets bouncing around the room singing at her, begging for her to join in. It was nice to hear she wasn’t in pain but at the same time it was depressing. The more she spoke of hallucinations, the more I knew she was no longer the woman I used to know. The more I realised we were heading for the end that I both longed for and dreaded.

“I saw my mum and dad,” she said.

I smiled at her, “Did you?”

She nodded slowly as though even that were painful for her. I reached down to the floor, where I’d previously placed a glass of water, and lifted it up. I carefully held it to her mouth and tipped it slowly towards her, allowing her to take a sip. I moved the cup away and put it back on the floor.

“What did they say?” I asked.

“They asked me to go with them.”

I didn’t know what to say to her. I wanted her to go with them because it would mean her pain would be over but, at the same time, I felt conflicted because I didn’t want her to leave me. She was all I had. She was my world. I’d spent so much time looking after her, making sure she was okay, that I didn’t know what else to do. I’d left my job for her. My partner had left me because of her. That sounded harsh but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. It was a new relationship, fairly new anyway, and I couldn’t give her the time she needed. Not when I had my mum at home needing me. Mum had spent so long looking after me, it was only fair I did the same for her in her hour of need.

Her ‘hour’ of need. Funny. Her ‘hour’ was now in its sixth long month, not that I cared. I was grateful for every day we had together.

I took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze. I didn’t have the words for her but that didn’t mean I couldn’t show I was here for her. She smiled at my touch and then winced in pain. I hated seeing her like this. I’d do anything to take away the pain for her.

I released her hand, got up, and walked to her make-up table situated at the far side of the room. Her make-up had long since been disposed of and replaced with various medications. I grabbed the pain-relief and walked back with it to the chair I’d been sitting on.

“Here you go,” I pressed down on the child-proof lid and gave it a twist until I was able to pop it off. I tipped the bottle into my hand, spilling two pills. I put the bottle on the floor and sat on the bed, next to mum. I lifted her slightly before reaching down for the glass of water. With the glass in my hand, I slipped the two pills into mum’s mouth and let her sip at the glass. She swallowed hard - a move which seemed to be painful for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered as I lowered her back onto her pillow.

She closed her eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder how many more times she’d be able to do that; open her eyes and close them again. She looks terrible. Are we getting close to the day where she’ll close her eyes and never open them again? I looked away from her as I sat back down on my chair. I didn’t want her to see my eyes. More to the point, I didn’t want her to see the tears in them.

“Did you want me to bring the television up here?” I asked her, still avoiding eye-contact as best as I could.

“I don’t want to be trouble,” she told me. She said the same every time I offered to do something for her; she didn’t want to be any trouble. She failed to understand - or believe me when I said it - that nothing was too much trouble. She didn’t need the television anyway. Especially these past couple of days; she spent most of them asleep. Her naps seemingly getting longer each time. Funny. I’d have thought she would have wanted to spend more time awake. After all - it probably won’t be much longer before she’s in the eternal sleep. I shook the thought from my mind. Don’t want to think about that. It might be for the best but - even so - I don’t want to acknowledge what’s coming. I’m not ready to. Not yet.

“Might be able to catch up on your favourite soaps?” I pressed forward with the idea of fetching the television. The more I thought about it, the more I realised the set was more for my benefit than hers. Something to take my mind off from watching her slowly wither away into nothing. Something to distract me from her slow, painful death. Something to break the unbearable silence filling the room as she quietly napped the final hours away.

I looked at her as I waited for an answer but it never came. Her eyes were closed; asleep again. I carefully took hold of her frail hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Don’t leave me mum, please don’t leave me. I’m not ready for you to go yet.

A single tear rolled down my cheek.

Can’t cry yet. She might wake up. I need her to know I’m going to be okay. I need her to leave me with her mind at peace. I’ll cry for her when she’s gone.

II

PRESENT DAY

I was kneeling on the floor. I don’t even remember getting off the bed - so lost in thought. Jenna was on the mattress where I had left her. I had hold of her hand. Almost the same position I had been in when I said my final goodbye to my mum; me on my knees next to her bed, her lying there motionless, her hand in mine, tears rolling down my cheek just as they do now.

Jenna said she was sorry for my loss; a quiet voice only in my head. I thanked her and let go of her hand before wiping my cheeks.

The night sky was considerably lighter. I’d spent so much time thinking about the past, dwelling on that which has gone by, my night had slipped away. A disappointing end to what had started off as a good date. It shouldn’t have gone like this. It never usually did. Usually it ended with a…a more satisfying climax.

Jenna apologised to me and told me she’d make it up to me if I gave her the chance. She said she didn’t mean for me to talk about what had happened to my mum all night but she was glad that I had because I obviously needed to get it off my chest. It probably was good to get it off my chest in fairness but - regardless - Jenna didn’t have anything to apologise for. It wasn’t her fault my mind got caught up in the past.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” I regretted saying it before it had even escaped my mouth yet I didn’t stop myself. At first I thought it was her fault - the sight of her soul disappearing - but soon after…I realised my mood was nothing to do with Jenna’s lost soul but everything to do with my mothers. Not just her death (my loss) but also what she’d be thinking of me now if she could see me. Would she be happy about the path I’ve chosen? Sometimes I feel as though what I do is good, for the best, but…I don’t know…Thinking about how my mum would view it…I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter how you paint it as a picture - I’ve killed people. With the exception of one who’d stepped over my threshold - all had perished.

Jenna told me it would be better tonight if I gave her a chance but I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe this little hobby of mine had run its course? Maybe I was better off just disposing of the bodies after I had set the souls free?

“Thank you for listening to me last night,” I said to Jenna, “but I’m afraid I’m busy this evening.”

Jenna didn’t look disappointed. She looked dead. Even in my head her voice had gone quiet. She was nothing more to me than a dead body. The illusion of what I had had after I took her life away all but slipped away. Now she was nothing but something I had to dispose of. A mess to be cleaned. I leaned down to where she lay upon the bedsheets and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Thank you for listening,” I repeated.

I lifted her from the bed and walked her back through to the bathroom, down the landing. I carefully placed her in the tub and took a step back, wiping a small bead of sweat from my forehead. Never mind having a sweaty forehead - my head is pounding. I’m not sure whether it’s down to a lack of sleep or whether it’s because my emotions are running high. A shame I didn’t keep some of mum’s medication.

A shiver ran down my spine as I sensed mother’s disappointment in me; the fact I craved her medication. She never believed in pills or anything like them. She only took them at the end because she was too weak to argue with me. Other than that - she’d put up with whatever pain she was in saying she’d much rather her own body dealt with it. Even when the cancer was at its worst, stubborn bitch still refused to swallow the tablets down. Can’t say I blame her though. I remember them as if I were popping them from their packets only yesterday - damned things looked like torpedoes.

Jenna whispered again that mum was fine with me. She was fine with the path I had chosen for myself, since her passing, and she was fine with the fact I craved her meds. Clever girl, is Jenna, she’ll say anything to stop what’s coming. A further whisper to suggest we could try our date night again tonight. She really is a clever girl.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

To the side of the bath, just underneath the sink, was a leather bag which housed the tools needed for what was to come. I reached for it and dropped to my knees in order to open it up via its silver zipper. A glance inside and the contents stared back up at me; bloodied tools used to cut up previous bookings.

Her sweet voice in my head again begging me not to do this.

“We had a deal.”

I imagined her telling me that she was scared. She knew she didn’t need her body now that she was free but she didn’t like the idea of it being cut up. A strange theory they’ll be punished in their next life - should they come back - if they do not receive a proper burial. They always get nervous at this stage of our relationship. I try to reassure them that everything will be okay but still their voices chirp away in my head, pleading with me to just bury them somewhere. They didn’t care where, they just wanted to be buried.

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t. I have to do it this way.”

I have to cut them into small pieces. The smaller the better. It’s easier to get rid of them that way. You leave them bigger and - well - disposal becomes an issue; you need to dig bigger holes, more obvious the ground has recently been disturbed, heavier and more awkward to lug around…Definitely, the smaller the better.

Jenna told me she’d be the best fuck I’d ever have. I imagined there to be a desperation in her tone but - still - I have to confess, I’m curious as to whether there was any truth in her bold, bold statement.

I looked her body up and down and licked my lips. She does have a nice body. Trimmed pubic hair leading a narrow path to her pretty pussy. Can almost taste it now. I tried to dismiss the sexual thought from my mind. I can’t do it. I can’t. I need to get rid of her - or at least start the process.

I heard her voice in my head again. Seductive tone. She was teasing me - telling me she knew how much I wanted to be inside of her. What the hell was going on in my head? One minute I’m feeling good about setting a soul free, in the next I’m feeling guilty - wondering what my mother would be thinking and now I’m kneeling here with a raging hard-on.

You can’t resist me.

Her damned voice, “Imagine my wet lips wrapped around your shaft, squeezing every last drop of semen from your cock,” she teased. I wondered which lips she was referring to. Both have the potential to be good.

Shut up, woman.

I can resist.

I have work to do.

I reached into the leather bag and pulled out a saw. I reached into the tub where Jenna’s body laid and put the blade against her neck. Won’t take much sawing, considering how deep I went with the knife when I cut her throat. I hesitated as I found my eyes drifting back to her pussy. I could feel a throbbing from beneath my trousers still - my cock screaming for attention.

You can’t do it, can you? Her voice in my head.

A sudden smile spread across my face as a thought came into my head; I need to get rid of her body but I want to make love to her having missed the pleasure during the night…The thought, loud and clear, singing to me that - I don’t need her whole body to make love. I only need her genitals and a little bit of torso for something to hold onto and thrust against. The rest of the body can be binned.

I started hacking through her neck with the saw; a sound very much like metal grinding through wood. A sound which always caused a shiver to run down my spine - as unpleasant as someone dragging their nails down a chalk board.

Just saw faster.

Get it over and done with.

I closed my eyes and increased both rhythm and pressure until I felt the saw cut the final piece of bone and flesh away. I opened my eyes in time to see the head loll to the side - no longer attached to the rest of the body. All that’s left is the arms and legs. Maybe I’ll cut the torso in half…I don’t need it all. Unless…I looked down at her body again…Her breasts were pert. hardened nipples in death. I guess…Bin the head, the arms, the legs…Keep the rest.

Just for one night.

I smiled as I set about cutting through the arms despite the sound of saw through bone again.

CHAPTER THREE

MARTIN ANDREWS

Broken

I

I sat on the tatty armchair in my small living room staring at the smoking television set. Been a long day and this was supposed to be my way of relaxing. Mistake. Should have known better. A piece of glass slipped from the screen and hit the floor where some of the other shards had landed when the ash-tray hit the screen. Don’t know why I even turned the damned set on; just more depressing shit in the news. Today’s leading story being about a family who was disturbed in their own home. Intruder killed the whole damned family before turning the knife upon himself. Husband, mother and child brutally slain in their own fucking home. At least none of them were left behind to feel the grief of loss.

I feel almost envious of them.

Only good part of that particular story was that the killer took his own life. Some freak dressed up as a fucking clown of all things. One less asshole on the streets for me to have to try and catch - not that I’m having a good run of closing cases recently. Not since that sick fuck Arthur. The one who took my world from me. The one who put me in this tiny box of a flat in the dodgy end of town.

I looked around the apartment. Not sure if the stink lingering in the rooms is from me - where I just don’t give a fuck anymore - or whether it was already here when I moved in. Not sure that I care either. One day I might go home again; back to the family home. When the pain is a little less, maybe.

The pain. Will it ever die down or will it be like this forever now?

No.

Of course it will fade.

Everything fades.

The whiskey helps with that.

I reached down and picked up the tall glass half-filled with whiskey. I used to drink this on the rocks. Now I just neck it neat. I used to get numb from it. Used to. Each day it takes a little bit more to take away any possibility of feeling. I downed the remainder of the glass and reached for the bottle. Bitter disappointment when I noted it had run dry. Damn it. I threw it across the room where it smashed against the wall into a hundred tiny pieces of fuck you.  Some asshole banging on the wall shouting for me to keep it down. Half tempted to barge into his apartment and help him bang against the walls - using his head as the knocker.

I pulled myself up from the armchair and caught sight of myself in the cracked mirror hanging above the gas fire. The crack was me. Not sure when exactly but it was definitely me. Didn’t like the guy staring back at me when I looked into it and lashed out. Don’t much like the asshole staring back at me now either. Looks old, worn, haggard and that’s despite the untidy beard hiding a lot of the bitter, old face.

“Getting old, my friend.” Arthur’s voice taunted me. I had been hearing him a lot recently despite my best intentions not to. I’d tried everything to rid myself of him once and for all. Taunting me about how I look, laughing when I lost my job down the station, and reminding me of what he had done to me. Counselling, alcohol - even being better at my job. None of it seemed to help ease my conscience. I caught a sight of him standing behind me in the cracked reflection of the broken mirror. A hazy memory limping back to mind from one of my many drunken nights reminding me that this is how the mirror came to be cracked the first time around. He wasn’t alone in the reflection. He was standing there with my Lucy - his arm around her as though part of a cozy couple. It takes me all of my damned willpower not to break the mirror again. I know he isn’t there. Neither is she. I’ll turn around and both will be absent - back to where they’re supposed to be; him in prison and her…I don’t want to think about it. I slowly turned around and confirmed what I already knew - neither were present.

Tomorrow I’ll be sure to pick up an extra bottle of whiskey when I venture out for supplies. Usually get two bottles but clearly three is the answer. Save myself from being in this position again. Save myself from running dry. Should have stopped off on the way home earlier. Should have got another bottle. I knew I was running out after last night. Should have known I’d have needed another.

I noticed my phone flashing at me. It was resting on the arm of the chair I’d been slumped in earlier. A little blue light blinking for my attention to show me it had a message waiting. Didn’t even hear the damned thing vibrating through with a call. Shows how little attention I pay it these days. A far cry from how it used to be when I was on the Force. Used to live with it permanently attached to me on the loudest setting possible to ensure there were no calls missed no matter what the time of day. I can’t say I’ve missed the constant ringing. I much prefer the sound of silence offered in my forced retirement and reluctance to leave the apartment unless absolutely necessary.

I picked the handset open and flipped the lid up. One voicemail waiting for me. I closed the lid. It can wait. I need more alcohol. I slipped the phone into my trouser pocket and lifted my well worn trench coat from the second armchair where I often flung it. I threw it over my shoulders and headed for the hallway. If I’m to survive the night, I’ll need more alcohol.

I’ll get three bottles in this time. Always try and keep a spare in the apartment for emergencies such as this.

I opened the front door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway of the apartment block. Funny, I used to come here to bust known drug-dealers and pimps. Never once thought I’d be living amongst them. Don’t care what they do these days and they know it. Just let them get on with it and, in return, they leave me the hell alone too. A mutual understanding - they don’t fuck with me and I don’t fuck with them.

No point in me trying to even if I was still on the Force; the Good guys lost the fight long ago. We just didn’t know it. We always thought we could turn it around. Always thought we could make a difference. Shame I realised so late in the game. Had I known earlier, I could have got out before it impacted my family.

My family?

What family.

Need more alcohol.

II

I stepped out of the cold rain and into the immediate warmth offered by the off licence. The bell above the doorway ringing through the seemingly deserted store warning the occupants of my arrival. The store was run by Abdul Kharmi - some guy who’d chosen this shit-hole of a country to bring his family up instead of whatever country he said he was from. He had told me but damned if I can remember. I used to have a good memory for the little details. It was important for the job. Now I’m a civilian I don’t give a fuck for the little things and tend to forget them as soon as I’ve heard them. Of course I knew him before I was just a civilian. I knew of him as a case number too. Used to know that by heart but - like the other little things - it has slipped my mind as well. Poor son of a bitch was always getting robbed.

Abdul was usually sitting behind the counter with his head buried in a newspaper of some description. His grasp of the english language was serviceable but I often wondered whether he could make any sense out of the words sprawled across his choice of tabloid. I’m guessing now. Had he been able to read what was going in the country he’d actually chosen to move to - he’d probably have packed up long ago and gone back to where he had originally come from.

I glanced over to the counter as I wiped my feet on the mat before stepping onto the wooden flooring of the shop. He was serving another customer. My eyes drifted from the two to behind the counter where the good whiskey was kept. Wild Turkey being a personal favourite and there it was - right there - on the top shelf. I felt a rush of embarrassment run through me when I realised another emotion had hit me upon sight of the bottles of alcohol; one of relief.  Had I really got to that stage of my life whereby I’d panic had it not been readily available?

“Three of the usual when you’re ready,” I said to Abdul as I approached the counter. I noticed his face, something about it was different to what I usually saw when I came in. Something…Oh fuck.

“Don’t take another fucking step!” the hooded guy, standing in front of the counter, turned to me with his pistol raised up to my chest.

“Okay. Easy, fella. Don’t want trouble, just whiskey,” I put my hands up to show him I was unarmed and that I wasn’t looking to get shot. That was the problem with an off licence in this area; on the one hand you never had a shortage of customers - people such as myself looking to drown out the shit world they lived in - but on the other hand there was never a shortage of people to rob the joint either. I took a few steps back with my hands raised in the air.

The asshole turned his head back to Abdul but kept the gun pointed at me, “Fill the fucking bag up and be quick about it!” he barked through his order.

“Just do as he says,” unlike the asshole, I didn’t shout. I purposefully kept my voice low and non-threatening. Just an elderly man not looking for trouble. Abdul looked surprised I was telling him to do as the asshole said. Not sure what he expected me to do. He knew I was retired from the Force now from our many conversations since being a regular customer. The guy had recognised me the first moment I stepped into his shop. Took him about three weeks to get out of the habit of calling me Detective. He opened the till and started to bag up the notes - using one of the carrier bags he usually charged five pence for.

“Come on! Come on! All of it!” The asshole reached forward and grabbed the bag as soon as the last note was taken from the till, still with the damned gun aimed at me. Why me? He turned from the till point and headed towards the door with haste - his eyes fixed upon me as though part of him expected me to make a move. No moves coming from here. I’m done with this game. I don’t owe Abdul anything. Hell - the way I see it - he owes me, the amount of hours I’ve wasted trying to help him in the past when he has been robbed. Should have got out then, opened up a shop in a nicer town where there was less chance of this happening.

The bell above the door rang out through the shop as the asshole yanked the door open and stepped out in the cold night. The bell rang again as the door closed behind him.

“You go after him!” Abdul shouted.

“Not my job anymore,” I told him.

“You have a duty!” he said. “Once a police officer, always a police officer!”

I shook my head, “I’m sorry,” I told him, “I’m just here for three bottles of the usual.”

I could tell by his face he was shocked that I wouldn’t help. Possibly even shocked that I didn’t take the time to ask if he was okay but why would I? People I like, people I am closed to - they get hurt. Easier to distance myself from them. Safer for them and easier for me. I can’t have another life on my conscience. Besides - he was fine. He’ll get over it. It was just money. Not as though anyone was hurt. If anything he is safer now. Word will get out that he has been robbed. Other people who might have been planning the same will know that his security will be tight again (for a while at least) and that he’ll be ready for them. Means they’ll stay away. However much money that was in his till had just bought him peace and quiet for a couple of months at least. And he should look on the bright side - had they come in after me, there’d have been another sixty quid in the till. I pulled the notes from my tatty wallet, ignoring the baby scan picture, and threw them on top of the counter. “Three of my usual,” I told him. “And you can keep the change…”

“You get out! You get out and you don’t come back!”

He didn’t mean it. He was just upset. Maybe in shock. He’ll be okay. I walked round to the back of the counter and pulled three bottles from the top shelf, despite his shouting for me to leave his store. I ripped a bag from where they hung on the wall and lowered the bottles into it; careful not to split the cheap plastic. 5 pence and the bags barely last more than one trip from shop to home. Fucking joke. I flashed him a smile and walked from the store. The bell above the doorway singing out into the shop.

I didn’t make it more than five steps to my waiting car before I set the bag down on the soaked concrete and pulled a bottle from within. I twisted the lid off and took a much needed swig from the bottle. Damned stuff is tasting more and more like water with every sip. Need something stronger perhaps. I put the lid back on, careful to ensure it was pushed right the way down, and continued the walk to the car. Seen so many drink related accidents in my time that you’d think I’d know better and yet - drink driving - I don’t give a fuck. As an Officer you learn to hate the drink drivers because it’s not just their lives they wreck but people they collide with. Some live and some die. Maybe that’s why I moved to this shit-hole area? Part of me - deep down - aware that there was a good chance I’d have an accident if I drink drive? At least if I hit anyone around these parts it won’t matter. Fucking scum the lot of them. One last ditch attempt to rid the world of scum in a dramatic car accident? Wouldn’t faze me.

I slid the key into the car lock with a hand as steady as a rock. It’s always steady when I’ve been drinking. It’s when I’m running dry that it shakes. Embarrassingly so. I climbed into the car and put the bag onto the passenger seat before sliding the key into the ignition. I slammed the door shut, cocooning myself in my own private sanctuary. I hate it out there now, in the real world. There is nothing there for me. Arthur had made sure of that. I’d heard he had put in an appeal against his sentence. One of my old colleagues thought it prudent to inform me. Of course nothing will come of it. Part of me thinks he only did it because he knew it would get back to me. He wanted me to remember that he is out there still. Wanted to remind me of who he is and what he had done, not that I could ever forget. I looked in the rear-view mirror. Arthur stared back at me from the backseat. He winked.

“Wink all you want,” I said, “you need to make the most of it whilst you can… You won’t be around much longer.” I reached into the carrier bag and pulled out the bottle of whiskey I’d earlier opened. I took the lid off and threw it onto the floor. Won’t need that anymore. A quick glance into the rear-view mirror along with a little wink and a flash of my smile. “Quickest way to kill you,” I said as I took a large swig from the bottle. “Quickest way.”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there staring at me.

III

I awoke with a pounding head. You’d think my body would be used to it by now, the heavy nights of pornography and alcohol abuse. Takes more to get so drunk that memories blur to nothing while a state of consciousness only just manages to hang on and yet the amount needed to ensure a migraine-like headache remains the same. Hardly seems fair.

Blurred vision slowly pulled into focus as I find myself staring up at the light on the ceiling. Not the bedroom light. Head turned to the side and thumped in such a way I thought it was going to explode. I’m in the living room. Not the first time I’ve woken up here but usually I tend to wake up on the sofa. Don’t even remember dropping to the floor last night. I slowly sat up with the room spinning. Arthur was sitting on the sofa smiling at me.

“Still here,” he taunted me.

“Fuck you.”

He started to laugh as I reached up to my coat which was - once again - abandoned on one of the armchairs. I pulled it down to my level and fumbled in the pocket for what I was looking for; headache tablets. I always keep them on me. Saves having to try and find one when I need it which seems to be fairly frequent. Especially after learning about his appeal. Seems I almost always have a fucking headache. Doesn’t help that I have nothing to do these days other than to mope around and drink.

I popped two tablets out from the silver foil of the pharmaceutical packet and necked them. I swallowed hard. No need for water. Seasoned pro when it comes to taking these. I threw the packet onto my coat. Won’t be needing them for a couple more hours. I rested my head back against the stained carpet wishing it were the carpet of my old family home. That was not only clean but also thick. Much more comfortable than this. I closed my eyes and wished for sleep to take a hold of me once more - permanently perhaps.

“Lie with me,” Lucy said. “Close your eyes.”

“I wish it were that simple,” I whispered. Whenever I tried to go to sleep, I liked to make her the last thought of the evening. Increases the chance of dreaming about her. A real dream, I mean, not the usual nightmare of how he left her for me to find; the most recurrent night-terror that I suffered despite trying to drown it from my mind with strong booze and tablets.

A strong vibration against my leg pulled me from my thoughts. My mobile phone again. I reached into my pocket and looked at the number calling me. Local but not one that I recognise. I opened the lid - an action which automatically answers the calls - and promptly slammed it shut again. Don’t want to talk to anyone. I dropped the phone to my side. Just sleep this headache off. If it’s important, they’ll call back later. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.

No guarantee I’ll listen to the damned thing though.

CHAPTER FOUR

NATHAN COLE

A New Day

I

The morning after a date, I often feel a sadness. Not for the life I have taken. I feel sad because I wish it were me who had passed away the night before. I wish I had been the one to die at the end of our date. Had I been the one to expire - at least I’d get to see my mother again.

Like so many people in the world - those who suffer from depression and other mental illnesses - I have often thought of taking my own life. The blissful peace found in death is appealing to me. But I am not a foolish man. I know that if I were to take my own life then I’d never get to see mother again. People who kill themselves are punished hard by God. He condemns them into an eternal darkness away from both the light he offers and the comfort of those you love who have passed before (and after) your own death.

I guess that is why I feel jealous of the ones I murder. They get to spend eternity with their loved ones. Even if they do get there earlier than expected. They still get there. All I can do is hope that I do not live a long life. In my thirties now and pretty much ready to go. My diet is fairly bad so hoping for a heart attack by the time I’m forty. Not suicide, just a care-free life. I’d still get my ticket to paradise.

And speaking of paradise.

I terminated my car engine with a quick twist of the key and pulled the key from the slot before dropping it into my jacket pocket. I looked out of the car window towards her house. Been a while since I’ve been here. Been a while since I’ve needed it. Usually my nights end with a little more satisfaction ruling out the need for her but last night was a let down on that front. I need to see her today. I need to feel her touch. Her warmth.

The digital clock on the dashboard clicked to 10:00am.

Her first appointment of the day. Just the way I like it. I know she’s clean. I know she’s fresh. I know she isn’t tired, worn out from a vigorous session with a previous client. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. One hundred and fifty pounds; her rate for an in-call appointment to her home. Not sure why people would choose for an out-call appointment. Costs an additional twenty pounds. Not only do you have to pay extra money to see them but you also have to take the time to ensure your house is clean.

Thankfully my house is clean. Spent the whole night ensuring it was just so. The pieces which needed to be disposed of were taken away, the bathroom was cleaned, her possessions burned on the open fire. I still resent forking out an additional twenty pounds though. It’s not as though money grows on trees and I’ve nearly got through the inheritance left to me after my mother’s untimely passing.

I dropped the cash back into my pocket and flung the car door open before climbing out into the mid-morning sun. As I approached the front door it opened. I couldn’t see her standing there. She always made she that was the case - not because she was shy but because she couldn’t risk her neighbours seeing her dressed in whatever attire she had chosen for our appointment. Without waiting to be asked, I stepped into her home and she closed the door behind me. I turned around and there she was - a vision of beauty. She was wearing black stockings with a matching suspender belt, black thong - at least I presume it’s a thong, a black bra which matches. Her long dark hair curling at the bottom. I’m not sure whether that’s an intentional style or because it went wrong. I think I like it. I think it’s cute. Her big brown eyes were bright and as welcoming as her ample cleavage. She smiled and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, stranger!” she said. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good, thank you.“ I lied. I pulled the money from my pocket and handed it over to her to save her the embarrassment of having to ask. I never give her time to ask for the money. It just makes things awkward from the get go and I’m not here for any awkwardness. I’m here to feel something I haven’t felt since my mother. I’m here for love. Albeit a different kind of love.

“Please, come on through,” she walked me through to the bedroom and invited me to take a seat on the bed. I sat. She sat. We sat together.  “I thought you’d moved on to someone else,” she continued.

I can see why she would think that. After mother’s passing I saw her on a near weekly basis. I had the inheritance so money wasn’t a problem. Then I found my calling and I found I didn’t need her as much. I found satisfaction with dates of my own. I guess you could say I became a prostitute in my own right.

“Just been busy,” I told her. Another lie. “Surprised you even remember me,” I told her. This wasn’t a lie. She was a popular girl. One of the most popular ladies in the area going by the field reports - feedback left by punters - on the Internet. My own clients never get to leave me field reports of their own but I’m presuming they’re satisfied from the moment they enter my home to the moment they leave in the various bags I package them up in.

“Of course I remember! We had loads of fun. I actually missed you.”

I didn’t believe her. At least - not in the context she made it sound. Had she told me she missed my money then it would be a different story; I would have believed her. She leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. Those soft lips. I’d forgotten how good they feel. I pulled away from her.

“Sorry - been a long night - you mind if I take a shower?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Thank you.”

I didn’t need her to show me where it was. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have used her facilities. I stood up and walked through to the bathroom. She called out that there was a fresh towel hanging on the side - not that she needed to. It was fairly obvious where the towels were. Not exactly the biggest of bathrooms. I took my clothes off and put them to the side before stepping into the shower cubicle. I slid the screen across and turned the water on. I could have stayed on that bed kissing her for the rest of the day - although I’d only paid for an hour - but I was self-conscious of the fact I’m not as fresh as I could be. Like I told her, it had been a long night dealing with my own date.

I let the shower run for a moment in order to give it time to warm up and then I stepped under the waterfall pouring from the shower-head. The feeling of the water hitting my body was bliss. Immediately I could feel the stress wash away from my system; swirling around the plughole.

I had left the bathroom door open. I knew it wouldn’t be long before she joined me. The shower was not just a place to freshen up but also a good place to get the appointment moving along to the next stage - just as, in my home, it was a good place to end an appointment. True to form she appeared in the doorway wearing nothing but a smile on her face. She walked over to the cubicle, pulled the screen door across, and stepped in before closing the screen door behind her.

“Don’t mind if I join you, do you?” she purred.

I shook my head, “Not at all. I was actually wondering what was taking you so long,” I smiled. Despite being in a pleasing setting, it wasn’t a real smile. I hadn’t grinned for real for as long as I could remember. In fact, the last time I did so, I’m sure mother was alive and it was way before she was diagnosed. Every smile since has been nothing but a show to make the other person feel more at ease or - in this case - appreciated.

As we stood there together - in silence - I couldn’t help but think back to the many appointments I had had with my own dates in the comfort of my own home; standing there in the shower, both naked, waiting for what was to come. This shower was to end differently to the ones I had shared with my dates.

She stepped towards me. Our bodies were touching as the water cascaded over the pair of us and we began to resume where we had left off in the bedroom.

II

We hadn’t bothered drying ourselves after the shower. We had simply collapsed on the bed together. Our hands running over each other’s bodies as we continued to kiss. She pulled away from me and reached across to the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. I knew why. I had been here enough times to know that that was where she kept her supply of protection. She slid the drawer open and effortlessly pulled out a silver foil wrapper containing a condom. She put the corner of it into her mouth as she gave me a wink. A twist of her hand and the corner of the wrapper tore away giving her easy access to the rubber inside. With her other hand, she pulled it from the foil which she then dropped off the side of the bed. She manoeuvered herself so that she was straddling me and expertly rolled the condom down the length of my erection. I closed my eyes at the touch of her delicate fingers. Been so long since I’ve felt someone touch me. Someone alive at least. It had only been a week since I had manipulated someone’s dead hand to make it feel as though they were embracing me.

With the rubber on, she positioned herself above my cock and - using her hand to keep it steady - slowly slid her sweet pussy down onto it. She smiled as I sighed. But something’s not right. Not the sensation - that feels amazing but there’s something else… Something wrong. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction as she ground down harder on me and increased her own vocals in the hope I’d join in but I wasn’t feeling it. At least, not in the way I was supposed to be.

“Wait,” I urged her.

“You’re close already?” she slowed her grinding to a slower pace.

I sat up so that we were face to face and put my hands on her shoulders - stopping her from moving, “Do you mind if we just talk?”

“Talk?”

I nodded. The moment my penis had slid inside her I had realised it wasn’t sexual satisfaction I was seeking but rather conversation. A friendly face to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge me. Someone who wouldn’t ram their own opinion down my throat. Just someone who’d be silent and listen; lend a sympathetic ear.

With one hand holding onto my shaft - ensuring the rubber stayed in place - she climbed off and laid next to me, “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself crying. What the hell is this? Hasn’t happened since the night my mother…

“Hey, hey, hey…” she put her arm around me and pulled me close. Tonight she isn’t my whore, she’s my therapist. She’s someone who gets to pretend to give a damn about me. “What’s the matter?” she asked. Her voice was calm and soothing. Her tone - genuine.

I apologised to her as soon as I was able. It must have been awkward for her as it was embarrassing for me, “Don’t remember the last time I did that,” I told her. A lie. The last time was when I walked into my mother’s room early in the morning and found her dead. I had fallen to my knees and broken down. Ended up sitting on the floor, holding her hand, weeping for most of the day. A pathetic broken mess of a man.

“It’s fine,” she promised me. Her website promised companionship. A declaration underneath stated that if anything else were to happen then it would be between two consenting adults and nothing else. I couldn’t help but wonder how many people just saw her for this kind of companionship though? A shoulder to cry on? I’ll wager I’m likely to be the first. “Did you want to talk about it?” she asked.

I didn’t know what I wanted. My erection, still standing impressively strong despite the mess my mental state was in, dictated I wanted more than ‘talking’ but my mind wanted nothing more than to talk. For so long I had been there for others but no one was really there for me and carrying the stress that I do was a burden I struggled to cope with. Despite the want (need) to talk though - I knew I couldn’t share everything with her. She wouldn’t understand. No one would understand. They’d just paint me out to be the bad guy and that really isn’t me. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not. I’m kind. I’m sensitive. And I keep telling myself that so I grow to believe it myself.

I changed the subject, “Your phone is ringing.”

“Let it ring,” she said. She didn’t push me away, didn’t even turn to look at the number flashing up on the display. At a guess, I’d say it was someone else looking to book her services. “I’m in no rush,” she said. She kept me held close to her. I wished I could stay there forever. I closed my eyes as I laid in the safety of her comforting embrace. The phone continued to ring.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARTIN ANDREWS

The Unknown Number

I

The damned phone was still ringing. The vibration buzzing against my leg where the phone rested in my trouser pocket. Whoever it is is adamant they don’t want me wasting my life away lying on the uncomfortable floor of the apartment block I share with the other losers in life. I fumbled into the pocket and pulled it out. My eyes took a second or two to focus on the small screen of the display; a display big enough to show the number but that’s about it. Don’t recognise it. The phone rang off as the person on the other end gave up. I flipped the lid open and noted fourteen missed calls. Whoever it is - they sure are desperate to get hold of me. Must be wrong number. Since leaving the Force and losing my family - I’m not exactly surrounded by people wanting to pass the time of day with me. If memory serves correctly - and that’s debatable considering the liquor I get through - the last call I received had been from a company trying to convince me I should claim for an accident I never had. I told them to fuck off just as I’m likely to say the same to whoever this is. I slammed the lid shut again and went to toss the phone to one side when it suddenly started ringing again.

“Detective Andrews?” Old habits die hard. Been a few months and yet I still toss the ‘detective’ label around as though I still own it.

“Detective Andrews?” the voice on the other end was shaky.

I said, “Yes.” It was easier than explaining the truth to whoever the stranger was. Not a detective, haven’t been for a while now.

“You don’t know me but you tried to help my friends.”

‘Tried’ suggests I did anything but help. Still no idea who this person is and finding myself with little to no patience.

“My name is Tim Miller. Like I said you don’t know me but you tried to help my friends Mark Stephens and his wife, Becky. I’m not sure if you remember them…”

I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. I wanted to hang up there and then but couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot. Of course I remembered Mark and Becky. More to the point I remembered Becky. I remembered what she did. That poor baby. I tried to shake the memory from my mind as it played itself back to me as though I wanted it to be recalled. I didn’t. The final act which had pushed me that last step into being a fully blown alcoholic. There’s only so much a man can take…

“Detective Andrews, are you there?” the stranger asked.

I couldn’t stop myself from answering, “Yes.”

“Did you hear me? I need to meet up with you. Can I come down the station and see you?”

“I’m sorry today isn’t a good day,” I didn’t want to tell him what had become of me, the man who had failed his friends.

“It’s important. People are dying. He’s killing them all.”

“What? Who?” I surprised myself by questioning him without hesitation. All these weeks of drinking myself into oblivion, living the lifestyle of a hermit, I thought I had drunk all of the ‘give a shit’ out of me.

“I need to see you. I’ll explain everything and where you can find him.” He sounded desperate.

“I’m sorry,” I went to tell him I couldn’t help but he cut me short.

“Don’t you care? I thought you were supposed to help people. Oh wait, yeah, silly of me. Should have known after Mark. Probably better going down the station talking to an officer who’s actually good at his job.” Tim hesitated on the other end of the phone, “Don’t even know why I called you. Just found your business card in their place and, for some reason, kept hold of it…Sorry to have troubled…”

It was my turn to cut him off, “Wait. There’s a coffee shop on the corner of St. Mary’s Street, I can meet you there. Can get there in half an hour?” What was I doing? I wasn’t a detective anymore. I wasn’t even an officer. What the hell was I doing? Damned brain on auto-pilot. What, does it think we’re going to find some kind of reprieve here?

“Half an hour is perfect. Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”

The line went dead. I didn’t move. Just stayed there lying on the floor with the phone pressed to my ear as though my brain couldn’t figure out how to move it away - too dumbstruck by my own agreement to meet up with the stranger. I pulled myself up off the floor and caught a sight of myself in the mirror. Look like I’ve been to Hell and back. Nearly right. I’ve been to Hell. Just not found my way back yet.

I reached down and grabbed my coat from the armchair. If I’m going to get to the coffee-shop in half an hour, I need to leave.

II

The whole drive down there I tried to talk myself into turning the car around. Not sure why I didn’t. A single thought from back at the house seems to have wedged itself into the forefront of my mind; the possibility of having some kind of reprieve from all the bad stuff I had failed to stop from happening. A stupid fucking thought. Too late to go back now. Sitting in the corner booth of the coffee-shop jumping every time the damned door opens on the off-chance it’s Mr Miller.

The front door opened again and a man walked in. He looked to be in his thirties. Not a customer from the way he was looking around the shop. His eyes fixed on me. I stood up to acknowledge him.

“Tim Miller?” I asked.

He nodded. He walked towards me and extended his hand. I returned to my seat without shaking hands. I could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn’t impressed with the way I looked. Not sure what he was expecting. Not as though I could have been Super Cop material - not after failing his friends. He should have expected me to look the part of a failure.

“Been undercover,” I said. An excuse for how terrible I looked, not that I needed to justify myself to him. He was the one who wanted my help. It wasn’t the other way round. He needed me. I don’t need him. I cut to the chase, “What did you want? You said he is killing people. Who is he killing? More to the point - who is he? In fact,” I paused a moment, “we’ll start at the beginning - why did you call me? Why didn’t you just phone the emergency services?”

He shifted in his seat and did everything he could to avoid eye contact. You didn’t need to be a detective to know he was hiding something. He was just as guilty over something as the person he was accusing.

“I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

The look on his face, I half expected him to run for the door right there and then.

I pushed him, “If you want my help - you need to tell me what the hell you’re a part of,” I spat at him. Not a detective anymore. Don’t need to be calm. Don’t need to be polite. Don’t need to be politically correct. Straight to the point bypassing all bullshit. Could have got a hell of a lot more done - in the job - had we been able to forget all niceties.

Tim looked over to the counter where an attractive dark haired girl was making hot beverages for the long line of people waiting, “I need a coffee,” he said. Was he buying time? Did I look like the kind of mug who liked to be kept waiting?

I slammed my hand down on the table and pulled him back to me, “Tell me what you’re involved in!” I demanded.

Without warning he broke down in front of me, “I thought it was what I wanted,” he wept.

Now I remembered why I rarely answered the phone anymore. All this could have been avoided had I just ignored it. Let the bastard thing ring off like the previous missed calls. The guy is fragile, clearly patience is going to be required. Question is - can I remember how to be patient?

I sat back in the chair I had earlier chosen and waited for him to compose himself. Whenever you’re ready. I have all the time in the world - a sarcastic thought better spoken than left as internal monologue.

“It started at the group,” he said. “They told me to go there, I didn’t have any choice.”

III

I had listened to Tim’s story. He told a convincing yarn but I wasn’t sure if it was anything but that; a fabricated story designed specifically to waste our time. ‘Our’. I say that like I’m still part of a team. Why am I finding it so hard to get it out of my head that I’m flying solo now. There is no team. There is only me. And I prefer it like this. No one to tell me what I can and can not do. No one to get in my way. No one who can end up getting hurt when things turn to shit.

Tim begged me to look at his case. Didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t an officer of the law anymore. Didn’t have the heart to tell him I’m nothing more than a grumpy old bastard with nothing to live for. Not sure if he is just another mental case - God knows I’ve met my fair share of them - but his story is definitely consuming him. He says he wasn’t the only one to have found himself in that position. He said the person he was with had admitted there were others. And even if he hadn’t admitted it - it didn’t take much to figure it out what with the group’s dwindling numbers.

If what he told me was true then I’m not sure what to do about it. I know I should report it to my old colleagues. I know I should get the son of a bitch taken down before anyone else is hurt but - on the other hand - I think there is room in this fucked up society for someone such as this. I guess I could go to the group at least. Won’t hurt. Talk with them. Might even help me out a little with my own demons. Might. Can always decide how best to proceed once I have evaluated the situation and made sure the story isn’t the product of a fucked up imagination. But if I am going to the group, I need to have a solid back story. I need it to sound convincing. I need it to look convincing.

I looked across to the recently vacated table next to me. Two empty coffee mugs and a plate sprinkled with crumbs from one of the tempting chocolate brownies the shop offered. Next to the plate was what I was after; a knife and fork. I reached over and took hold of the knife. Funny. Knowing what I am about to do - you’d have thought my brain would be screaming for me to stop as part of an unwanted self-preservation mode and yet there is nothing in my head but the sound of clinking cutlery and cups on saucers from the other customers. Listen a little harder and there’s a faint voice hoping that this goes wrong.

Without any hesitation I stuck the tip of the knife into my wrist. It wasn’t the sharpest of blades so it took a fair amount of pressure to pierce the skin but when it did - agony as my vein wept onto the table.

A lady from across the way screamed when she saw what I was doing and soon all eyes were on me; the strange man cutting himself in the coffee shop. Another person - couldn’t tell if it were customer or staff member - called for someone to phone for an ambulance. The rest of the words and screams from others blurred into one and were replaced by a loud ringing sensation as blood continued to pump from my wrist. One down, one to go. Let’s make this look good. Best be quick though, feel like I want to pass out.

CHAPTER SIX

NATHAN COLE

Support

I

I apologised as I reluctantly pulled myself away from her seemingly caring embrace. I can’t tell if this woman really does care about me or whether she’s just an incredibly talented actress. Either way, I’m grateful she is easily accessible to me all the time I have the funds to make the appointments. I was putting my clothes back on - having fetched them from the bathroom where I’d earlier left them. The apology was not only because I had broken down in front of her but also for the fact I had been with her far longer than my allotted time. She didn’t seem to be too bothered and certainly wasn’t in a rush to get herself dressed. Ladies such as this should be available on the NHS to people such as me. Despite not having sexual intercourse, I was still gearing up to leave with a smile on my face. We hadn’t spoken about what was bothering me - we couldn’t - but I still felt as though she were there for me and that was enough to turn my frown upside down. The feeling that someone gives a shit. The feeling that someone cares.

“Do you still run that group?” she asked.

I nodded. Forgot I had told her about that. I’m usually more guarded with regards to what I tell people about myself. The less they know the better. Not that I speak to many people outside of the work-place.

“You know - you should talk to them. Whatever it is that’s upsetting you, playing on your mind - you should talk to them.”

I smiled at her. Not a real heart-felt smile. A smile to show my appreciation for the fact she cares. The people in my group are not there to listen to my stresses. They are there for their own reasons. To waste time talking about myself, instead of trying to help them, seems a little selfish. I didn’t tell her this though. I didn’t want her unnecessarily worrying about me when I leave.

“They’re there for you just as much as you are there for them,” she said.

“You’re my therapy,” I told her.

She laughed, “Not been very good today though, hey?”

She thought she had failed me because I wasn’t leaving our session together feeling spent. I liked seeing her because of the companionship she offered. For that hour she pretended to be my girlfriend and only my girlfriend. We’d talk briefly and then we’d have the kind of sex you don’t usually receive from a long-time partner and that was nice but - sometimes - you wanted more than that from your girlfriend. You wanted a sounding board. I didn’t explain this to her because I felt she wouldn’t understand. She describes herself as giving the best Girlfriend Experience you can get but - if you were to talk to her on a serious note - she’d still describe herself as nothing more than a prostitute.

I smiled at her - another smile for her benefit rather than the need to actually smile - “I’m leaving here in a better mood than when I walked through your front door,” I told her.

“Hang on a minute,” she walked from the room as I stepped into my shoes. When she came back she had a handful of pound notes. “Here…”

“What’s this?”

“I can’t take your money. Doesn’t feel right.”

The fact she tried to give the cash back to me took me by surprise. I took it from her and placed it on the bedside cabinet next to the bed, “Thank you but you saw me. We had an appointment. Just not the usual kind of appointment we enjoy. I had a good time, thank you.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“We didn’t need to. It was nice just to be with you and I appreciate that.”

She smiled at me, “Well thank you.”

No need to thank me but I don’t add to the awkwardness by explaining that. I step into my other shoe as she slips a dressing gown over her naked body.

“If you need to talk to someone,” she offered, “you can drop me a text. If I’m not with a client - I’ll reply. More than happy to meet up for a chat.” She quickly added, “No charge.”

A genuine smile. She does care. A great feeling.

“Thank you.” I doubt I’d ever call upon her for anything other than the usual services she offered. To come round her house for a coffee and catch-up just felt wrong. I don’t know. It felt as though I was wasting her time. And there was still a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me she didn’t mean it. She was just being polite. Maybe because she felt she had to because I had refused to take the money back. I dismissed the thought. I’d rather think she offered because she genuinely cared for me; something else to smile about.

I walked over to her and hugged her, with a quick kiss on the cheek. Nothing unfamiliar about this. This was how most appointments ended. A kiss on the cheek instigated by me - as opposed to a kiss on the mouth. Never did like kissing a girl after she’d been performing oral on me. Felt wrong and tasted worse.

We separated and she walked me through her modest home back towards the front door. As I approached it, she opened it for me - making sure to hide her body behind it so as not to be spotted by the neighbours. I thanked her again as I stepped out into the fresh air.

She called to me as I walked down her driveway, “Don’t forget - if you need to talk - you know where I am.”

I turned to face her. Her head was sticking out from behind the door. She looked as though she were being genuine. I smiled and nodded. A little wave and I turned back in the direction I was heading. A second later and the front door shut.

I couldn’t help but smile again as I climbed into my car and slid the key into the ignition. Two genuine smiles in the space of an hour. Who’d have thought it? Certainly not I. I started to laugh as I fired the engine up. And to think - she didn’t believe the appointment to be a success.

Although I am feeling randy.

II

At home and I refuse to let the darkness brought on by my loneliness slip back into my life now that I’ve come away from my appointment. It’s trying hard but I’m the one in control of it. Only have a few hours before the group session and I want to ensure I remain as high as possible. I need the positivity in order to try and help others with their problems. It doesn’t work if we’re all negative.

My antics from last night usually leave me on a high. Usually. I usually feel as though I’ve had a good night; the social time spent with my dates, along with the antics which follow, before getting them out of the house usually answers all of my needs. Last night just went wrong though. Don’t even know how or why. Can’t place my finger on it. Thank God for this morning’s appointment. Concentrate on that, not the failed night. Concentrate on the fact that she genuinely gives a shit about me.

I threw my coat over the bannister and ran up the stairs towards my bedroom. The missed opportunity for an orgasm with my lady-friend has done nothing to kill the sexual thirst I was feeling before my surprise emotions took hold of my body. Need to ejaculate. Need a release from the previous night and I have just the tool with which to do it. I walked into the bedroom and gagged on the smell I was greeted with. Should have accounted for that. I learned long ago that it doesn’t take much for the dead to start stinking.

I had laid Jenna’s torso on my bed. There were no legs or arms attached. It was simply a torso - neck down to vagina. I left the breasts attached. Something to suckle on whilst I make love to her. Is it really a her now that I have taken the head or does the torso become an ‘it’? A strange thought bouncing around my head as I dropped my trousers to my ankles and lowered myself to my knees by the edge of the bed. I pulled the torso towards me and started lapping away at the rotting vagina. Tastes as it smells but I don’t care. One of my favourite pastimes when it comes to sexual activities. Even if it weren’t - it’s necessary regardless. My tongue provides the saliva which will - in turn - serve as a needed lubricant. Can’t go in dry. Tears it up as well as feels uncomfortable. I only stopped licking the flaps and hole when I was sure it was wet enough to be able to glide into. Didn’t need to touch myself as I climbed on top of it - I’d been pretty much rigid since leaving my earlier appointment. Had it not been for the way it ended, I would have asked for another hour of her time for a further cost of course. Pretty sure she would have let me stay for nothing though and I didn’t want to take her kindness for granted. Wouldn’t have been fair.

I sighed heavily as I slid inside of what was once Jenna. My spit was not only the perfect lubricant but also added a little warmth to the vagina too. I started to thrust backward and forwards enjoying each sensation offered. In my mind I was already trying to find valid reasons why I couldn’t dispose of this little souvenir when I was done despite knowing I couldn’t realistically keep it around. Feels so fucking good though. How do you bin something which affords so much pleasure?

I grasped the neck stump with my right hand to enable me to thrust harder. Can already feel the stirrings of what feels to be an intense orgasm. Glad I didn’t spend out the additional one hundred and fifty pounds. Would have been over before it started. A waste of money. When I’m with her - I like to last the whole hour. Make sure I ejaculate in the fifty-ninth minute. Fair is fair. I’m paying for the time so I don’t want to waste any of it. Distracted myself for a moment and need to build the coming orgasm back up. Empty my mind of clutter. Enjoy the sensation.

I put my lips around her left nipple and sucked on it gently as I continued to pump as hard as I could. Orgasm building. I increased speed as I braced myself for what felt to be something special indeed. My hand around the neck stump kept the torso in position - stopping it from sliding away. Feels fucking amazing. A feeling so great in fact that I didn’t even notice my finger was dipped into the actual bloody stump until after I had ejaculated and - after an orgasm that intense - I didn’t care. I withdrew and rolled onto my side next to what was left of Jenna. Holy shit. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she was that good a fuck when she was a whole woman or whether the stream-lined version of the woman she once was was an improvement.

I grabbed the edge of the duvet and pulled it over myself so that I could wipe myself clean. Bedding needs to be changed today anyway. Her stink has surely contaminated it long before any residue semen that I may have wiped upon it. I sighed again as I forced myself to sit up. Could have stayed lying there I’m so tired. Don’t dare though. If I did - I’d only drift off and I need to get myself ready for the group session. Can’t let them down. They count on my support. Definitely can’t let them down.

I dragged myself up to my feet and kicked my trousers off from around my ankles. Need a clean before I venture out. Can’t go out stinking of sex and death. I walked through to the bathroom and turned the light on. A quick look over to the bathtub with the overhead shower unit. Funny to think what I was doing the last time I was in here. I dismissed the thought and took my top off, dropping it to the floor, so that I was naked. I stepped over the rim of the bath and underneath the shower-head. A quick twist of the tap and water spilled over me; cold to start with but - thankfully - soon warming.

I can’t believe she cares about me, my mind drifted back to my earlier appointment. Another smile on my face. Half tempted to take her up on her offer and see if she is free for a coffee sometime next week. I guess the worst she can do is say no. And that wouldn’t be because she doesn’t care. It would be because she is busy.

Can’t seem to shake the smile from my face; grinning like a buffoon.

Funny, all this time waiting for a smile, and now I’m going to have to try and hide it. Can’t very well run the group with a silly grin on my face. Not entirely appropriate, I fear.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MARTIN ANDREWS

A want to die

I

Finally home after an exhausting couple of days. I knew the process I’d have to go through before being allowed to leave the hospital. Had to prove to them that I was of sound body and mind after my little outburst in the coffee-shop. I walked out of the ward with less dignity than I went in with - and that was saying something - but at least I now had the necessary way in to this group Miller had told me about.

I walked through the hallway into the living area and slumped down on the armchair - finding the indentation I had made over the months of refusing to leave its comfort. My wrists were throbbing like sons of bitches. They had given me meds to take - to numb the pain - but I binned them as soon as I left the hospital. Do not take with alcohol. The one warning the nurse who issued them told me as she handed them over the counter. There was no way I was going to give up the warmth provided by the alcohol so I had no choice but to bin them although there was a part of me which was sorely tempted to mix the two. In heavy doses.

I reached over for the remote control and went to turn the television on. With everything going on in my mind I had completely forgotten about what happened last time I watched that. Damn. Will need to replace it at some point. Can’t go without a television; my only company. I sat there a moment in an unusual silence. Normally there’s someone banging around in one of the surrounding apartments. Someone stomping on the floor or screaming at someone else. Today there was nothing. Just silence. Quite like it. Shame I know it won’t stay. Early afternoon now, guess most of the other residents are down the local dole office or cruising the streets looking to sell their wares - be it drugs or snatch. Keep telling myself I’m here because I deserve to be. I’m with the company I deserve to keep. Glanced down to my wrists - kind of wish the job had been done properly.

Ignoring the pain in my wrists as best as I could, I pulled a leaflet out of my jacket pocket. Given to me along with the various pills, it detailed various support groups in the local area. The one Miller had told me about was at the top of the seemingly extensive list I’d been offered. Italics underneath the bold location of the group informed me they met daily and that it was free to attend. I’m tired. Been a long couple of days of constant questions and chats with psychiatrists but I’m curious to see if Miller’s story had any ring of truth to it and that meant leaving the apartment again.

I sighed heavily as I pulled myself up from the armchair. Should never have sat down to begin with. I walked through to my bedroom. Place is a shit-hole. Dirty clothes strewn all over the floor. The bedding tossed to one side from the last time I collapsed - drunk - on top of it all only to climb out the following morning without making it back up. No need. No-one to offend with my laziness other than me and I don't care anymore.

I pulled a clean top from my wardrobe. Not many left hanging in there. Carefully I unbuttoned the dirty shirt I’d been wearing for a few weeks now. Tried to ignore the damned pain in my wrists. Usually I wouldn’t bother cleaning myself up but feel - under the circumstances - it is for the best. Shirt’s coated in blood from the coffee-shop antics. Probably won’t give the best first impression. The dark trousers I’m wearing hide the stains well so they’re good to stay. I put the clean shirt on and looked at my reflection in the mirror hanging on the bedroom wall. Like the mirror hanging in the living room - it too is cracked. Another sign of my ill-temper spiralling out of control. Lucy would be ashamed.

I shook the image of her disapproving look from my mind.

No time for that now.

II

Various thoughts went through my mind as I drove down to the community hall where the group was held. Same time every day, six days a week. I couldn’t help but wonder how effective the group was. More to the point, I couldn’t help but wonder how many people slipped and topped themselves on the seventh day of the week. Sorry, no help today, group is shut.

The condescending pricks at the hospital wouldn’t allow me to leave without agreeing to their terms; I had to go to one of these groups and I had to check in on a weekly basis with my doctor. My first appointment with the GP being tomorrow. No doubt he’ll try and force anti-depressants onto me but I’m not interested. This whole thing was a show. A means to an end. A convincing way into the group. The hospital staff wanted the group runner - a man named Nathan Cole - to report back that I had attended the session. Not quite sure what they were going to do if I didn’t show up but…Not important.

A man walking in with fresh wounds on his wrists doesn’t raise questions or concerns - especially when the group runner is phoned ahead of the session to be warned of the new arrival. Walking in, with no referral… I doubt the man would see the side of Mr. Cole he’s been warned of.

I pulled into the community hall car park. Feels strange. Feels as though I’m back on the Force. Back on a case. It’s a good feeling. I feel as though I’m in charge. Haven’t felt that since Arthur destroyed my life. I parked up and rested back in my seat a moment - a fleeting thought wondering whether the group would actually help me rid myself of my demons. Maybe I could get something from all of this before shutting down the asshole in charge by exposing him for what he truly is; a fucking monster.

“Leave it be,” Lucy’s voice from behind me made me jump.

I looked in the rear-view mirror and there she was; sitting there, behind me. A look of concern on her face.

“Please,” she urged me, “leave this. Get help but not here.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head and looked in the rear-view mirror again. She was gone. Never there. Never was. Just as I was never there for her. Forget about it. Can’t do anything about it now. Put it from my mind along with the throbbing sensation from my new stitches in my wrists. Shouldn’t be driving. Was told not to. A danger of opening the damned wounds back up. Ignore it. Got a job to do. Need to know if Miller’s story was real.

The analogue clock next to my battered car’s speedometer said I had another five minutes before the group session commenced. No need to go in yet. Don’t want to be early. Don’t want to have to communicate with a bunch of depressed assholes. Not in the right frame of mind to play nice. Haven’t been for a while.

What am I even doing here? The thought buzzing around my head like an annoying fly. Try to swat it away but it is always there. What am I doing here? Why do I feel the need to get involved? Something to do? The reprieve I had longed for since things went to shit? That’s stupid - there is no reprieve to be had. There is no forgiveness for those I have failed. Swat the thoughts away. Concentrate on what you’re going to say when you go in there. Concentrate on what I need to say? No need. Can just tell them the truth.

No.

Not the truth.

Can’t have Mr. Cole knowing I am a police officer. Was. Can’t have him knowing I was a police officer. I need him to treat me as he would the rest of the members of his group. I need him to see me as one of them. I need him to offer me exactly the same treatment as they’re offered. Need to know if Miller’s story is true.

“Please leave it,” Lucy’s voice in my damned head again. Don’t even know if she even sounded like this when she was alive. A kind tone, a gentle soul. Can’t be sure what I am hearing is her actual voice. Not sure I remember it.

Arthur. Just want five minutes alone with the son of a bitch. Even then - two and a half minutes of that time would be taken up smoking a ciggy. Shouldn’t have quit. Don’t even know why I did. Not as though the thought of cancer bothers me anymore.

“You quit for me,” Lucy’s voice again. Get out. Get out of there.

Three minutes until the group starts. I best get ready.

I opened the door and kicked it all the way open with my foot as I climbed from the car. Damned thing didn’t quite stay open and hit my leg as it went to swing shut. Did well not to shout out in pain. Fully out, I slammed the door shut and headed towards the community hall. A couple of people were standing outside the front doors. Both had cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Kind of tempted to ask for one.

“Alright?” a half-assed greeting from one of them as I approached. I chose to ignore him and proceed into the building. I was guessing it was a rhetorical question - considering we were all here for the same reason. Hardly okay if - at some point - we’ve all tried to kill ourselves. Unless of course I mis-read them and they just enjoyed hanging out the front of community centres in a shitty area.

III

The entrance to the community hall stank like the dirty halls of my old school. A stink that never left me and one which will follow me to the grave, along with the rank smell of my rotting wife and child. Can’t have my wife in my head now. Can’t do it. I am sure I am going to have to talk about my life in a while and I don’t want to give real details. I don’t want this asshole knowing the real me. I won’t discuss my wife. I won’t discuss my child. And I certainly won’t discuss him. Arthur. That fucking cunt. He won’t be a part of this. Need to shake all of these poisonous thoughts from my mind. Need to make up a backstory for a character I’m going to have to play.

I walked through to the main part of the hall. Wooden floors. A large circle of plastic chairs - the ones you’d find in NHS waiting rooms. Cheap. Uncomfortable. A table in the far corner of the room with two large urns. A sign in front of each urn; one stating ‘tea’ and the other ‘coffee’. Polystyrene cups stacked next to the coffee urn and - next to those - a bowl filled with sachets of sugar.

There were about twenty people all in all. The two that had been standing out the front came in. They pushed past me and made their way over to the table of hot beverages. Neither tried speaking to me after I had ignored them on the way in. At least I thought that was the reason but it could be down to the fact they both stank of skunk. Maybe the group isn’t as useful as people first believe? Maybe the lack of suicidal instincts is because people are too high to give a shit anymore?

I made my way over to the hot drinks. A man - tall, dark hair, mid-thirties maybe - spotted me and approached with his hand outstretched, a shit-eating grin on his face that made me want to smack him to the floor.

“Mr. Andrews?” he asked. He had got the hospital’s message about me then. Oh, good.

“Yes.” I didn’t take the hand he offered.

“I’m Nathan. Pleased to meet you. I run this group. How are you feeling?” he asked. The hospital would have told him what I had tried to do. I wonder how much information they gave him. I had to give permission for them to talk about me so I’m guessing - with the consent I gave - they discussed everything. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon,” he said.

“Keen.”

Nathan smiled at me. I saw through it immediately. He was staring directly into my eyes. A hard piercing stare as he tried to judge the kind of person I was. He doesn’t want to look too deep, pretty sure he won’t like what he sees just as I’m sure I won’t much appreciate what I see if I look deeper into his soul.

He addressed the group, “Okay if everyone would like to take their seats.”

I looked around unsure of where I fit in exactly.

“It’s a free for all,” he leaned over and told me. “Here - you can sit next to me.” He showed me to a seat. I sat and he took the one next to me, all the time with his eyes fixed upon me.

Soon everyone in the room had taken their seat and we were all sat in a giant circle looking at each other. I couldn’t help but judge those who made eye-contact. Force of habit from the job that I could not shake no matter how hard I tried. Surprisingly the group was a mixed bag. I thought most of the people would be like me - down and outs - but there are a number of people who look to be high up in various professional capacities. Guess depression and a desire to self-destruct doesn’t care what you do for a living.

“Okay, we have a couple of new faces with us tonight. Won’t you all join me in welcoming…” Nathan turned to a woman who was sitting four places away from him on the opposite side to where I was seated. A look of expectation on his face.

“…Christine…” she said shyly.

“Won’t you all join me in welcoming Christine and,” he turned to me - same look of expectation.

“Bob,” I lied.

His expression turned to one of disappointment. Not sure why I chose Bob. First name that popped into my head. Going from the look he had on his face, I’m guess he wanted me to give my real name. I meant what I was thinking earlier though; these people won’t know the real me. They have no business looking into my life.

Muttered hellos murmured around the room from the other group members. I couldn’t help but wonder how often they had attended these meetings. Not just that - as I turned my attention back to Nathan - I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had been offered the same deal as Miller.

“Okay - does anyone want to start?” Nathan asked as he cast his eyes around the group. He settled on me. “…Bob?”

I shook my head. Never been to something like this before. I’m not about to start the proceedings. Rather take a back seat and gauge how things work before jumping in. Stay quiet for as long as possible.

“No thanks.”

Christine piped up, “My husband left me,” she blurted out.

She had a husband? Looks like some down and out crack whore. Bags under her eyes, greasy clumps in her long blonde hair, a blemish on her lip, red raw eyes from a week’s worth of tears. Hard to imagine her standing at the end of an aisle with a man who loved her. Easier to picture her in a back alley with a mouthful of cum and a fistful of dollars.

“We had a child. Aimee. She was ten years old when she died. My husband blamed me. He said I should have been keeping a closer eye on her. I thought she was in the garden. Didn’t see that she had gone over the wall to collect her ball from the road. I was in the kitchen making a snack for us. Didn’t see where she was.” She started to cry. “I just remember the noise. The loud bang. The car horn.” She broke down too much to be able to form a sentence. A man next to her put his arm around her shoulders as though it were the cure for cancer. I was waiting for Nathan to say something - to make her feel better - but he said nothing. He just looked at her. There was as much sorrow on his face as there was on hers as though he carried her pain with her.

Say something, you prick.

Christine carried on, “I tried so hard to move on. My marriage broke down though. Whatever I said was wrong. We were arguing all of the time. I came home, months later, and found him in bed with my best friend,” she was sobbing her damned heart out and yet Nathan still didn’t say anything. “He left me. I just remember thinking how badly I wanted to die.”

I looked around the rest of the group. Most seemingly felt her pain. Some were crying themselves.

“I ended up overdosing on various tablets. Whatever I could get my hands on, I took. I stole them from friends and family, kept going to the doctors with various illnesses I made up. Just did whatever I had to to get the pills… I remember lying in my daughter’s bedroom surrounded by the bottled medicines, forcing them into my mouth by the handful…” She broke down again to the point of not being able to speak.

“But something stopped you though,” Nathan finally said, “something in your heart telling you not to do it. Tell the group what happened,” he urged her.

“I phoned the emergency services and told them what I had done, they sent someone to me and told me what to do whilst I waited - told me to make myself sick…”

“That’s right - you phoned the emergency services because you knew - deep down - you weren’t ready to die. And no matter how we are all feeling, when we’re at our lowest point…It is important to remember - it is only a blip. With help and support - we will get ourselves back up. We will go on living. Deep down - and it may be buried so deeply you need strong support around you which we are here to provide - no one really wants to die. Everyone has something to live for. It’s just we may sometimes need a little help in finding out what that something is.”

He turned back to Christine, “What was it that kept you from seeing it through, do you think?”

“My daughter wouldn’t have wanted me to go through with it,” she said. “She would have wanted me to live my life.”

“That’s right. She would have - and that’s why you’re here. To seek help so you can move on and live your life. You never need forget what happened but you can learn to forgive yourself…”

Miller’s story was bugging me. The picture he painted of Nathan was not the picture being painted before my eyes. Years on the job taught me that psychopaths are capable of putting on a show but why would this guy want to help people like this when he’s secretly a murderer? My old detective brain is out of practice and the answer is probably obvious. Will just take a bit to dust it off. Get the clogs clanking round again. Obviously been warped by my run in with Arthur.

Nathan pulled a small, sealed pack of tissues from the top pocket of his shirt and handed them over to Christine. She took them, opened them up, took a few and handed them back.

“We’ve all walked a bad path to get to this point in our lives,” Nathan said, “but together we can find our way back. I won’t pretend the journey is easy. I won’t even lie that it is quick and painless but I promise it is possible. The first step is key. The first step is admitting you need help. We’re all here because we have acknowledged that step. We have all taken it…And some say the first step is always the hardest.”

The group started to applaud. I didn’t. I just sat there wondering why I was even here. Why had Tim Miller put me on this man’s case. Can’t just sit here anymore. Need to say something. Need to test the water.

“Hi, my name is Bob and Tim Miller suggested I came here…” I stared at Nathan’s face when I mentioned Tim’s name. There was something there. A look I couldn’t quite recognise. Was it alarm at the sound of the man’s name? Definitely some recognition there. I realised the rest of the group were looking at me. They were waiting for me to say something else. Fuck. Need to continue the charade. Need to give them something.

Nathan cleared his throat, “And why would Tim suggest that?” he asked.

I knew he wanted the truth - the real reason Miller had suggested that I came here - but I also knew he didn’t want it spoken out in front of the rest of the group. I had lied about my name. I’ll give the group another lie. Make it juicy for them. And then - later - I’m guessing Nathan will want to know exactly what Tim told me. The look on his face, at the mention of the name, suggested there could well have been some truth to what I was told. Question is: How much will Nathan freely admit to?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nathan Cole

The Bell

I

I listened as ‘Bob’ told his story to the group. I found myself wondering how much of it was true and how much was a fabrication. Everything just sounded too convenient to be true and he had lied about his name so it was entirely possible everything else he was describing now was nothing more than a lie too. The hospital had told me he cut himself and - even if they hadn’t - it is evident from the bandages on his wrists that that is what he had done. They didn’t tell me why though. They had no reason to. They wanted me to report back to them about his mental state. All that time in college studying psychology for my degree - a degree I only put to use after mother died - and still I can’t figure him out yet.

He wanted to die so he cut himself. The doctors helped him. Saved him. He wanted to live. It was a story I had heard time and time again but I didn't believe him. The tone in his voice, as he continued to embellish his story, suggested otherwise. Even the occasional glint in his eyes went against his ‘want’ to live. Standing in front of me was a man more broken than he cared to speak of.

So why is he here?

He had mentioned Tim Miller’s name. Tim was the only person to use the bell. The only person who hired me and ended up walking out of the house to live his life. Did he tell Mr. Andrews about what happened? Did Mr. Andrews like the sound of it? Is that why he is here?

His story finished and he just stood there looking at me. I shifted in my seat. Hard to make a comment when I hadn’t really been paying the full attention he believed he deserved. I turned to the rest of the group and asked, “Does anyone want to make a comment?” I hoped someone would say something, take the pressure off me for a moment.

Frank - a long term member of the little group - spoke up as my mind drifted back to Tim.

I couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about what had happened or who I am. It was supposed to be a secret. One of the conditions with which I let him leave. Had I known he would have started talking - I would have finished him as I had planned when he first set foot over my threshold. Yet - at the same time - I feel a little grateful that he has been talking. He has sent someone to me. Someone who may want to spend an evening with me.

That must be it. Why else would he be here? What else could Tim possibly have discussed with him about me? It wouldn’t have been because of the group that I run. Tim never believed the group to be worthwhile. He always felt as though it were a waste of his time. That is why he came to me at the end. That is why he came to my house.

II

BEFORE

I turned the oven down so as not to burn the requested lamb shanks. The vegetables were busy steaming away and were also close to completion. A few more minutes and they’d be good to go. Everything was looking good in the kitchen. I walked through to the dining room. The table was set up perfectly. A white table cloth hiding the chipped wood of the old table giving the impression it was nicer than it actually was. A single candle, sitting in a silver holder, burned away on the centre of the table. The light gently flickering through-out the room. A bottle of red wine, open so as to breathe to the side of the candle. Two perfectly cleaned glasses waiting to be filled. Silver knives, forks and spoons ready to help us consume the perfect meal and - as always - the old bell next to his placing. All I needed was my guest.

I checked my watch. Where is he? He should have been here by now. Already changed his mind? I shook my head. He seemed desperate to go through with an appointment with me. He had wanted it yesterday but I couldn’t as I had prior engagements. Today was the earliest and he seemed okay with that the last time we spoke. He had my number if he wasn’t happy with the arrangements and wanted to cancel.

A knock at the door took away all fears of cancellation. I about turned and headed out of the dining room, down the hallway to the front door and opened it. He was standing there suited and booted; the cleanest I had seen him. I too was wearing a suit.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late,” Tim said. He stepped in and I closed the door.

“Not a problem,” I told him. I didn’t bother telling him I had been worried he was going to be a no show.

He turned to me and handed me a white envelope, “What you asked for.”

I took it and gave it a quick once over. As requested his name was on the front of it. I thanked him and slid it into my pocket before showing him through to the dining room. The look on his face suggested he was suitably impressed. They always were. I always went to a lot of trouble. I wanted the evening to be perfect. I showed him to his seat and he immediately noticed the bell.

“What’s that?”

“If at any stage you have had enough and want to go home,” I explained, “you simply ring it and call time.”

“What, and I go home?”

“Of course.”

He looked puzzled.

“Just in case you change your mind. We are only human and sometimes we don’t know what we want until the last minute,” I told him.

“You get a lot of people ringing the bell?”

“Not one.”

He nodded and took his seat. A ‘ping’ from the kitchen snapped my attention back to the food as the timer on the steamer finished.

“Make yourself at home,” I said to Tim as I walked from the room.

He took a seat.

In the kitchen I dished up the meal he had previously stated to be his favourite; lamb shank, roast potatoes, peas and carrots and - although usually an accompaniment with beef - Yorkshire puddings. It didn’t take long to dish up the two meals and I was soon heading back to the dining room with plates in hand. I put one in front of him and one in front of my seat before fetching the mint sauce and gravy from the kitchen and bringing them back through too.

I sat opposite him. He was looking at the meal. Again, he looked suitably impressed.

“You cooked this?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“I’ve never been a good cook.”

“Spent a lot of time looking after my mum. I didn’t have a choice but to learn. We couldn’t live off junk food,” I laughed.

He didn’t laugh as he picked his knife and fork up and started to tuck in. I watched - happy - as the meat fell from the bone. He put the first slither in his mouth and started to chew, not that it took a lot of chewing. Again, he looked suitably impressed with my efforts. I relaxed a little and started to eat mine. I always feel nervous when they take their first bite. I want the evening to be perfect for them and can’t very well make it so if they do not like the meal they requested.

“This is good,” he said.

“I do try.”

We sat in silence as we continued to eat and it was then I knew something wasn’t quite right. Usually my dates would talk about the good things in their lives - or the good things that had been in their lives at least. They never sat in silence as though they were afraid to speak. I tried to get us on track and brought up Lisa - the girl who’d walked out on him.

“How did you meet her?” I asked.

He snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. It’s just when I do nights like this - people like to talk about the moments that made them happy.” More to the point I like to talk about the moments. If they can talk about them and still not ring the bell - I know they’re not ready for what I offer. If they can talk about them and not ring it - there is no saving them. They really have no fight left in them. The way he snapped - he still has some fight.

“I thought you were here to help me,” he said. His mood had gone from suitably impressed to aggressive with a quick switch - one that threw me off guard.

“I am.”

“Then why bring up that bitch?”

“I told you - people like talking about the good times they’ve had.”

“She’s the reason I am in this mess.”

A stereotypical of a spurned lover not feeling as though they can go on because they have been dumped. Out of all the people I see, all the various individuals, I find only this kind pathetic. He hadn’t even married Lisa according to his story and yet here he was - wanting to die - because of her. Clearly he had never heard the saying ‘plenty more fish in the sea’. One woman leaves you and you want to throw in the towel. I tried my best to hide my feelings from him.

“I’m sorry. I made a mistake. The way you spoke about her in group, I thought you might want to talk about her here. I like to give my appointments a perfect evening - good food, good memories… I made a mistake and I’m sorry.”

“No I’m sorry,” he said. He threw his knife and fork down. “I shouldn’t have come. Clearly you can’t help me. Just as you couldn’t help me in the group.”

He picked the bell up and rung it. I put my fork down but kept a hold of the knife. Not sure what to do. Just lean forward and stab him despite him calling time on our appointment already? Never been in this position before. Never had it get to this stage. The rest of my appointments - they always have a pleasant evening. It goes the way we discussed before the session was planned.

“You want to die?” I questioned him.

He stood up, “I made a mistake.”

I lowered the knife. I can’t kill him.

“I’m sorry,” he continued.

I stood up too and extended my hand, “No hard feelings.”

He took my hand and I gripped his hard with as much strength as I could muster.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he tried to pull away, not that I let him.

“You can’t talk about this,” I told him, “not to anyone. You understand me? What happens here is our little secret.”

“What? Fine. Whatever. Can you let go of my hand?”

I let go and he pulled away.

“I don’t hurt anyone who doesn’t want it,” I told him as though I felt a need to justify what I do here.

“I just want to go home,” he said.

He walked through to the hallway and front door. I followed him. Part of me knew I shouldn’t let him leave. I should kill him on the spot and get rid of him as I get rid of the others but I can’t. Clearly he doesn’t want to die. He can’t do. I’m offering what he wants and yet he is backing away. He isn’t ready. Against my better instincts I opened the front door for him. He didn’t say anything as he stepped out and disappeared down the driveway. One of the rules for people who come here is that they’re not allowed to drive. They have to come in a taxi as I didn’t want to have to get rid of their cars. I don’t know where he lives but I do know I live a fair distance from anywhere he can get to via public transport. I considering calling out to him, to offer him a cab, but instead I just closed the door. Let him walk. It will give him good time to think about what he really wants.

III

NOW

The group session had finished. Some of the group were milling around the hot beverages taking as much free stuff as they possibly could and others had simply left straight away - not in the mood for socialising or staying a minute longer. The majority of these people are pretty private when it comes to their lives and they’re not here to make friends. They’re here to vent and try and ease their own lives from the suffering they feel. I did once tell the people who were always keen to leave that - sometimes - it was good to meet new folk. An additional number in their telephone contacts. More importantly - a number who understood what they were going through as they were in the same position. Those are the best kinds of people to call upon in an hour of need. Can’t force them to do it though.

I was stacking the chairs up against the wall. Not fair leaving it for the first people into the building tomorrow morning. Despite sometimes wanting to get to my own home, I always take the time to clear away our mess. All the time I was moving them, I was well aware that Mr. Andrews was watching me.

I didn’t wait for him to start a conversation and called over to him, “Did you know your friend is wanted for questioning by the police? You know I actually thought he had killed himself. Could have sworn there’d be a report on the News that someone had found him hanging in some isolated woodland.”

Mr. Andrews walked over to me. He didn’t help move the chairs.

“What are you talking about?”

I stopped what I was doing and turned to Mr. Andrews, “You don’t watch the News?”

“No television.”

“He’s disappeared. Police want him for questioning after the body of his ex-girlfriend was discovered in her flat. Beaten to death. Only suspect they have is the ex-boyfriend. Your friend.”

“He isn’t my friend.”

“You said he was.”

“I also said my name was Bob.”

“True.”

I resumed the stacking of the chairs as Mr. Andrews continued to watch. So if he wasn’t friends with Tim - how did he know him? And it still didn’t answer why he was here.

“I also lied about wanting to live. The suicide attempt wasn’t a cry for help and it wasn’t an eye-opener for how much I wanted to live.”

Ah. Here we are. I knew immediately that Tim hadn’t been able to keep his mouth shut. Despite telling him that what happened in the house was our secret, he went ahead and blabbed to someone.

“I want to die,” said Mr. Andrews. “I’ve had enough of everything.”

“Well that’s why you’re here,” I said. “Most of the people here have had those feelings. A lot of them have them still. But, for them, some days are better than others and they always find a reason to keep living. They find this group helps…”

He interrupted me, “Tim said you could help me.”

“There’s a good chance. This group has helped a lot of people.”

“Tim mentioned you do a one on one session.”

I didn’t know Mr. Andrews and didn’t like the way he was talking. Had it not been for the bandages on his wrists - one of them looking as though it was seeping a little - I would have thought the whole thing was a trap of some kind.

“Sorry - not sure I follow. What did he say?”

“He told me you offered to…Help him…One on one. An appointment at your house?”

“Not sure where he got that from but I don’t offer that. All my therapy is done as group work. I find it’s better to have more people around for support. One on one doesn’t really work when it comes to this kind of therapy. Sorry.”

I stacked the last of the chairs up and walked over to the large urns of hot beverages. I unplugged the first one and then the second. Mr. Andrews walked from the room without uttering another word.

CHAPTER NINE

MARTIN ANDREWS

Lies

I

I pulled out of the car park with an accidental wheel-spin. I was hoping I could cut out all of the bullshit by going in like a bull in a china shop but I guess not. He’s a fucking liar. I could see it in his eyes. And here was me thinking my old detective skills were going to take a while to dust off.

He probably thinks that is the last of it. Probably thinks I won’t be going back there to press him further about Miller. He’s sadly mistaken. We’re not done by a long shot. I just hope he doesn’t make me play this damned game for long. Can’t be dealing with that group. That isn’t the way to fix yourself. That isn’t the way to get over your issues. It’s just a way to listen to the woes of others and get caught up in their bullshit too. Something else to drag you down.

A text message pinged through on my mobile phone. I glanced down to where it was resting on the passenger side - where I’d thrown it after sending a quick text message before starting the car up. I can see from the illuminated screen that it is her. I reached down to the phone and picked it up with one hand on the wheel. I pressed the ‘enter’ button to open the message up and glanced down - quickly - to read what she said. She is free now. Brilliant. I pulled the car to the side of the road so that I could reply to her. Told her that I’m on my way now and that I’d be twenty minutes.

Told her I wanted an hour.

II

I pulled up outside her house and silenced the engine. She’s come a long way since I busted her all those years ago. Back then she was nothing but a street-walker. Somehow managed to turn her life around to get where she is today. She’s still a whore - granted - but at least she’s clean off the drugs - or was - and she looks a lot more respectable. I didn’t even recognise her as the same girl when I found her on the Internet. Thought it was someone else. Only clicked on the picture because she looked like my Lucy. Had I known it was her when I made the appointment I’d like to have thought I would have moved on to another girl but I probably wouldn’t have. Only reason I was on the site was because I was looking for someone who resembled my Lucy. I missed her touch. I missed her smell. Missed talking to her. This seemed like a good option; find a girl who resembled her and let my imagination do the rest. Even when I got to the house I didn’t recognise her. It was her who recognised me. Thought I was there to bust her again. Laughed her ass off when she found out I wasn’t on the Force anymore. Laughed even harder when she realised why. Cheeky bitch thought I had retired before I explained. Appointment went ahead. To her money is money and - to me - she was the spit of my dead wife. Couldn’t ignore that. Besides - she looked as though she were clean and I wasn’t about to jump in bareback. I remember being surprised it was the same woman I had busted back in the easy days. Amazing how smack can change a person.

I scrambled from my car and headed towards the door. Went to knock on the panel when the door opened. As per usual, she was hiding behind the door. I stepped in and she shut us in.

“Thought you’d be busy,” I told her.

“Quiet afternoon. How have you been?” she asked.

Since being clean - her manners had also improved significantly. 

“Thirsty.”

She took the hint and offered me a drink. My favourite type of woman; easy on the eye and generous with the alcohol.

“Cup of tea?”

“Something stronger.”

“I have wine.”

“It’ll do.”

We walked through to the kitchen. True to her word she had a bottle of red sitting on the side. She pulled two glasses from the cupboard and poured us both a drink. I didn’t wait to be handed my glass. I picked it up and downed it in one. I put the glass back down on the side and helped myself to another pouring.

“Still not quit then.”

“Working on it,” I lied.

“At least I beat my addiction.”

I shot her a look. I pay for the company, not the lip.

She changed the subject, “You look stressed. Hard day at the office?” she was teasing me.

She loved the fact I wasn’t working anymore. She knew it ate me up on the inside. I was desperate to get off the Force but when I was made to leave - I was even more desperate to get back on it. I smiled at her and downed my second glass. The third glass I poured emptied the bottle.

“I don’t have anymore,” she pointed out.

“Best savour this one then.”

Our relationship was a funny one. Neither one of us really liked the other. She liked the fact I was suffering and I liked the fact she looked like my wife. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. She took them from my hand and threw them into one of the top drawers in the kitchen, out of the way. She only saw me for the money. To her it was easy cash.

“Shall we go through to the bedroom then?” she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer as she led the way through. I followed her in and closed the door. We both put our drinks on the bedside cabinets. She climbed into the bed, under the duvet, and turned onto her side - facing away from me. She closed her eyes. I stripped off down to my boxers and climbed in next to her. I slid up behind her and put my arm around her. I gave her a kiss on the shoulder. She didn’t respond. She wasn't allowed to. I didn’t pay for that. I wanted to tell her I loved her but could never get the words out. Just like when Lucy was alive. Stupid. Not the end of the world though. Even if I had been able to speak the words, she wouldn’t have been able to answer.

When we were in the bedroom she wasn’t allowed to talk to me. She looked like Lucy but she sounded nothing like her. When she spoke, it broke my illusion. It ruined everything. Outside of the room she could say what she wanted but inside - not a peep.

I rested my head down on the pillow and tried to savour the moment. My weekly appointment was marred though by images and thoughts of Miller and Cole bouncing through my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder who was telling the truth. Had I been face to face with a murderer before I even left the coffee shop? Miller said he couldn’t go to the police because he thought he might have been in trouble too - is that because he killed his ex-girlfriend? Is Cole innocent in all of this? No. I don’t believe that. There is something there and I will get to the bottom of it. I’ll find out what his game is. And maybe I should phone my old colleagues up about Miller? Let them know I had seen him and where. Got his mobile number - could hand that over to them too, give them something to trace. Might even be a way back onto the Force for me.

Arthur laughed, “They won’t take you back. You’re damaged goods.”

I tried to ignore him as he took a seat on the edge of my side of the bed. I know he isn’t there, just a figment of my imagination. I wish they had fried the son of a bitch - brought back the death penalty especially for him. All the time he lives, sitting pretty in his comfortable little cell, he continues to haunt me.

“You do know she isn’t your wife, don’t you? Because I’m pretty sure I killed your wife.”

“Fuck you!” I sat up and reached for my glass of wine. I downed it in one before picking up her glass. Downed that too without a second thought.

She turned to me, “What’s wrong?”

Broke the rules but understandable; our appointments don’t usually go like this.

I stood up and started putting my clothes back on again.

“It hasn’t been an hour,” she said.

“I have to go.”

I was dressed and out of the door before she was even out of the bed. I didn’t even wait to say goodbye before I was out of the front door. I slammed it shut as I made my way back to my car. Arthur was sitting in the passenger seat, laughing as I approached. I closed my eyes and shook my head from side to side. When I re-opened my eyes, he was gone.

III

I slammed my apartment door shut with such force I thought the damned thing was going to come off the hinges. Managed to get home without killing myself or anyone else. Don’t understand how so many people crash when drink-driving. I manage it perfectly well. Although - had I crashed - it would have been a perfect end to a perfect day. I took my coat off and flung it to the floor - noticing for the first time that my wounds had seeped a little. Hardly surprising the amount they’re throbbing.

I stormed through to the living room and grabbed for a bottle of whiskey. Nothing else to do but drain the whole damned thing. Kill off more of my memories and put an end to this God forsaken day.

As I took the lid off and started to neck the bottle I couldn’t help but recall what I had said to Cole, back at the group; I wanted to die.

One of the only things I have said today that has been the truth.

CHAPTER TEN

NATHAN COLE

Detective

I

My heart was pounding as I watched Mr. Andrews leave her house. Not exactly sure how long he had been in there but it couldn’t have been long given that I was only ten minutes or so behind him when he left the hall. Certainly not long enough for an appointment so what the hell was he doing in there? He’d been gone for a while now - clearly not coming back…

I jumped up and hurried over to the front door. Without a second thought I started banging on it until she came and opened it. Going by her expression she was clearly shocked to see me. That didn’t bother me though as I pushed my way into her home. She closed the door behind me. I turned to look at her. She was wearing jogging bottoms and a tee-shirt. Not her usual appointment attire.

“What did he want?” I asked.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t think we had an appointment?”

“What did he want?” I asked again.

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb. Mr. Andrews. Why was he here? What did he say?”

“What are you talking about?”

I rushed forward and grabbed her by her shoulders before slamming her back up against the wall. She let out a squeal of pain. I released her almost immediately. I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to let my temper get the better of me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Please - what was he doing here? Why did he come round?”

She looked scared. This woman recently showed that she cared for me and yet I may have just destroyed that. Certainly murdered the trust between us that’s for sure. I didn’t mean to do it. It’s just I knew there was something wrong with Mr. Andrews. I knew he wasn’t who he was pretending to be.

“Why do you think he was here? Why do any men come here?” she rubbed her left shoulder - clearly the one which had taken most of the impact. I turned away out of embarrassment for the harm I had caused to both her shoulder and our relationship.

“He wasn’t here because of me?” I asked.

“What? No! He wanted to see me but got spooked - ended up storming out before we could do anything.”

I felt like a fool. Of course he would see a prostitute. The man is lonely and desperate. Prostitutes are perfect for people such as him; people looking for a quick fix to ease their pain. I slumped to the floor, leaning my back against the wall.

“He probably worried some of his colleagues would come in and bust us mid-session,” she laughed.

“What did you say?”

“His colleagues. The ones from the station. What, didn’t you know? Old bill.”

“Police?”

She nodded. “Reckons he is off the Force now but I’m not sure whether I believe him or not. People like him never truly leave the Force. Probably just fed me that line to stop me from outing him to the newspapers. High up detective sees prostitutes scandal…”

“Detective?”

She hadn’t heard me and continued, “Not as though he is a stranger to the press. Sure they’d love the story. Front page fodder for the local news team.”

“What are you talking about? Who the hell is he?”

“You don’t recognise him?”

“No. Today was the first time we met. Came to the group after being referred by the hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“He cut himself…”

“I had my back to him - didn’t realise.”

“Look stop fucking about - tell me who he is!” I shouted.

Another sudden outburst of aggression. Once again I had caught her off guard.

“His name is Detective Martin Andrews. He was on that case - the one in the papers a couple of years ago…May even have been last year…”

“What case?”

“Some guy was killing people and using their bodies as pieces of Art. Setting them up in various poses and such. Well…” her voice continued but I didn’t hear anything of what she said.

Only his name stuck in my mind. More specifically the title. Detective. He was a fucking detective. I felt panic set in. What had Tim done? Had he been caught by the police and given my name in an effort to get some kind of deal? Am I currently under investigation? I felt sick.

I snapped back to reality as she finished, “Anyway you haven’t said why you are here.”

“Did he say anything about me?” I asked. “Anything at all?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing. I told you, he wasn’t here as the Law. He was here as a punter, just like you..”

I stood up, “I have to go.”

I opened the door and stepped out of the house. For the first time since I had known her, she followed.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

No I wasn’t okay. I was far from okay. For some reason I have a detective on my case and it made me very nervous. I hurried down her driveway and back to my car. She stopped at the edge of her drive and simply watched as I got into my car and drove off down the road.

I had gone there for a chat - a coffee as offered the last time I saw her - because I thought she cared. Not entirely sure why I was so desperate for that conversation with her. I didn’t really have anything to talk to her about. Just wanted to see her; this woman who gave a damn about me. Her words tonight summed up our relationship though. One of the last things she said to me before I left, he was here as a punter, just like you. That’s all I am to her - a punter. One of her many customers. She doesn’t give a shit about me. No time to worry about that though - not yet. Need to know why he is on my case. Need to know what game he is playing. Need to prepare the house for Andrews and his colleagues.

II

I was feeling nervous as I turned into my driveway. I expected a squad of police cars to be lining both road and drive yet was surprised - pleasantly - to find there were none. Still not believing I was alone, I found myself getting out of the car and checking over my shoulder half expecting to find a group of armed men running towards me screaming for me to get down on the ground. Guess I’ve seen one too many police films in my time.

Satisfied I was alone, I let myself in via the front door. I slammed the door shut and ran up the stairs towards where I stored the box. I need to make sure it’s somewhere easily accessible should they show up as I knew they wouldn’t believe my story without it.

I kept the box under the bed. A quick reach and I pulled it out. I threw the lid onto the mattress and checked the contents. Seems they’re all there; at least one hundred white envelopes with the names of my victims. All in order of when they had come to my house with Jenna’s letter resting on the top. Jenna Cruz. Matty-Bob Cash under her letter. So many letters, so many memories. I flicked through the first of the envelopes, the ones underneath Jenna and Matty-Bob’s letters.

Johnnie Drewery. Like most of the people who visit me I don’t remember why he wanted the appointment. I try not to dwell on their issues. I have my own to worry about and don’t want to get bogged down by their stuff too. Won’t be able to cope with it. His last meal was one of steak and chips. He steak was medium-rare. I remember being surprised when he asked for tomato ketchup to accompany it. His evening, his rules. I obliged. Remember sitting there, opposite him, watching in horror as he ruined a perfectly good steak. That evening, I wasn’t really in the mood for fun. I did what was asked of me. I put him out of his misery. Cut him into pieces and kept none of them.

Valerie Beussink. A salad of all things. Took her life and her underwear. Not quite sure where it is now. Truth be told, not quite sure where she is either. So many pieces. I do remember the fun I had with her before cutting her into bits though. She was laying in the bath with her throat cut. Same as Jenna. Same as most of them. I ended up filling the bath with warm water until it was half-full. It was awkward but - yes - my first time making love in water. Felt quite nice. Not nice enough to keep her around though. Kept her for two nights. Fucked her in the water, fucked her out of the water. On the second night, I watched as she gave birth to a maggot. Kind of killed the moment.

Kevin Kennedy. I honestly thought he was going to ring the bell. Surprised we made it through the night. I turned him into a puppet for the night. Just wanted to know if it was possible. Cut through the back of his neck and pushed my hand round his spinal cord - not easy - until I was in his mouth; my thumb touching the underside of my fingers. Worked him like a puppet for a good hour. The top of my hand pushed the top of his mouth up and my thumb pressed the bottom of his mouth down. Can’t remember the conversation I made us engage in though. I guess I should have written it down. Pretty sure I did a Kermit the Frog impression though.

So many good memories. Estella Selby being another.

I carried the envelopes downstairs and into the dining room. I placed them on the table and sat there with them. I was still waiting for the door to be kicked in and the police to come charging in. It’s funny - I’m not proud of what I do or what I have become but I still don’t want it to end.

I sighed heavily as I pushed the box of envelopes away from me. What is he waiting for? Why hasn’t he come for me yet? Is he just toying with me? My mind started playing tricks on me - suggesting that she - the whore - had told him more than she was letting on. No. She wouldn’t. Besides which - she doesn’t know anything other than the fact I like spending time with her. But what if she gets in touch with Mr. Andrews and tells him of my erratic behaviour this evening? No. She wouldn’t. He’s a punter, she said. But if that was the case why was he in and out of her home so fast? I started to feel a sickness stirring in the pit of my stomach as my thoughts continued to betray me.

III

I woke up with a start - face down on the dining room table in a pool of my own drool. Not sure what was banging more; my head or my neck. I checked the time on my watch - 3:20am. I got up, clicking my back in the process, and walked over to the front window. I looked out into the darkness. Nothing out there but an owl hooting in one of the many trees close to the property.

He isn’t coming for me. He can’t be coming. If he was - he would have been here by now already. I started to get my hopes up that I was in the clear. But that just opens the door to more questions. Namely - why did he come and see me? Did he really want my help like so many people before him? Had Tim passed my details on because he recognised someone who was desperate to put an end to his life? A kindred spirit looking for a way out without the need to take his own life?

What I said to him at the group yesterday though - I told him I didn’t see people for private sessions. I told him I only saw people as part of the group. If he believed me - I won’t see him again. But then, maybe that’s for the best? Do I really want to try and figure out someone like that? It can only end in trouble. I suppose the best thing I can do is try and distance myself from him. Maybe I should even leave the group? Probably wise to even sell up and move away?

My head was spinning as though I’d had a heavy night on the alcohol, despite having not touched a drop. I knew the day would come that someone would find out what I do but - even so - I’m not sure this is it anymore. The fact he hasn’t come for me yet suggests he was at the group for the reasons he initially said. My spinning head asking me why I’m not comfortable helping him out if that is the case.

“Because he might need proof of what I do.”

So far he has the word of a wanted man and no evidence. Unless one of the bodies has been discovered? Well, one of the bits of bodies at least. I need to go to bed and get some proper sleep. I’m not going to figure anything out staring out of the window into the darkness beyond. Maybe some options as to what to do will come to light after a good sleep? Sleep? Funny. I’m not going to sleep tonight. Brain is too busy buzzing with all the different thoughts. Need to try though. Can’t remember the last time I slept properly. Need to try.

Need to try.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARTIN ANDREWS

Can’t Let Go

I

Hadn’t slept properly all night. When I did doze off it was the usual nightmare. I was back at Arthur’s gallery. Confronted by the piece he made for me but this time it was different. Arthur wasn’t there like he usually was - standing there with that shit-eating grin on his face as though he had won. Cole was standing in his place. A sympathetic look on his face.

“I can stop the pain,” he had told me. It was at that point I woke up with a start.

Arthur was standing at the foot of the bed laughing at me as soon as I opened my eyes. Nothing new there. He was there every morning. A constant, unwanted reminder of what had happened in my life. A reminder I tried to drown from my mind with an early swig of whiskey. That’s how the drinking started. Can’t recall the exact day but that was definitely the reason. Tried drowning the fuck from my mind once and for all. Not just him - tried to drown all the bad shit I had seen. Failed. And now I have a new resident trying to move in in the shape of Cole and yet I’m not entirely sure of what to make of him.

Miller told me that Cole invited him round in order to end his life for him. A written agreement between the two stating that Miller gave permission for Cole to take his life on the understanding that Cole got to do whatever he wanted with the body. Some people might say Cole was doing Miller a favour. But the Law wouldn’t see it that way. The Law would throw him in a cell and chuck away the key. Like I said - I’m not entirely sure what to make of him.

I rolled from the bed and onto my feet as Arthur fades from the room. Every part of me aches. Another sure sign of a bad night’s sleep. When I was on the case of Arthur - he was all I could think about. It concerns me how the first thought to pop into my head in the mornings now is that of Cole and who he really is (with regards to his hobbies). It was okay when I was on the Force. It had to get that way; getting into the mindsets of those I was hunting. It shouldn’t be like that now. I should be able to switch off. My old detective game wanting to get involved. I’ll let it. The distraction from my own life might be a blessing. Might help me move on. Might help me get my job back on the Force if I crack this open. Extra points if I bring in both Cole and Miller.

The half drunk bottle of whiskey next to the bed reminds me as to why I wasn’t on the Force. A suspension after they found I had been drinking. A suspension which turned to a dismissal. They won’t take me back all the time I am drinking. No way. Doubt they’ll take me back even if I manage to solve two cases on my own time but it has to be worth a shot if I want to save myself.

I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and lifted it from the bedside cabinet. For a split second I wasn’t sure whether I was going to go with my initial wish which was to throw the bottle at the wall or whether I was going to finish it - my last drink before going sober. One for the road. Of course I can’t waste it. I drank from the bottle knowing that what was left wouldn’t be enough to get me pissed or dull the pain in my wrists and mind. It didn't matter though - couldn’t bring myself to waste it. My head was bubbling away with the possibility of being accepted back onto the Force. Take in two criminals, get two of the fucks off the street and prove to them I’m the man I used to be before Arthur. I’m the man who had a respectable closure rate on my cases. Get out of this fucking apartment too. Go home. Back to where I belong.

I dropped the bottle to the floor once it was drained. It landed with a thud. What was my brain trying to do to me? They’d never take me back. When I was suspended I reacted angrily - spurred on by the liquor flowing through my body. I lashed out and hit the Captain in the face. My fist connected and split his nose open. He fell back. Before he even hit the floor, I was weeping uncontrollably. He had two officers take me home. Two no-names that I didn’t recognise. Sat in the back of the police car full of shame and self-pity. The Captain said the only reason he didn’t press charges was because he knew of what I had been through and that - once upon a time - I had been a good man. I remember dropping to the floor as soon as my front door was closed. His words playing on repeat; I had been a good man, I had been a good man, I had been a good man…What was I now? Was I one of them? Was I one of what was wrong with society?

I never apologised to the Captain. I didn’t even attend my disciplinary. Fired via a damned letter because I was too embarrassed to take it in person. At least I think that was why I didn’t go. Hazy memory. Damned drink. Could have been too drunk to show up. Wouldn’t surprise me.

I should go down the station this morning. I should go in, with my head held high and apologise to the Captain. Once there, I could always ask him the possibility of getting my old job back. They might let me in at entry level. Prove myself to them and they may make me a detective again. Who am I trying to kid? There I go again getting excited at the prospect of returning to work when, really, there is no prospect. I am a nobody now. A piece of scum. And even if the Captain did say I’d be allowed to return to work - I’m knocking on the wrong side of retirement now. Too damned old to go back. Wouldn’t be there long before they forced me back out again, making room for a younger detective to come and take my place.

I stood there quietly cursing myself. Damned brain bouncing back and forwards with thoughts of wanting to die and thoughts of wanting to get back onto the Force knowing full well that I’m not one of the lucky ones who gets to die young and I’ll never be employable again. Probably couldn’t even get a job working in a fucking supermarket now working the damned checkout. The mere thought sent a shiver down my spine. Thank God for Lucy’s life insurance, I thought. Without that I would have been screwed a long time ago.

I walked through to the bathroom. Another cracked mirror. Looked at myself in one of the fragments. A shadow of the former man I once was. Need to clean up my act. Lucy was staring at me from one of the broken segments of the mirror; a haunted look on her face.

“Please let this go. Don’t go back to the group.”

“I have to.”

I need to prove to myself I still have it in me to stop the bad buys - even if there is no financial gain to be earned or medals to be received. I need to know that I’m still one of the good guys.

“Please. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“Too late for that,” I smiled at her.

I knew she wasn’t really standing there. I wished she had been. My life would have been completely different. If she were with me, I’d probably be retired from the Force now anyway through choice. Living comfortably at home with my family.

“You need to get out of this apartment. It’s damaging you.”

“It’s where I deserve to be.”

“You need to be at home.”

“This is my home.”

“Our home. Please…”

I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t be in that house anymore. Don’t even know why I kept a hold of it. Should have just sold the fucking thing. Too many bad memories of how I had failed my wife as a husband. Every room hiding bad feelings somewhere within the four walls. Can’t go back.

“I love you,” she said.

I looked at her. All this time, all this pain - still can’t say it back to her. I bent down and splashed some water from the cold tap onto my face. By the time I stood back up and opened my eyes she was gone. Just as she always was.

Not sure why she doesn’t want me going after Cole. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Can prove to people - myself in particular - that I’m still one of the good guys. I’m just treading a darker path at the moment. Need to prove to myself there is a way back. There is a light to be found somewhere. Taking down Cole and exposing him for what he is - that’s my light.

I stripped my clothes off and walked over to the shower. Lost track of the amount of times I’ve fallen asleep fully dressed since my wife’s passing. Need to freshen myself up and make myself feel more human. Can’t very well start to sort my life out and try and turn things around before I set about putting things right. All the time I’m looking like shit, I’m acting like it too. I pulled the shower curtain back and stepped in, closing the curtain behind me. Not sure how I’m going to do this - need to keep the bandages out of the water; doctor’s orders.

I turned the water on and let it cascade down my tired body ignoring the advice given to keep the bandages dry. The wounds had leaked a little due to last night’s driving anyway so I figured I had nothing to lose. The single thought now going through my mind; need to clean myself up. Need to get back on the straight and narrow. Need to prove I am one of the good guys. If not for me then for the memory of my wife.

I ignored her voice in the back of my head telling me - once again - to let it go.

I need to do this.

My path is clear to me now.

II

I was sitting at the small table I had in the corner of the livingroom. A cheap thing I had picked up when I moved into the apartment. It was supposed to be for eating my meals at but I’m pretty sure I haven’t eaten a damned thing sitting here. Most of my meals have been from my lap in front of the television - when it was working - or simply consisted of a liquid lunch which ruled out the necessity for a table at all.

My wrist was cramping up as I tried to pen a letter on a piece of paper I had in my old work case. It didn’t help that the biro I was using was being temperamental. Kept having to scribble on a second sheet of paper to get the damned thing working properly. It would do another four or five words and then it would get scratchy again, forcing me to do the scribble trick again. Looked everywhere for another pen but of course I didn’t have one. That would have been too easy.

I paused a moment and lowered the pen before I tentatively rubbed my wrist. Hurting like a son of a bitch. The once white bandage indicating it might be prudent to give the wound a check. Pretty sure a stitch has been pulled judging by the colourings.

Was trying to write a letter to my old Captain. Figured it would be easier than going to see him face to face. At least this way he won’t see the state I am - despite the earlier shower. At least this way he may take it seriously. Hardest damned letter I’ve ever had to write. Never been one for apologies. Never usually felt the need for them. If I am to move on, though, I need closure and the apology is a must.

I picked the pen up again and resumed writing, ignoring the throbbing in my wrist. Shame I wasn’t back in the family home. Had a computer there that I could have used even though it seems like a bad option. Hand written is more personal. Hand written shows more thought and care. Any monkey can bang out a string of sentences on a typewriter.

I signed my name and folded the letter in two before stuffing it into an envelope. I sealed it and wrote the Captain’s name on the front of it before adding ‘Private and Confidential’. Not ready to hand it in yet but when I do I don’t want some desk clerk opening it because they feel it’s their job to do so. This is only for the Captain.

“I know what you’re doing,” Lucy said.

Me too. I’m the good guy. I’ve always been the good guy. This is about putting things right and even if I manage to fuck that up like I fucked up most things these past couple of years - at least the letter will go some way to putting things right.

“I told you, just leave it. Walk away from all of this. Even if you can’t go home - sell up, move out of town, start again.”

Her words… Her words? They’re not her words. They haven’t been her words for a long time now. They’re my words pretending to be her. That’s all. Nothing more and nothing less. Regardless - what was said had once been an option I had nearly taken. I had nearly sold up and moved away. Figured I could try and salvage some part of my life. Just didn’t work out that way. Every time I opened my eyes he was there. Every time I looked in a mirror he was behind me. Or Lucy was. Everywhere I went - they were around. I knew it didn’t matter how far I ran - even if I moved to some hot country somewhere - they would always follow. They would always be there to remind me of what I was trying to hide from.

I can’t walk away from this now. My mind is too far gone - caught up in the prospect of being the one who brings this asshole to justice. And Miller too. I want him. The fact the police want to talk to him and he has gone into hiding speaks volumes about his guilt. A woman killer. Along with a child killer - the worst kind of murderer you can come across.

Arthur fitted into both categories.

CHAPTER TWELVE

NATHAN COLE

In the Open

I

I woke in my own bed. No police sirens. No cuffs. Just me and the silence I had grown accustomed to. Didn’t sleep all the way through the night but I knew I wouldn’t. I could’t help but keep thinking about Mr. Andrews and what sort of game he was playing. I knew I should have thrown in the towel there and then. I knew it was over and that I should make my escape but I couldn’t help but wonder as to how it would play out. Besides, everything I had was here, I had nowhere to go.

I’d tossed and turned all night trying to decide what to do. It was about five am when I decided the best thing I could do was to carry on as usual. If he had anything on me, really had anything, then I am sure he would have been round already. He doesn’t have anything on me yet. Just a suspicion. A suspicion I would help to confirm if I suddenly packed up shop and disappeared.

I climbed from the bed and walked over to the bedroom window. I knew there was nothing outside that shouldn’t have been there before I looked but - even so - I couldn’t help but to check. It was a beautiful day out there, the sun was shining and the skies were blue with not a cloud in sight.

I liked feeling the sun’s rays upon my face. It feels as though mother is looking down upon me, reminding me that she is up there and keeping watch. I looked up, squinting, and smiled back.

II

I had got to the community hall extra early. I didn’t drive directly into the car park though. I drove up and down the road a couple of times, looking in with each pass. There were a few cars dotted around but none of them had any signs of being police cars. Even the unmarked cars had tell-tale signs that they were used by the police - usually extra lights in the headlamps or lights hanging down in the back window ready to start flashing in case of an emergency. But these cars seemed to have no such ‘extras’. I pulled into the car park and drove straight into the space closest to the hall’s entrance. I don’t usually park so close. I usually just abandon the car in the first available space I come to. But if I need to make a sudden exit during the evening - today I want the car to be closer.

I turned the engine off and just sat there a moment checking out the side windows and into the rear-view mirror to see behind me. No police cars flooding into the car park to block me in, no one seemingly around watching me. Nothing. I started to relax. They’re definitely not coming to me. Not yet anyway. Just as I had thought earlier this morning when I couldn’t sleep - he’s either trying to get evidence on me or he is looking for me due to darker reasons of his own. He did - after all - slash his own wrists. Maybe he wants his own appointment with me? I dismissed the idea. Can’t do that.

I climbed from the car and entered the hall. Sooner I get in there, sooner I can set up the chairs and get the urns switched on. Anyway, no point in sitting around outside. The hall was empty. No surprise there considering the group doesn’t get going for another hour and a half yet. I started walking around the hall, putting the chairs out ready for my guests, when the door opened. I looked up and my heart skipped a beat when I saw Mr. Andrews standing there.

“You’re early,” I said. I didn’t stop putting the chairs out. To my surprise he came over and started to help me. He looked different from yesterday. More official. More ‘police-like’. I immediately felt more uncomfortable.

“Keen.”

A man of few words.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again after yesterday. Thought you were looking for a different kind of therapy.”

“I am.”

“And yet you’re here again.”

“Think you’re the one to offer it.”

I knew he was aware of what I offered to members of this group. Why did he insist on the games? Why couldn’t he just say it? What was he playing at?

“Told you yesterday. I don’t see people on an individual basis. Only as part of this group. Protects us all, you see. And, like I explained, I think it is good meeting people in a similar situation. Immediately makes it easier to talk to someone.”

He put another chair down and stopped. He looked me straight in the eye. I felt him judging me, weighing up what sort of character I was. I stared back.

“Mr. Miller told me you offer people such as me a way out.”

“Not sure I follow,” I said, still not sure what to make of all of this.

“People who want to die but are too afraid to take their own lives. He told me you help them. For a price.”

“A price? Do I look like a rich man?”

“Not money.”

“Not money? Then what?”

“A letter stating their desire to be killed by you, a letter giving you their blessing.”

“You’re crazy,” I still wasn’t ready to admit anything. I didn’t trust him. At least this confirmed everything he knew about me though.

“No. You are.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “You have urges that only the dead can satisfy. The condition of you helping them out is that you get to do as you please to them once they’re dead.”

I stopped what I was doing and sat in one of the plastic seats. He sat in one opposite me.

“Well if this is true,” I eventually asked, “why aren’t you arresting me?”

He looked surprised that I knew he was a police officer.

“I know who you are.”

“You know who I am?” he asked. “You don’t.”

“You’re a police officer.”

“I was.”

“Not anymore?”

“Not anymore. If you knew me, like you say you do, you would know why. More to the point, you would know why I am here.”

“You’re here because someone told you about these supposed things that I do. You’re here because you have no proof, only someone’s word for it. You’re here to try and get a confession. I confess to it and next thing I know the door is getting kicked in and I’m getting arrested.”

“Told you, not an officer. Detective even. Not a detective. That’s what I was. Before. A detective.”

“Like I said yesterday - I only see people in this group. I don’t see anyone outside of it. And your friend - Tim Miller - he’s the one you should be focusing your attention on. He is the one you should be looking to take down. The man killed his ex-girlfriend.”

“Supposedly. Last I heard it wasn’t confirmed. He was just wanted for questioning.”

“He’s wanted for questioning and then he disappears? You don’t think that is suspicious?”

“Depends how you look at it,” he replied, “on the one hand - yes - I do think it is suspicious. On the other hand, for all I know, you caught up with him and silenced him, stopping him from telling anyone else about your one on one sessions. For all I know - you could have killed his ex-girlfriend in an effort to cover up his disappearance. It would make sense.”

“You believe that?”

“Told you; if you knew me - you would know why I am here.”

I pulled back when he reached into his pocket. He took out a business card and held it out for me.

“What’s this?” I asked. I leaned forward and took it - a plain business card. Detective Andrews written across the top of it, an address for a police station and a couple of phone numbers. One was a mobile and one was a landline.

“Think of it as my credentials,” he said. “Go home when you’re finished here, put my name into your Internet browser, see what comes up. I told you - if you knew me…” He paused a moment. “My mobile number is on the bottom. You can call me anytime.”

He stood up and walked from the room. I just sat there, unblinking, staring at the card.

III

I sat on my mobile phone using the 4G connection to Google Detective Andrews as I waited for the usual faces to come through the doors ready for the group session. I have to be honest - I wasn’t expecting what I came across. His life story read like a version of the movie Se7en. He went against a serial killer, the serial killer stole his life from him. The beginning of the detective’s downfall.

Hard to believe but, the more I read, I actually started to feel a little sorry for him. It put things into perspective and I could understand why someone like that would come and see me. Well - I can see why he would come for the services that I offer at least. The problem was, I still didn’t necessarily believe it all. Sure I can see that this would have happened to him - there were enough sites on the Internet which all said the same woeful story - but it didn’t mean he was here for anything other than the sourcing of concrete evidence to put me away. That little nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me not to trust him. Another voice - though - suggesting everything was above board and I should meet up with him and see what he has to say for himself. See if his story is the same when he recounts it. If it happened, he’ll pretty much have the details down perfectly. It doesn’t read as something you could easily forget. And then - of course - there’ll be the emotion there. If he recounts it without any emotion - chances are he isn’t for real and these stories are nothing but plants.

I’ve had many people at my table who have recounted their stories in front of the group with a complete lack of emotion. Something about the size of the group which helps them remain focused I guess but the moment they’re at the table - the moment it is just the two of us - they all break down. Mr. Andrews - or rather Detective Andrews - will be no different to the others.

Still had a few minutes to kill before my session started. A few people here - helping themselves to the hot drinks - but not enough to put me off making the call he had asked for. I fished his business card from the pocket I had slid it into and looked for his number on the bottom corner. I cancelled my phone out of the Internet browser and dialed his number. A couple of seconds silence and then the call connected and a ringing tone played into my ear. A couple more seconds and he answered. I was curious to see how he would answer the phone. He didn’t know my number and I’m sure an officer of the law had the potential to receive a lot of calls from numbers they didn’t recognise.

“This is Andrews,” he said.

This is Andrews - not Detective Andrews. A little weight to his story?

“It’s Mr. Cole.”

“Oh?”

“Seems like you’re quite the celebrity,” I said.

He didn’t answer me. Perhaps calling someone, who had lost their family a “celebrity” wasn’t the most respectful of things to say.

“Used the Internet then,” he said after a slight pause. “So now you know why I was so interested in seeing you,” I told him.

“I do but it doesn’t mean you were told the truth about me.”

“We both know that what I was told was factually accurate,” he said.

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t want to confirm anything. Not yet. And especially not on the telephone.

“Can you help me out then?” he asked.

There was definitely a desperation in his tone that I had heard in the voices of most of the people who had come for my extra services. Another factor lending weight to his story. Unless he is undercover and just a bloody good actor?

But what if he really does want your help? That little voice in my head again.

Can’t just let him suffer.

“I think you have the wrong end of the stick,” I told him. “Whatever Tim told you - it just isn’t right. And I’m not sure why he said it to you either. Especially if the two of you aren’t friends. It’s strange. I think though - it might be a good idea for the two of us to meet up. In private. Have a conversation and set the record straight. What do you think?”

“Okay. When?”

He knew there was more to what I was saying than the actual words themselves. He knew there was more between the lines. Of course he knew. He used to be a detective, so he says. His whole job was based around reading between the lines.

“After my session. There’s a pub on the corner. It’s usually relatively quiet.”

“Fine.”

“It’ll be about an hour and half from now,” I confirmed.

“I’ll be there.”

I hung up on him without saying goodbye. Still not sure how this will play out but it’s worth looking into. I can always stick with my story of not knowing what Tim was talking about. I can always walk away. Play it cool for a few months, maybe a couple of years, before helping anyone out again. Make sure I’m not being followed or investigated. Or I can always offer to help him - if I think he is telling the truth.

Could go either way.

I called the group members over to take their seats. Sooner we start, the sooner we finish.

IV

I was sitting in the pub waiting for Mr. Andrews to come in. I had purposefully come in a little earlier to ensure he came alone. My heart skipped a beat every time the door opened and someone else walked in. Each time I thought it was going to be him. A quick check of my watch revealed he was five minutes late so far. It will be so much easier if he doesn’t come. It would take the decision out of my hands as to what to do; how best to proceed. I can’t see him doing a no show though. Not after all the trouble he has gone to. He’s probably just running a little late - maybe stuck in traffic?

Five minutes turned to ten and eventually he walked in. I put my hand up to signal where I was; a small corner booth. Private and away from prying eyes. He nodded as he walked over to the table. He sat opposite me. The pair of us sat there in silence for a moment or two. The two of us weighing up the other.

I broke the silence, “Do you have your phone?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Can I see it?”

He pulled it out of his pocket. I put my hand out, palm open, to take it. He took the hint and handed it to me. I activated the screen and checked it wasn’t recording. I was pleased to note it wasn’t. I put the phone down on the table between us. He didn’t reach out for it.

“Want to frisk me?” he asked.

“You’re a cop…”

“Was…”

“Can’t be too careful.”

“I told you - not here as a police officer. Here as a man who has lost everything he cares about.”

I shifted in my seat, “You can understand why I am uncomfortable?”

“You’ve seen the reports about me, about what I’ve gone through, you can understand why I want to end it.”

I nodded.

He continued, “We both know Miller told me the truth. You help people such as me, people who want to die. You give us a way out.”

I didn’t say anything. I just sat there looking at him, unsure of how best to proceed. The pain my mother suffered towards the end - I often wished I could turn the clock back and help her out. Put her out of her misery. I don’t agree with government rules not allowing people to be ‘put to sleep’ if they’re in pain. I think everyone should have the right to do with their life as they see fit. If someone wants to die - what right does another person have to tell them they’re not allowed to? And it doesn’t just have to be people, like mother, who are terminal but people who suffer from depression too. Or people like Mr. Andrews. He’s lost everything and feels like he can’t go on. Let him die. Let him have peace.

I looked him straight in the eye. Usually you can see traces of someone’s soul.

I saw nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Martin Andrews

Enough

I

“Is it that hard to believe that I’d want to leave all this behind?” I asked. My voice cracked as I struggled to hold it together. What I was going to say to him, what I was planning to say… I hadn’t said out loud to anyone. I had kept it quiet. Tried - unsuccessfully - to bury it. Drown it out with the booze.

He didn’t answer me. Just sat there looking at me. He was judging me just as I had been doing the same to him.

“Arthur was his name. He took my family from me.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Opened it up and showed him a small photograph. My unborn child. Our first baby scan. “Never had the chance to meet my child. That luxury was taken from me.” I struggled with my emotion. Funny how I can get upset about my child but my wife - don’t recall ever crying for her despite my best efforts to do so.

“Well I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’ve seen a lot of bad things. You know I watched a new mother kill her own child? Baby was lucky to be alive in the first place. Her partner stabbed the mother whilst she was carrying it. Doctors saved both mother and child only for the mother to kill it as soon as they were left alone. I watched it happen and there was nothing I could do about it.” A tear rolled down my cheek catching me by surprise. “I’ve seen so much. I’ve tried to forget but the bad thoughts linger. Lost my job because of them when I turned to alcohol…”

I rubbed my wrist. Damned thing is so sore. Have barely had anything to drink today and still haven’t taken any tablets to ease the pains. Cole noticed my actions.

“May I see your wrist?” he asked.

I held it out for him.

“Underneath the bandage,” he pushed.

“Worried it’s make-up?” I laughed. I pealed the bandage back enough to reveal the seeping wound underneath. Not looking too good. Looks as sore as it feels.

“Looks painful,” he said.

“Hardly the kind of thing I’d do to myself just to make a bust.”

He looked at me. He knew I was sitting here because I wanted his help.

“So how did Tim meet you? How did that come about?” he asked.

“Contacted me out of the blue. I worked on a case involving his friends. He found my business card and called me up.”

“Why?”

“Wanted me to arrest you. I didn’t tell him I was no longer on the Force.”

“He wanted me arrested?”

“Said you're a murderer.”

“Do you think I am a murderer?”

“I’m not sure what to make of you.”

The man sitting in front of me was a killer. There was no doubt about that. But he was killing people who asked to be murdered. The courts would put him inside for his crimes but there was a part of me that thought what he was doing was admirable. Kind of. It was strange sitting opposite a known murderer and agreeing with his reasoning.

“I have never killed someone who didn’t ask for it,” he said.

“So you say.”

“At this stage why would I lie? I try and help people with the group that I run. The money the government pays me to run it is minimal. I’m doing it because I care, because I want to help. Those who I can’t help via the group, I help in the other way. Tim came to me because he wanted me to end his life. Told me he couldn’t go on having lost his girlfriend. He came round for the evening and changed his mind so I let him leave. Had I known he was going to go and murder his ex-partner - would I have let him leave? Not sure what I would have done. Never killed anyone who didn’t ask for it.”

We sat there a moment in silence before I asked the question, “What about me? Can you help me?”

He hesitated, “Yes. Yes, I can.”

I smiled. First time in a while.

“Well,” I said, “how about a drink?”

“Sure.”

I stood up and walked over to the bar to order two drinks. I didn’t ask what he wanted. He could join me in a whiskey. A drink to toast our arrangement and discuss what happens next. I didn’t look back at him whilst I was ordering. I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I’m not sure if he trusted me one hundred percent still but it didn’t matter. By the time we finish these drinks and we both leave - going our separate ways - he’ll know I’m not here to take him down. After all - he had confessed to me now. If this was a sting operation I would have been wearing a wire and the door would have already been kicked in with several officers running in to take him away. He’s safe. Deep down I think he knows it too. I ordered the drinks from the skinny looking barman and returned them to the table. One for him, one for me.

“Cheers,” I said.

We clinked glasses and drank. Mine went down in one. His didn’t.

“There’s a certain way I do things,” he said slowly. “An order to what happens next,” he continued.

“Okay. What’s the plan?” I asked.

For the first time in as long as I could remember I felt positive. I mean one hundred percent positive. And it all came down to the thought of dying without having to dirty my own hands. Obviously there was more to it than that but for all intents and purposes - the main reason for my sudden positivity - I knew I didn’t have to endure this for much longer. Soon I would be free and it was all thanks to an old case turning sour. Had I managed to solve the case of Mark and Becky Stephens, Tim Miller would never have found the business card. He would never have phoned me. I’d have still been in the dark, living in that squalid apartment surrounded by the scum of the city. Funny how things turn out.

II

I left the pub with Cole a few whiskeys later. It was clear he wasn’t really a drinker. His legs were wobbly and his speech slurred whereas I barely felt the effect at all. I asked him how he was getting home and he said he’d get a taxi. I offered him a lift. He had given me his address earlier ready for our evening tomorrow but he still declined. Said he’d rather use a taxi. Fair enough. His money to waste.

We said our goodbyes and I walked towards where I had earlier abandoned my car. It’s funny - knowing what was planned for tomorrow - everything felt different. The air felt clearer. Easier to breath. Fresher. By the time I got to my car I realised it wasn’t the air or the environment which felt better - it was me in general. A weird feeling considering tomorrow is the day I die. Almost like my body is telling me it wants to stay alive and - not only that - that it’s not too late to make a final bust whether I’m an officer of the law or not.

I climbed into my car and shut myself in. Jumped when I spotted Lucy in the rear-view mirror. She was sitting on the back seat. At least that’s what my mind told me. I knew she wasn’t there. She was shaking her head - looking at me with that disapproving look she saved for special occasions when she thought I had crossed the line.

“Please let it go. Don’t go and see him,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I told no one.

I turned around to have a proper conversation with her - explain what I was going to do - but she was gone. Of course she was. Stupid. She was never there. I turned back to face front and put the key into the ignition. I’ll see her again soon enough though. I smiled. A real damned smile. Fancy that.

I slammed the car into reverse and started to pull away from my parking spot before hitting the brakes. Some idiot pulled up behind me and blocked me in. I was about to get out and give them a deserved mouthful of abuse when the driver turned on their blues and twos and I realised it was a damned copper. Of course it was. Can’t have a moment’s happiness, right? I killed the engine and stepped from the car. One of the officers had already started to come for me.

“Good evening,” he said.

Didn’t recognise the face of the officer. Either he’s new or I have been out of the game longer than I care to remember. A shame though. Had they known me it would have been easier to get myself out of this without the breathalyser test.

“It was.”

“Know why we stopped you?”

“Because you realise you can’t stop the real evils in the world, you can’t put right the many wrongs that are happening - the wrongs which break lives and damage society that little bit more so you thought you’d harass innocent people who’re trying to have a pleasant evening?” usually I was more tolerant of the police. It helped that I used to be one of them (usually) but tonight I couldn't be bothered with them. I knew why they had blocked my car and they were well within their rights to do so. If anything - they were doing their job perfectly. They’d seen a man walking out of the pub and climbing into his car before attempting to drive away. The only reason I was irritated was because I don’t deem this as a real crime; drink-driving. To make it should be a slap on the wrist and a ticking off - nothing more and nothing less.

“How much have you had to drink this evening, sir?”

“Do I look like a sir?”

The officer turned to his partner who was on the radio in the car - no doubt checking my vehicle was insured and taxed. It was. Just a shame it was also registered to my name too. The officer in the car lowered the radio and popped his head out of the window.

“Martin Andrews?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Detective Martin Andrews?’

“In a past life.”

“Shit. I remember you! You were like…”

I cut him off, “I really need to be somewhere,” I said. “Can we speed things up?”

The first officer took charge of the situation, “I’m sorry but I’m going to need you to blow into one of these,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a breathalyser. I sighed.

“Fine.”

The second officer piped up, “Is this really necessary?” he asked. His reaction earlier suggested he knew who I was and what I had been through. Probably figured I deserved to be cut some slack. His colleague ignored him like the little job’s worth prick that he was.

I watched impatiently as he attached a disposable mouthpiece to the machine. No doubt, when we were done, he was going to tell me that I could keep it as a souvenir.  Standard banter between traffic officer and driver.

“Okay if you could please blow into the mouth piece and keep blowing until I tell you to stop.”

“I know how it works,” I hissed.

I blew into the mouth piece as instructed and stopped when the officer told me to. Seconds later he informed me what we all knew; I was over the limit.

“Martin Andrews you do not have to say anything but I am arresting you…” he started to read me my rights and I couldn’t help but laugh. His colleague was asking him if we could let it slide. Professional courtesy. The first officer carried on to the end of his little speech - credit where it was due it was well rehearsed - and took his handcuffs from his belt. I turned around to make it easy for him. My final night - guess I’ll be spending it in a cell then… Wonder if the Captain is working the night shift. Be nice to see him before I leave.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nathan Cole

The Last Day

I

I was sitting in my mother’s old bedroom. I say ‘old’ but if you came round my house without knowing anything about me - you’d think it was still her room. Perfectly tidy, her favourite dress hanging from the wardrobe door, her possessions (make-up etc) sitting on a make-up table in the corner of the room. A wig sitting on the head of a mannequin. Her favourite wig that she took to wearing after she lost her own hair. I was on the chair next to her bed - the one I had moved into her bedroom when it became apparent she wasn’t getting out of bed again. I’ve lost count of the number of hours I had sat here with her, holding her hand. A selfish part of me wishes she was still in her bed despite the pain she’d been in towards the end. I’d give anything to hold her hand again. I’d give anything to tell her I loved her once more. More to the point - I’d sell my soul to the Devil just to hear her tell me how much she loved me too.

“I’m seeing another guest here tonight, mother.” I said. I always told her when people were coming around to the house. I thought it only fair considering it was her house. I simply took it over after she had passed away. It became mine through default and not because I had earned it. “I think you’ll like him,” I said. “Maybe not at first but once you get through the multitude of layers he has built up over the years and see the real person underneath…Then… I think you’ll like him. He may not seem it on first impressions but believe me when I tell you that he is a good man. His soul has just been corrupted from all the bad he has seen over the years and I can’t blame him for that and neither should God. Please make sure he lets him in and please be there to greet him at the Gates. Help him find his wife just as you’ve helped those I’ve sent before.”

I liked to imagine mother lying in the bed - not in pain though - listening to what I said. This room, her room, allowed me to feel close to her. I hear her voice in my head louder here than in any other room of the house.

“I’ll look after him,” her voice clear as day in my head.

I smiled, “Thank you mum.” I leaned forward from my chair and imagined that I kissed her forehead. In reality I kissed thin air but - in this moment - it still felt real to me. I sat back down again.

“We’re having a liquid lunch,” I told her. “I offered him anything he wanted - anything. Said he wanted a large whiskey. Maybe two. Wanted the same for dessert. I suggested he might want a nicer meal to go to sleep with but he was adamant. Whiskey.” I laughed, “The guy can put them away. Lots of practice, I guess. I can’t keep up with him. Don’t worry though, I won’t be drinking with him. Not alcohol anyway. I’ll probably have a bit of blackcurrant squash in a wine glass. Give the impression that I’m drinking with him. It’s a bit rude otherwise.” I paused. “I’m going to put him to sleep the same way I put the others to sleep. Use the shower, use the knife. Makes sense. Not sure what I’ll do with the body afterwards though. Always the same when I put men to sleep though. Never really something I want to play with. Not as much as the ladies anyway.” I hesitated. “Sorry, I know you don’t like hearing about that. You just like the thought of me putting them out of their misery. It’s just that I get carried away with it all.” I paused a moment as my own words sunk in; I get carried away with it all. I’m a bad person. I must be. A good person wouldn’t do the things I’ve done to people. A good person wouldn’t do any of this.

“You help people,” there it was again - crystal clear - her voice.

“I meant afterwards. After I’ve helped people. Good people wouldn’t do that.”

I didn’t hear her voice again. Just my own thoughts. It felt as though she had abandoned me. Her silence speaking volumes about what I’d said; good people wouldn’t do what I do.

“I’m sorry, mum.” I said.

I liked to think of her helping the people I send to up there. I liked to think of her showing the lost souls the way. We were a double team. I help them here, she helps them there. I just couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d look out for me when my time comes - or would she deny me? Foolish really, I know she isn’t here and yet I still expected her to answer me. Still expected her to put my shaky mind at ease. Nothing though.

II

I lit the candle in the centre of the dining room table. Seems weird to do so considering we’re not eating anything. I like to give my guests a perfect night before they go to sleep but it is hard to do that when all they want to do is get drunk before they drift away. Doesn’t matter - not for me to say anything. What the guest wants, the guest gets.

I set down two table placemats. Usually the plates would go here but not this time. I walked over to the display cabinet against the far wall of the room and pulled out two of my finest glasses. A crystal tumbler for his drink and a crystal wine glass for mine.

I had popped to the shops earlier in the afternoon and purchased a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey. Last night he had told me it was his favourite brand. I told him I thought all whiskeys tasted the same. Apparently my opinion was wrong. I walked through to the kitchen and pulled the whiskey bottle from the carrier bag I had earlier dumped on the side. I’ll take his drink through but will leave mine out here on purpose. Don’t want him knowing I’m not drinking with him. He might think of it as rude and cancel the evening. I walked back through to the dining room, bottle in hand, and placed it next to the glass on his mat. I took a step back and admired the table setting. Everything was in its place, including the bell - a necessity for if he changed his mind although given the conversations we’ve had and the stories about him spread across the Internet, I’m pretty sure the evening will run its course.

All I need now is my guest of honour.

Martin Andrews

III

They had kept me locked in a little holding cell all night long.  Charged me too. Have to go to court where I’ll most likely lose my license. Couldn’t help but laugh as they processed the paperwork and that was despite the lecture from the desk sergeant that it wasn’t a laughing matter. Not sure if he is as condescending to all those he books or whether it was just me. Apparently I should have known better - what with being ex-law. I didn't bother answering him back.  I Didn’t want to waste any more of my day than was necessary.

I walked out of there with my head held high as I knew I wouldn’t be around to attend the court date. I checked my phone. A little after ten am and one voice-mail message. Hopefully it was her. Used my one telephone call to dial her number yesterday. She hadn’t answered. Must have been busy. I left a message asking to see her for an appointment at around midday. Told her to leave me a voicemail if I didn’t answer when she called back. Hopefully this is her and she can see me at the required time. Gives me time to do what needs to be done before seeing Cole.

I dialed for my messages:

“Hi. It’s me. I got your message. Yes, I can be available at midday. If you can just drop me a text in the morning to confirm. Other than that - I’ll see you then.”

No other voicemails for me.

It’s ten o’clock now. I have just about enough time to get to my car and home to get changed. Grab what I need and then I can head back out to her place. It’ll be cutting it fine but it is do-able.

IV

She opened the door in her usual manner - hiding behind it so that the neighbours didn’t see what she was wearing. She closed the door behind me as I stepped in. I turned round to see her. She looked great. White underwear in the form of knickers and bra. Plain. Simple. Innocent. Usually just the type that I request. I like the simplicity of it. The innocence. Reminded me of my wife.

“Wasn’t sure I’d see you again after the last time,” she confessed.

“Sorry about that, it had been a heavy day.”

“Come through,” she walked me through to the bedroom.

I fished into my pocket and pulled out a handful of notes, “Count it!” I told her.

She counted the money out. There was fifty pounds too much. To my surprise, she owned up to this. Thought she may have kept quiet about it in the hope I’d not notice that I’d made a mistake.

“Extra?” She looked surprised. “I only charge an extra for anal. I take it we aren’t just cuddling today?”

She walked towards me and placed her hands on my shirted chest. I can’t pretend it wasn’t nice to feel the touch of a woman again - even if it were on top of my clothes.

“I need you to do something for me,” I told her.

“It’s your time,” she purred.

I put my hands on her shoulder and pushed her back. She fell onto the bed with a giggle. Still thinks this is part of my appointment but it’s not. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a letter.

“I’ve done some bad things in my time,” I told her. Her face dropped. She realised the extra money wasn’t for the anal she advertised on her site. “And I need to make amends for some of them. I can’t fix everything, I know I can’t but…” I held the letter up, “This fixes some of them.”

“A letter?”

“I need you to do me a favour,” I continued, “tomorrow morning I need you to take this into the police station in town and hand it in. That’s it.”

“Why don’t you post it?”

“Need to make sure it gets there.”

“Why don't you take it yourself?”

“I won’t be around tomorrow.”

“Where will you be?”

“Need to go away for a while.”

“What is it?”

“Just a letter to my old captain. That’s it.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Can you do that for me?” I asked her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I nodded. “I will be.” I pushed her again, “Can you do that for me? Drop the letter in?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“It’s really important.”

She nodded again.

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

I smiled. I’m more than okay. I moved forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. A second later and I pulled her to her feet. Before she knew what was happening I moved in for a kiss, my hands caressing her arse through the soft fabric of her underwear. I pulled away and laughed as I pushed her back onto the bed. She bounced onto the mattress and moved up the bed so that her head was on the pillows. I started to unbutton my shirt as she reached for a condom off the bedside cabinet. We won’t just be cuddling today. If today is to be my last day (and it is) I plan to make the most of it.

By the time my shirt and trousers were off, she was sitting up motioning for me to go over to her. The rubber was in her other hand, ready to be positioned onto the shaft of my erection. My erection? Been a long time since I had seen him. Not sure if that was down to stress, old age or the alcohol I readily consumed. Whatever the reason for its absence - the fact he was back now was just another reason for me to smile.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nathan Cole

The Fat Lady’s Encore

I

He hadn’t noticed that my drink was blackcurrant squash. At least, if he had, he wasn’t saying anything. He seemed happy enough to stare into the bottom of his whiskey. He had walked into the house with an air of confidence that I hadn’t noticed on him before. It was as though he knew exactly what he was doing and yet here he was looking unsure of himself. Quiet and subdued. I felt a little uneasy. I guess there was a part of me that still expected a number of uniformed officers to burst in through the door and take me to prison. No one came though. It was just the two of us.

I looked over to the bell. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was going to ring it and draw the evening to a close. I’m not really a betting man but if I were forced to - I’d say that outcome is pretty unlikely having spent the afternoon researching more about the man and the cases he had been a part of. Amazing the information you can find online these days - especially when an officer has been disgraced. This was supposed to be a nice evening for him but for some reason he looked troubled.

“How’s the drink?” I asked him. We’d been sitting for five minutes now and he hadn’t so much as touched a drop. Considering the speed, and ease, with which he drank yesterday I knew there was a problem. I filled the silence, “Just - I haven’t seen you even take a sip yet.”

He looked straight at me, “What happens afterwards?” he asked.

I shrugged, “Not sure. I like to think we move on to a better place. When I lost my mother, it helped me think of her somewhere better than here. Somewhere warm and peaceful…”

“I meant with my body.”

I tapped the envelope he had given me as he walked into my house, “You know the terms - I can do with your body as I see fit as long as I help you move on from your pain. My only condition.”

“Curious.”

“Not sure yet.”

I genuinely wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I had done so much with so many people that there wasn’t a lot left for me to try. I had eaten some of them - at least bits of them - and discovered I didn’t have a taste for human flesh. I had read somewhere that it was supposed to taste like pork but it didn’t. Not to me anyway. Couldn’t say what it did taste of other than sickening; a strong taste of iron. I had laid with some of the corpses, an experience I didn’t find displeasurable although that was only after I managed to get things going properly - basically, in order to fuck a corpse, I found I had to be in the right frame of mind. If we were to talk about it now, I’d say it was disgusting. If we were to talk about it when I was in the mood for intercourse - I’d say it was a viable option. I had cut away the skin from some and fashioned masks from them - even left the house on Halloween wearing one of them. Quite a few people commented on my outfit that year. They said it looked amazing and asked where I had got it from. I told them it was something I had just thrown together from bits I had dug up from around the house. I remember them laughing and calling me a sick son of a bitch. If only they knew. I had burned skin away from some skulls - and other bones - with a welding torch I had. Soon as the skin started to bubble it was easy to slide it from the bone. And then - with just the bone - I had attempted to create items from them such as ash-trays and cookie jars. I never was very good at D.I.Y - or Arts and Crafts - so the results were always slapdash at best. But at least I tried. And that wasn’t all - I had even tried putting a human head in the microwave to see what would happen. The skin bubbled, the eyes popped… Well to sum up, it ruined the microwave. Buried that with the rest of the body as mother looked down upon me with that disapproving look I had known so well from when she was alive.

“Does it matter?” I asked him. “You’ll be dead.”

It surprised me the amount of people who were curious as to what I was going to do with them once they had died. A morbid curiosity I guess but one that didn’t need to be answered.

He shook his head and picked his glass up. In the same swift (and sudden) motion he downed his whiskey. I reached out for the bottle, picked it up and went to pour him another but he stopped me.

“No?”

He shook his head. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Oh. Okay.”

Usually the nights went on a little longer than this. People seemed to want to make the most of their last night. I guess it gave them the choice to call things off. He just wanted it done though.

“Now what?” he asked.

“We move things upstairs.”

I stood up and he did the same. I walked out of the dining room and up the stairs towards the bedroom. I opened the door and held it there for him. He hesitated a moment or two on the landing.

“In there?”

“You can just go in there and get unchanged. Then, when you’re ready if you could go through to the bathroom and I’ll meet you in there,” I said.

“Undressed?”

“Need you naked, I said. Makes it easier when I go to cut…” I stopped what I was saying.

He hesitated a moment longer and stepped into the bedroom. He closed the door behind him.

I called through, “Just give me a shout when you’re ready,” I said.

He didn’t answer. I walked down the stairs and back towards the kitchen. Can’t very well continue without my knife…

Martin Andrews

II

I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. I’d like to say I had a million things racing through my mind as my final moment continued to get nearer but I didn’t. Only one single thought. My wife. Lucy. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with me.

“Please leave this place. Just go home. Please.”

I wonder if all along she (I) knew I had only started looking into Nathan Cole’s life because I was looking for a way out. All this time I had wanted to die but never had the courage to go through with it myself. Only did what I had in the coffee shop in order to open the door to Nathan’s world for myself. I could never have done such an act if I were at home by myself in the knowledge that no one would come and save me. It’s weird how the brain works, some of us are happy to die and yet too afraid to pull the plug ourselves. When I listened to Miller’s story about this man who supposedly helped those who wanted to die - I thought I was going to arrest the man… Citizen’s arrest, I guess. I wonder though - when I first heard the story - was my mind really interested in trying to arrest him and put a stop to him or was it always dead set on using the services he offered?

“Please go home. It’s not your time.”

I stripped my clothes off and stood in front of the bedroom mirror I saw hanging on the wall. First mirror I had stared into without a crack in it for a while now. An old man looking back. A tired old man. Lucy says it isn’t my time yet but it is. I’m tired. I’ve had enough. I have no reasons left to live. The more I think about it - I lost them all the moment Arthur killed her. And speaking of Arthur, he was standing behind me in the mirror’s unkind reflection. A smirk on his face. Lucy’s wrong. It is my time.

Before leaving the bedroom I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out my wallet. I flipped it out and withdrew the baby scan photograph. With it safely in hand, I walked through to the bathroom. Felt a little self-conscious being naked but I guess it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. I called out to him that I was ready and - before I knew it - he was standing in the bathroom with me. He too was in a state of undress.

“Where did you want me?” I asked.

He pointed to the bathtub. The overhead shower was already running. Warm water pouring into the tub and running down the plughole. I stepped in. Couldn’t shake the feeling that the water was washing away all of my sins as it hit my body. I turned around and Cole stepped into the tub next to me.

He smiled at me.

Nathan Cole

III

His eyes went wide as I plunged the knife into his stomach. It tore through his flesh easily and the blade disappeared into his gut. I could only imagine the damage it was doing to his insides as it went hilt deep. He gasped and dropped to his knees as I pulled the blade out. With no words I stuck it back into his chest. Must have pierced his heart. Eyes so wide I thought they were going to pop right out of his head. He fell back into the corner of the tub as I withdrew the knife again. As the blade came out of his body it was accompanied by a steady stream of red. He was gasping now. His eyes went from me to the soaking baby picture in his hand. I helped him move it closer to his eyes to help him focus upon it and then I stuck the knife in for a third time, and then a fourth… A fifth. The baby picture dropped to the floor of the tub and was soon painted red and his head dropped forward. He gasped again. A longer gasp this time and then he exhaled. A long drawn out breath. His last.

I sat back at the opposite end of the bathtub, embarrassed by my own erection which had come about by the very act of setting him free. A reaction that was not uncommon despite not always being entirely appropriate.

“Good night, sweet Prince.”

I looked up to the ceiling. I liked to imagine the recently freed souls up there, looking down at the harsh reality they had left behind. I liked to imagine them smiling at me. Thanking me for setting them free from all of this crap. Whether I imagined it accurately I’ll never know until my time comes but - until then - it is how I will picture it. He’s with mother now as she shows him where to go and then - when they’re there - he’ll be with his family. He’ll be at peace.

I felt a sense of accomplishment for setting souls free. It was something to be proud of. Yet at the same time I also felt a little pang of jealousy shoot through me as though I’d been stabbed by a knife of emotion. They get to see my mother. They get to talk to her and yet I do not. I still have to wait here and carry on with my role. Carry on helping those who seek it. I can but only hope they put a good word in for me. Let her know that I love her and that I’ll see her as soon as I can without risking my soul to an eternity in Hell.

I looked back to the body. Only now that I am seeing him dead do I realise what I should do with him. Can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner when it is so painfully obvious.

I climbed from the bath and reached for a towel hanging on the back of the door.

It’s going to be a long night.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T H E    E N D

A letter From Hell  #1

I

It was 8am in the morning and the station was already a hive of activity with officers milling around; some finishing their shift and others just beginning. The front doors opened and a well dressed lady promptly left having dropped a letter in to the front desk as per her punter’s request. She was thankful that no one asked any questions. Ever since her run in with the police when she worked the street she had been nervous of them and the last thing she wanted was any unwanted attention from them.

Just as he had been asked, the officer who took the letter in temporarily left the desk to run it through to Patterson; the man the envelope was made out to.

“Sir, a lady just dropped this in for you. Said to say it was urgent and private.”

The officer walked into Patterson’s room clutching the envelope in his hand. Patterson didn’t even look up from his desk where he was busy jotting notes down into a large file of various paperwork.

“Put it on the desk,” he said.

Patterson had had a long night. There was so much paperwork to go through and so much that he needed to catch up on that he just didn’t have a clue as to where to start with it. All he knew was that it wasn’t going anywhere and that he didn’t have time to stop and open post.

The officer didn’t need telling twice. He set it to the side of the desk and made a hasty retreat. Patterson sat back and rubbed his sore eyes. Only so many hours you could sit staring at paperwork before you start to go blind. He stretched and casually glanced down to the envelope. A quick look to begin with followed by a prompt double take as though something about the handwriting on the front of it awoke some old memory. He put his pen down and picked it up before promptly ripping into it. Once open, he withdrew the handwritten piece of A4 paper which had been neatly folded to fit into the DL envelope and tossed the torn envelope to the floor. His eyes flitted back and forth across the message that had been addressed to him.

Patterson,

My apologies that it has taken so long to write this letter to you. I’m sure you are aware I have been to Hell and am yet to find my way back although I believe I now have a way out of it. By the time you read this letter I will be at peace; aided by a man named Nathan Cole. This man is the reason for my letter…

A man - who I later discovered is wanted for questioning by yourselves - approached me having found my card in the possessions of people I once tried to help (and failed). He was unaware of my situation regards to the job and requested a meeting which I agreed to. Do not ask me why. Perhaps out of curiosity? His name was Tim Miller. I have had no further communications with Mr. Miller since our initial meeting where he told me about the actions of Mr. Cole.

Mr. Cole has been running a support group for people who have attempted - or discussed a need - to take their own lives. As I believe it, he tries everything in his power to help these lost souls. However, the ones who are determined to die are offered a way out. In exchange for a letter detailing their permission - and desire - for Mr. Cole to kill them - they are put out of their misery.

I am not sure how long this man has been operating this scheme but I am sure you will find no trace of any of the bodies and - if you do - you will be unable to pin them on him.

If all has gone to plan you should receive this letter on the morning after my private appointment with Mr. Cole and I am sure that - if you move quickly - you will be able to find him in possession of my own dead body. Along with my own letter of permission, and the letters from the supposed other victims - you should be able to charge him and put him away for many years.

I know you will not understand why I took this path and I hope that you are never in a position to know the pain I am in and the reasons I took darker paths towards the end of my career. From one colleague to another, I’d like to thank you for the times you tried to support me after Lucy’s passing and, furthermore, I’d like to apologise for hitting you when you finally did let me go. Rest assured I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and I wish you nothing but the best.

Now go and get this son of a bitch - the address is at the bottom of the page.

Your friend,

Martin.

Patterson lowered the letter for a moment. He looked back at the handwritten words - his brain selecting certain parts of what was noted within the scrawled content. He realised there was no time to worry about whether his old colleague - even friend - was still alive. He knew he had to take the letter for how it was intended and that was not to help a friend but to stop a criminal. Without another wasted second he jumped up and ran from his office and through the next room too. One of his colleagues called out, asking if everything was okay but he was ignored.

“Jones!” he shouted as he hurried towards the front desk which faced the building’s main doors. Jones was the guy on the desk who had the job of handling the walk-ins from the busy streets beyond the doors. “Jones?”

“Sir?”

“This letter - when did you say it arrived?” he asked. You could tell Patterson was used to sitting at a desk now. His office wasn’t far from here and yet he was already out of breath.

“A couple of minutes before I brought it to you.”

“And who brought it in?”

“Some lady. Didn’t give me her name. Is there a problem?”

Patterson turned and ran back to the room next to his office. A rectangular room lined with desks and computers. Some people sitting there tapping away on various reports, others flicking through the morning papers.

“I need some bodies!” Patterson yelled from the doorway.

“Who do you want?” one of the more senior officers asked.

“Bring everyone!” Patterson yelled as he made his way back down the corridor towards the exit which lead to the car park.

II

A dozen police cars - some marked and some unmarked - pulled up outside of the given home address of Nathan Cole. As some of the cars screeched to a halt, some of the doors had already been opened with officers ready to jump out so they could rush the house.

The first car on the scene belonged to Patterson. Before all the cars had even arrived, he was already at the front door banging on it. Two officers either side of him for back-up.

“Nathan Cole, it’s the police! Open up!”

He banged on the door with the side of his fist again before he turned to the officer to his right. He gave him a nod and backed up. The officer took the hint and took a few steps back. He hesitated a moment - almost as though he was preparing himself - and then charged towards the door, kicking it as hard as he could. On the second kick, the lock cracked away allowing the door to swing open where it banged hard against the inside wall.

The officers filed in one by one with Patterson leading the way - calling out to any potential people inside the house. It wouldn’t be long before they discovered there was no one else in the house though. It was empty and had been from much, much earlier in the morning.

III

Nathan Cole

A New Life

I was sitting in my car. On the passenger seat next to me was the box of letters I had taken from my house before my impromptu exit. The only souvenir I had had the time to take. I was staring ahead at the sea, watching as the cars in front of me started to drive onto the ferry that would take me on the first part of my journey to a new, unplanned life. I knew this day would come. It was only ever a matter of time. I should never have let Tim leave the house. I should have killed him as he originally wanted. By being nice - giving people the second chance they had the right to choose - I had ended my own life. At least I know not to make that mistake again when I do get myself back on my feet. Don’t plan my evenings around their wants but rather my own. Time to look out for number one.

I wiped a tear from my eye. I wasn’t weeping because my secret was out there and I was having to run. I was weeping because of the memories I had left behind in the big, old house. My mother. I felt closest to her in her bedroom and now I’d never get to set foot in that room again I worried I’d never feel her close to me. The police will search the property and they won’t find anything but Mr. Andrews. I was foolish for what I did to him after I set him free. Had I let him go the way of the others - there wouldn’t have been any trace of him in the house. I had the letters, sure, but that didn’t prove anything. Circumstantial. I’m sure a good lawyer could have worked it. Perhaps labeled them as some kind of fictional correspondence from people? Not sure. Guess I’ll never know.

I glanced to my left again (the passenger seat) and picked up the top letter; from Martin Andrews. I re-read it:

Mr. Cole,

It may seem ungrateful of me - what I have done - but you must understand I didn’t have a choice. I am thankful that you put me out of my misery, I really am. I am with my wife now, and my baby in, I imagine - some eternal bliss. But I wouldn’t have got here had I not been able to put some things right in my life. I have done a lot of wrong. I have made mistakes. Done and seen things I regret. What you do is wrong. It doesn’t matter how you paint it out; you are a murderer. You’re sick. You deserve a life behind bars and me putting you there - as my final act - is surely a way of redeeming my soul. I hope it is enough anyway. It may appear selfish to you but if it gives me a shot of seeing my family again - well - I had to take it.

Kind Regards,

Martin

I was right not to have trusted him. I’m not sure why I’d had the sudden feeling of distrust after I had disposed of his body. I’m not sure what drove me to open his letter but I’m glad I had. As soon as I had opened it I knew I only had a matter of minutes to get out of the house before his old friends arrived to arrest me. As I drove away, I heard the sirens blaring in the distance. My heart was beating so fast I didn’t think I was going to get away. Clearly he didn’t think I’d read the letter. Clearly he’d hoped I wouldn’t anyway. Probably had a right laugh when he wrote it out and sealed it in the envelope. Probably looking down now cursing that I cheated and opened the letter. Kind of makes me want to open the rest of the letters I have here. Kind of makes me wonder what everyone else had written. Were any of the letters what they were supposed to be? Were any of them handwritten notes giving consent for me to take their lives or had more than one person tried to stitch me up?

Just goes to show - you try and help people and they throw it back in your face. They’re only ever out for themselves. Well two can play at that game.

The car in front of me moved onto the boat. I scrunched the letter up and tossed it onto the backseat of my own car before selecting first gear and moving forward too. As my first wheel hit the boarding ramp leading to the boat I couldn’t help but wonder where I’d end up. Couldn’t help but wonder how my story would end. Couldn’t help but wonder whether mother was still looking down at me.

I love you, mother.

Epilogue

I was sitting on my bed. A tear rolled down my cheek and dripped onto the front page of the paper. The paper led with the story of my old friend, my old pal, Detective Martin Andrews. It read that his body had been found buried in the back garden of one Nathan Cole, dressed in a nice suit. The paper didn’t give many more details other than to say it was murder and that Nathan Cole was wanted in connection with a number of missing people. The news that my greatest living piece of art was dead made me feel sick to my stomach. Without him walking around and breathing I knew it was only a matter of time before people forgot about the things he was connected with. More importantly it was only a matter of time before they forgot about me. My work - my art gallery - would be for nothing, the sentence I serve would be nothing. I would be a nothing. The great Arthur J. Hopkins would cease to exist by any name other than a prison issued number that people out in the real world do not even know about. Out there - in the real world that I longed for - I would vanish from history. I would be forgotten. My works would be forgotten.

There’d be no more Art.

I threw the paper across the cell and screamed.

T H E    E N D

FROM THE SAME AUTHOR:

Extreme

Sick Bastards

SickER Bastards

Psychopath For Hire

PORN

TORTURED

Rotting Dead F*cks

ART (co-written with Michael Bray)

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