Killer

I see her from the car as I roll down the lane at dusk out of the narrow tunnel that passes beneath the M4.

It’s been a while since I’ve hunted here: letting the dust settle I call it. It’s just the sort of place I like, high hedges and lots of twists and turns in the road: not much traffic. Then after…afterwards, it’s a quick exit to the North and a long drive, slow and steady, letting my breathing calm and the raw red joy fade. By the time I’m home I’m back to normal. My other self, the person I am now, will be asleep again; will stay that way for a long time. But now he’s hungry, so very, very hungry.

I’m here to scout out a good spot to bring her, when I’ve found her… when I’ve captured her, whoever she may be. Captured her… when she is my prisoner, my victim. How those words excite me, so that even as I drive easily, unhurriedly, the adrenalin is flaring in my chest and stomach. I raise a hand from the steering wheel and hold it up before my face. No tremor. At these times, no matter what I feel inside, I stay calm. I channel all my concentration into the hunt and the kill and on all the things that I will do to her in between. I will feel and yet not feel. The fires will roar but I will stay so cool. The time I like least will be after, when the fire has gone out and I’ve left her for others to find, and I’m driving, changing back to normal.

I’m getting closer now, close enough to see her face as she turns to look at me approaching, see the taught T- shirt swelling beneath the open denim jacket and the curve of her jean clad backside. Her hair is short and dark, almost boyish, her face fresh and open. I know that she is the one I want. The one I must have. As I draw near I am already scanning the rear view mirror to make sure no one is following. I need so much for us to be alone together.

Only seconds now until I begin to slow to a stop beside her but my mind races ahead to the time when I will see her face smiling out of a newspaper in victim’s fame. I will glance casually at it, shake my head and agree with my colleagues that it’s a terrible world. I will frown disapprovingly when one of them says that some of them ask for it the way they dress, the way they go on. I will say quietly that no one asks for what she’s had. They love to talk about these killings of pretty young women. They all want to be like me, I know that. They all have this other self, this hunter and killer inside them. But they are afraid to admit it. They are weak – hypocrites – but I am not. I let this other self out to do what it must. Then it goes away for a long time. I’m not even aware of it. I never have bad dreams. I quite forget what it has done. There is a distance from the normal me – the real me.

The curve of the lane puts the sinking Sun behind me. She raises a hand to shield her eyes and the jacket swings open. The T-shirt is low cut, revealing. I let the car run to a halt and she peers in at me through the windscreen. She seems quite unafraid. My car is a silver Mercedes; I am wearing a smart business suit. That always gets me past the first awkward moments. When she is stripped and bound, lying gagged and helpless in a lonely place, I will change into clothes that I can dispose of later. I smile in feigned embarrassment and stab the button to lower the passenger window.

This is the moment when my other self takes over fully. I allow him to. I stand aside indulgently and let him push past me. I could keep him locked away but I choose not to. Once he is free he will do what he has to do, what he enjoys so much. The words and actions will not be mine. I will be a privileged spectator. So much of the voyeur in us all, eyes leaping from breast to crotch of each passing girl, assessing, comparing, folding them into fantasy. They do it to us too, they dream of the man who will force them to submit.

She is bending forward now looking into the car; brows arched questioningly, hair falling forward to frame her eyes and lips. I can look down her cleavage. Her breasts swell and strain against the confines of her bra.

“Oh excuse me,” I say, “how do I get onto the Motorway from here? I seem to keep on going over it and under it.”

She smiles at me, friendly and relaxed. She nibbles her lower lip for a moment.

“It’s a bit difficult to explain,” she replies. “The lanes round here are such a maze.”

Her voice is low and husky, no trace of an accent. I realize that I don’t often have a normal conversation with my prey. Usually I’ve bundled them into the car, and shown them the knife to keep them quiet while I secure them, without them doing much more than plead in a gasping fear-twisted voice until I thrust in the gag to keep them quiet. Her fingertips rest lightly on the passenger door. I wonder how I can get out to grab her without alarming her. Maybe I can pretend to follow her directions better by standing beside her with my map book. I reach for it in the side pocket.

“Look,” she says brightly, after a moment’s thought. “I was walking to Little Tolland and that’s about two miles away, right next to a junction on the M4. I’ll go that far with you and then you’ll be OK”. Her eyebrows arch questioningly.

“That’s really very kind of you… hop in.”

Easy, so easy. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.

“Very nice. Had it long?”

She pulls the seat belt across and clicks it into place. The strap holds her next to me.

“Couple of months”

I don’t want to talk now. I don’t want to get to know her. I want her as a victim not a guide. I glance in the mirror to check that there’s still nobody. My hand moves now to the knife handle wedged down beside my seat. I tense myself to grab the seat belt to restrain her. Already I can see her stretched out in a little copse I know of. She will be naked, gagged, her wrists bound behind her back, her ankles crossed and tied, staring up at the trees as I draw the blade lightly over her belly and round her breasts and tell her about everything I’m going to do to her. I turn toward her.

Her left hand moves swiftly. There is something shining in it as it jabs toward me. The knife makes a crunching noise as it penetrates deep just below my breastbone. She laughs as pain shrieks through me. I look into her eyes. They are empty of any emotion as she jerks out the blade and stabs again.