Shock and Awe

Royston Armitage, laden with a bunch of grapes and a copy of a detective magazine marched brazenly along the hospital corridor, winking cheekily at any nurses who happened to cross his path. Though he was nearing his sixtieth birthday, Armitage still retained a boyish twinkle in his ice blue eyes. His dapper Armani suit, silk shirt, and three hundred pounds leather brogues portrayed him as a man of opulence, but his wealth was accumulated at a great personal cost.

The plump matron stepped in front of the silver-haired stranger and regarded him with curiosity. The suave man had obviously kept himself in shape, his fine tailored jacket unable to conceal his athletic body.

"Excuse me, sir. May I ask where you're going?" asked the matron.

Armitage smiled, displaying his pristine capped teeth. "My dear, I'm here to visit my friend, Julian Darcy. Could you please direct me to his ward?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but visiting time is not until seven," she said, glancing at the watch that dangled from her tunic.

"Darn it. I've come such a long way to see Julian and I'm due back in London at eight... How is he?"

The matron's voice changed from authoritative to compassionate. "You haven't been informed?"

Armitage shook his head.

The matron studied the now familiar features of the visitor, and her question was forgotten. "Good god! You're Royston Armitage."

The matron stepped back, her trembling finger pointed towards the arrogant man.

"Guilty as charged," chuckled Armitage, sarcastically. "Don't worry; I'm not going to eat you. You don't want to believe everything you read. Besides, I've already dined."

"I read your book, Mr Armitage."

"And did you enjoy it, dear?"

"Enjoy it? I was horrified."

Armitage fidgeted with the emerald ring that adorned his index finger. "But, you're standing not two feet away and having a conversation with a cannibal. Aren't you afraid?"

She ignored the question. "Your friend, Mr Darcy...he's dying."

Armitage displayed no emotion. "We're all dying, darling... Listen; couldn't you let me see Julian just for a few minutes? I'll be eternally grateful."

The matron pondered, before producing a pad and biro. "Your autograph may sway my decision."

Armitage granted her wish, and he was led to the ward.

"Mr Darcy's in here. Ten minutes, that's all I can allow you."

"Ten minutes will be fine, my sweet."

The matron hurried away, eager to share her experience with anyone who'd care to listen.

Armitage pushed open the door, and inhaled the antiseptic odour that only hospitals can produce. He focused on the forlorn figure lying in bed, a respirator covering his face. He tiptoed towards the bed, his friend, Darcy apparently asleep. The visitor picked up a framed photograph from the bedside table and studied the cheerful young faces of the three young children, who posed with Darcy.

"Who's there?" wheezed the patient, his voice weak.

Armitage placed the grapes and magazine on the table, before he pulled up a chair. "You don't recognise me, Julian? I'm both disappointed and affronted."

With every breath from the dying man, came a gurgling sound. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he studied the visitor. "Armitage! Who let you in here?"

On closer inspection, it was apparent that Darcy was attached to a catheter, and an assortment of tubes protruded from various orifices.

"Is that the way to greet an old friend, Inspector?” asked Armitage. “Hell, you don't look so good, Julian. All those ciggies and bacon butties have certainly taken their toll"

"What do you want?" rasped Darcy.

Armitage grinned. "Want? Why, I have everything I’ve ever wanted now, Julian, thanks to you. A large house in the country, three cars, a sizable bank account, and oh yes. I have my health.... You made me what I am today, Inspector. You made me a celebrity."

Darcy attempted to sit up without success. "They ought to have brought back hanging for you. You murdering bastard."

"Thirty-five years, Julian. Thirty-five years locked up with perverts and murderers, all because of you. You know nothing of the pain that I endured."

Darcy removed his respirator. "They should have thrown away the key." The old man caught his breath before continuing. "Six girls died to satisfy your perversion, Armitage. I'm only glad I was the one that put an end to your reign of terror."

Armitage snatched away his adversary's respirator, and watched as he struggled for breath. "Like chalk and cheese, you and me. Look at you. You're pathetic... You're going to die, while I lap up my celebrity status... Did you know that my book, Blood Feast is a bestseller?"

Darcy wheezed erratically, and his wrinkled hand attempted to retrieve his respirator. Armitage placed it back over the face of the former detective.

"You said six girls, Darcy. There were seven."

The ailing man laughed. "Did I really?"

Armitage leant over the bed, his face inches from Darcy's. "You fitted me up, you bastard. You planted Rosie's shoe in my flat, didn't you?"

"You were clever, Armitage, so bloody clever. It was obvious we would never be able to collar you, so I helped tip the scales of justice my way... Do you know that I was obsessed with you? Christ, I even began to admire you. I used to dream of what it must have been like to taste the flesh of a young girl... After you were arrested, I was admitted into a psychiatric clinic for treatment, and yes, it cost me my marriage and my career. So you see, Royston, I was your seventh victim."

Armitage selfishly lit up a cigar, which caused the dying man to cough aggressively. "There you go again, Julian. Surely you mean eighth victim?"

"Do I?" smiled Darcy. "Weren't you ever curious? Didn't you ever lay awake in your cell at night, wondering who had murdered Rosie?"

Armitage listened attentively.

"You see, Royston; killing Rosie served a dual purpose. I satisfied my curiosity by savouring her flesh, and the elusive cannibal killer was blamed. I can go to my maker a content man."

It was Armitage's turn to show mirth. "You pathetic cretin. Why do you suppose that after all these years, I still declare my innocence to you? I'm not responsible for the murders of the girls, Darcy. True, I did not have a creditable alibi for any of the nights in question, but your pig-headed obsession with catching the killer blinded you. As God is my witness, I’m innocent."

"Bullshit!" coughed Darcy. "Your book! You described in detail how you killed and ate the girls."

"You filled me in on quite a few of the details when you interviewed me, Inspector... I served thirty-five years for crimes I did not commit, so a few white lies to compensate for this injustice seemed fair; besides, it made for a cracking read, don't you think? Don't you see how uncanny this is?"

Darcy removed the respirator from his face. "Lies, all lies!"

"I'm afraid not. What reason would I have to lie? I've served my sentence, and the authorities deemed me fit to be released once more into society... So, it now turns out you're the one who's committed a murder, and me…I'll be welcomed by St Peter at the gates to heaven. You, Darcy, I'm afraid it's a date with Old Nick for you, dear chap."

Darcy gazed glassy-eyed at the ceiling, pondering over the words of his tormentor. "So, that's why you've come here. To gloat?"

"And to kill you, Inspector... I craved for revenge, the hatred that had built up in me for thirty-five years... Oh, don't worry. I was unaware of your condition, so to kill you would probably be doing you a favour. No, you can wallow in the thought that whatever awaits you when you die; it will not be pleasant."

Darcy, at last managed to sit upright. "If what you say is true, Armitage, then who murdered those girls?"

Armitage puffed on his cigar and shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? You're the detective. Perhaps with my arrest, he saw the opportunity for a get out clause."

Darcy coughed loudly, his face changing to a shade of crimson. A globule of blood spewed onto the white bed sheets, and the distressed man dropped his respirator to the ground. He breathed rapidly, his eyes pleading with Armitage for help.

Armitage was overcome with the sensation of gratification, as he stepped back and refused to retrieve the breathing aid.

Darcy's eyes bulged wildly, his white hands now clutching his chest. In his distressed state, the panic-stricken man reached out for his respirator and fell out of bed, which brought the drip feed apparatus crashing to the ground.

Watching his accuser die slowly now had the opposite effect on Armitage, as he was filled with shame. He observed Darcy, writhing in his own pool of urine, which had seeped from the upset catheter.

Armitage squatted down to pick up the respirator, and heard the door behind open.

"W-w-what have you done?" stuttered the matron, retreating slowly, her eyes fixed on the respirator in the hand of Armitage. She turned and slammed the door behind her.

The room was silent, the gurgling tones having ceased.

Armitage faced the dead man and experienced no pleasure. He stared down at the respirator and
smiled. He giggled like an infant, realising the predicament he was in. Old Julian Darcy would have his revenge after all.