The Foreteller

Hunting the streets was a tramp. An ordinary, run of the mill tramp searching for sustenance in the bins: rummaging through empty sandwich wrappers and crisp packets trying to find something that would curb the growls. He reached down into the depths feeling inside a bin liner. The cool and sticky mass he felt would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He pulled out his hand to reveal a waxy red appendage that no longer looked his own. The blood had congealed around knuckles and had created a network map on his palms. It had sunk under his fingernails leaving burgundy crescents. The blood smelt of gone-off meat. He stared in horror at his freakish hand and sat on the curb. Someone nearby snuck into an alleyway and called the police.

Within the hour two squad cars arrived. One of the officers was in his second week in the job. It was to be his last. The sounds of retching overtook the traffic as the dismembered limbs were discovered.

*

The Foreteller was old and faded around the edges. He was sitting on the balcony of his flat gazing towards the comings and goings of Camden High Road ahead, which had suddenly woken in a flurry of blue flashing lights and wails. The dirty cigars of cotton wool that tufted out of his ears made these sounds internal, providing an added gush; his heartbeat becoming the bass in this reverberating jamming session.

He was just sitting; slightly leaning back on two chair legs but not willing to commit. Everything crossed and folded; the perfect relaxed position to watch the world go by. Although he wasn’t. The whole world was coming towards him, dismissing his pathetic attempts. Crossed fingers, clasped hands, folded arms did not fool the world; least of all stop it in its tracks. The world entered him; roping his heart whispering cruel threats that he knew were not empty.

On the other side of town was a quieter place. A place that absorbed the dangerous hum that surrounded it.

*

‘We had been warned. All the signs were there if only we’d looked for them. Stark messages for all to see. Only nobody did. I found the first of the messages too late. I have made it my mission to seek out the Foreteller before……well, before the end.’

‘Thank you Professor. Now for the benefit of the tape could you explain why these messages, as you call them, led you to be at the murder scene in the early hours of the morning?’ The Professor sank into his chair, trying to decide whether or not the truth was his best option.

‘If I told you Sir, you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I’m sitting in this interview chair, why I lost my job and why my wife looks past me.’ The Detective glanced at his watch and sighed.

‘Your job researching serial killers. Rather ironic, don’t you think? Look Professor, we haven’t got time for this. We are investigating a particularly gruesome murder and we find you at the crime-scene yards from the body. Well, torso. I’ll ask you again, what were you doing there?’ The Professor hung his head and in a barely audible voice said,

‘He led me there.’

‘For the tape Professor.’ He looked up defiantly and repeated,

‘he led me there. Him. The Foreteller.’

Later that evening, the Professor was trudging his way home. He had been judged a bit loose of his mental faculties and no great threat to the public at large. The Professor opened the front door and padded to the dining room without pausing to turn on the lights. Pouring himself a large scotch, he sat drinking in the dark.

*

Darkness does not dim the noise, in fact it exacerbates it. The pipes, the insects, the weather. These noises take on a life of their own at night and keep us tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The dripping tap, the creaky garage door. The world of night is the world that calls out to the Foreteller.

He had only recently discovered who he was. It was imperative to keep this a secret. Gripping the balcony, he steadied himself and breathed heavily, ready to travel the small distance into his bedroom. He needed to prepare for the journey ahead that would take him into himself in a way he never wished to go again. Going that deep into your soul was for birth and death only. A lonely road to travel; but travel he must - and soon.

*

The warning had been left in an unlikely place. The iconic message had been scribed in what the tabloids would call a ‘sink estate.’ It had certainly sunk into the depths of depravity. In an ironic display, clustered gangs of youths gathered in the corners in kaleidoscopic caps and over-sized jeans that displayed under-developed spotty rears. It had a certain pantomime effect.

In a gritty stairwell leading to flats numbered 24-30 a change had taken place. The stairwell now had a difference to its neighbours so startling that no-one had noticed it yet. The wall outside flat number 26 had been mutilated; personalised and not with the usual rubbish printed by kids tanked up on industrial-strength cider. The letters had been so well-placed, they seemed to softly push themselves into the wall. The message whispered:

MURDERER

*

The Professor had his rather large ear to the ground. His research had paid off. He had spent weeks trawling internet sites concocted by a number of seriously deluded people. Locking himself in his study and drowning out the mewings of his wife had not been in vain. All the hunting through local newspapers and whispers on buses had led him to the message. He had to admit, he was slightly nervous about continuing the trail.

He walked through the estate with his hands in his pockets, trying to make himself inconspicuous and failing miserably. The tufty strays of grey hair that lifted themselves off his head in the breeze could not detract from the middle-class, academic air he exuded. The corduroy trousers and sensible brogues shuffled over the cracks in slabs filled with grotty-looking weeds.

It took him a while to find the message. He hunted through the numerous stairwells and alleys until he reached the correct one. He had thoughts of himself on television; his hands up objecting to the admiration and praise the press lavished upon him. He recognised the Foreteller’s handwriting at once in the stairwell. Anyway, it was the only word spelt correctly on the sunburnt orange bricks. The Professor hurried back to his car, locking the doors before pulling out his mobile phone.

*

The police sent one squad car. Not enough for a scuffle in this part of town. Curtains snitched and closed throughout the estate as the policemen made their way towards flat number 26. They rapped on the letterbox and paused before calling,

‘Mr Harding?’

There was no answer. This time they knocked their knuckles against the wood.

‘Mr Harding? We just want to ask you some questions.’

They looked at each other before shunting all their collective weight against the door. They’d deal with the paperwork later.

There was a deathly silence in the dark hallway. They separated and began to search the dilapidated rooms.

‘Jesus! Pete, in ere.’

Pete edged his way into the bedroom with the pink peeling wallpaper. It had an air of unkempt sadness about it that made them want to call their mothers. They covered their noses and stared at the dead woman lying on the bed in a state of undress. Positioned in a way that made the officers want to cover her up. Her vacant eyes were open and staring up at the ceiling. Purple and black bruises snaked like rope around her grey neck.

*

Within hours train stations, ports and airports were on standby, waiting for the killer to arrive. A general description and photo-fit had been faxed around the country.

Tall, Caucasian male in his fifties with short grey hair and wearing glasses. Is considered dangerous; approach with caution.

*

His temples were pulsating with life. It had begun. The first wrong move had been played. He had thought the last message would solve this once and for all; the others had been too vague. He’d led the police to his front door, what more could they want? He had to hurry and find the words of the next message. His nerve endings leaped under his skin, dying to give him the answers. The Foreteller gripped the wall and went to lie down.

*

‘Maybe we could go for a bite to eat later Jean? That new Italian’s just opened on the high road.’

The Professor smoothed down his rapidly thinning hair and looked up at his wife.

‘Sorry Bernard. I said I’d pop round to Linda’s later for bridge.’ Jean pressed the steam button on the iron, hissing away the disappointment and unsaid words that floated around the room.

The Professor shrugged his shoulders and sauntered into his study, closing the door a little too loudly behind him.

It was time to search for the next message.

*

In the meantime, the killer was pacing the walls of the cheap bed and breakfast. His fingers splayed and running down his face. What to do? What to do? He used his hand to guide him around the room, leaving finger grease behind again and again. He counted his steps trying to calm himself down. At 478 he knew what he had to do.

*

‘I’ve just seen your profile of the killer in the newspaper. You describe him as a serial killer on the rampage. It’s madness. I need to see your superior right now!’

‘Hello again Professor. Found your Foreteller yet?’ The officers chuckled behind mugs of tea as the Professor turned scarlet.

Twenty minutes later, the Professor was sitting opposite Detective Greening brimming with unspent knowledge.

‘Detective, I have to tell you, you’re going about this investigation backside over mammaries, if you excuse the expression.’

The Detective lifted one eyebrow and leaned back into his chair, arms folded.

‘I mean, the killer won’t be trying to escape, he will have gone underground. Into the depths of the city, if you will. Trust me, this is my life’s work. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘I’m listening Professor.’

‘The killer is unstable, he believes he’s unstoppable. Invincible, if you will. He won’t think there’s anything to escape from. I know you haven’t discovered the identity of the remains of the girl from the bin, but you know the one from his flat was a prostitute. I think you’ll find the other one will be too.’

‘Why would he go around Camden killing prostitutes?’

‘I would think he feels his mission is for the greater good. We need to find the Foreteller. He’s our only chance of catching the killer before any more women are butchered.’

‘I do appreciate you coming here Professor but I think you’re taking this Foreteller thing a bit far. Go home now and give up this obsession. Let the police do their job.’

The Detective signalled to the door letting the Professor know he had been dismissed.

*

The next message could not be missed. The Foreteller had made sure of that. The clunky aluminium shutters had been spray-painted in an array of sunshine colours. Bold, over-arching letters warning of what was to come.

The shutters were protecting the offices of a national newspaper. Surely the message would be noticed now? The Foreteller sat and waited on his balcony for sunrise and the chuggy printing presses to whir into life with the day’s news. Would they finally get it?

*

The Professor meandered into the newsagents to pick up his tobacco and daily newspaper. He decided to take the scenic route home through the park and perched on a bench to read the day’s news. As he shook the pages into a cohesive order, his eyes balked at the headline on page seventeen.

THE NEWS BLUES
Police left baffled after cryptic graffiti sprayed onto news headquarters. Appealing for witnesses to come forward.

As he read the grafitti’s message, he sprinted to the police station, pausing to suck a breath from his puffer on the way.

*

‘Alright Professor, I don’t know what’s going on here but I’ll put a man in the local hospital for the day and see if anything comes up. That’s the best I can do.’ The Detective shook his head.

‘Must be old age!’

The Professor nodded his thanks and rushed home to find Jean. Surely she’d believe him now too.

*

PC Pete Simmons sat in a beige, moulded plastic seat in the hospital’s accident and emergency department. He was so bored he’d begun to have erotic daydreams about the nurses that past him. He couldn’t believe the Detective was listening to that half-brained nutty Professor.

At that very moment, his neck prickled. The last time it had done that, he’d ended up with a gun in his face. He turned slowly to see a large, grey nervous man pacing up and down the reception. He looked away and closed his eyes, trying to pick up everything the panicked man said.

‘Need to see him now. Now! I’ll kill myself. I will and it’ll be your fault. Get the fucking doctor now!’

The receptionist had lifted her hands in a half calming / half defensive gesture.

‘You have to fill out this form first sir. Once you’ve done that, the doctor will do his best to see you as quickly as possible.’

She pushed across the desk a clipboard and pencil.

PC Simmons snuck around the corner and radioed every car in the area.

‘Cunt. Fucking cunts, the lot of you. I’m not filling in any form. Where is he? I need to see the doctor now!’

The receptionist reached under the desk to call security as the man grabbed her arm.

‘Not going to do anything stupid now love, are you?’

She pulled her arm back, cupping her wrist praying for help.

Officers Jones and Miller burst through the swing doors like doctors in ER, throwing the man facedown onto the floor, crossing his arms behind his back. Jones pulled out his cuffs.

‘Mr Harding, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used against you in a court of law.’

*

The Professor stood in front of the mirror, combing his rapidly thinning hair.

‘How do I look love?’

Jean stood in front of him, rearranged his tie and then smiled.

‘Like a hero.’

The Professor snaked his coat over his arm before walking down the stairs. Jean called out to him, leaning over the banister.

‘First day back to work Bernard, how do you feel?’

He opened the front door and paused before turning towards his wife,

‘Like a Professor.’

*

The Foreteller made his way slowly to the hallway, bending from the hips to pick up the newspaper that had unfurled itself on the mat.

KILLER IN JAIL FOR LIFE
Tony Harding was given 3 consecutive life sentences today for the murder of two London prostitutes. ‘I’m just glad we caught him before any other women were endangered.’ Detective Greening stated. Continues page 4.

The Foreteller smiled and physically reduced in size. He could now relax; at least until the next time. Although there was something else bothering him, An itch in his dreams that he couldn’t scratch away. What was it? He thought to himself. He shrugged, thinking it didn’t matter now. The murderer had been caught and life could go back to normal.

*

In the murk of the Thames, the itch was red and inflamed. Nestled between the silt and grime of the river, a leg was wedged. It had faded around the edges and no longer resembled the limb it had once been. Chunks of flesh were missing. The toes were pointing north; towards the deeper depths of the tributary.

Her vacant eyes were staring. Dead, floating hair surrounding her grey and swollen face lifts and settles as if waving for attention. Her head tilts, as if in death she can still hear the melody of life that surrounds her. The currents and tides that drag her dismembered body further into hiding gush silently whispering ssshhhhh…..