Addressed To Kill

1

 

‘The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:

The presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.’

                                                                             

                                                                       Burton Hills

 

 

23rd December - Christmas 1987.

 

Every one of us have felt it. Every man and every woman; since the origins of mankind, have feared the ultimate evil; the unforgiving demon, uninhibited and unceasing in their malevolence, and who, for whatever reason, turn their attention towards us. We lie alone at night in the darkness, and hear a scratch, or a tapping, or a curtain flapping, and feel the terror of impending doom. He is here. He is here to violate and kill without mercy. The epitome of this demon is the criminal psychopath; and many live among us.

  We know that such people exist in movies, and documentaries, but they are removed from us; almost celebrity like, in their isolation. We are protected from them by the screen of our television sets, much like those psychopaths who are incarcerated and separated by a screen, from their visitors.  They don’t live near us, though, do they? We don’t rub shoulders with them on public transport, or in the bar or in the shops or coffee houses, do we? They are never going to encroach upon our cosy world, are they?

  The snag, is that there are thousands of these lost souls knocking around our streets, 350,000 psychopaths in the UK alone, and it depends how well they are being medicated, if at all, or where they are on their journey as a criminal psychopath, as to whether their psychosis is put into action. Not all psychopaths become criminal, of course. The true criminal psychopath cannot be cured; only caged. These tortured souls are ill, of course, but they’re not as ill as you will be if you get caught in their mesh of nonsense and fantasy. For Christ’s sake don’t try to hug it out of them, or try to ‘understand’ them, unless you are a top-level psychiatrist, or they will destroy you, and, if they can, destroy your loved ones for good measure.

  The man standing across the road watching the flat was a criminal psychopath; his hands were down the front of his grey track suit bottoms and weren’t there merely for warmth. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was threatening to, on this winter’s night; the eve of Christmas Eve.

  He wore two pairs of tracksuit bottoms and a thick ex-army camouflage coat, snood, and baseball cap. His gloves were in his coat pocket whilst his hands were busy. He was in the shadow of the houses opposite, out of sight. Regardless, from a distance he looked like any other person; he would nod and smile, and exchange pleasantries if forced. There was nothing about his outward appearance that indicated he was a perverted, narcissistic, psychopathic, sadist; with a twist of misogyny, for good measure.

  The next phase for the savage, was all part of the build-up for him. All part of savouring his little project. Mandy was his project now. He had identified her. Followed her. Followed her boyfriend. Sat next to them in the pub; observed her from afar; it had been going on for some days. It was getting into the end game now. His plans and fantasies were all heading in one direction; to the vagina of Mandy Towlson. The vagina being the symbol of everything he hated - women. Hers would be clean and well looked after. Some of the older women and pensioners he had previously attacked were less fussy about theirs, and they stunk to fucking high heaven; but hers wouldn’t be. Hers was still alive. Still her beacon of shining light, for all the pathetic foolish young men, that would do anything to get at it, whilst locking horns with their rivals in the herd. Vying to mate with her like baboons on heat. The caveman-like drive for a young man to implant his seed in any female he possibly can, is a similar impulse to the one that drove the killer. It is just slightly, easier for a young man to control a DNA and hormonal imbalance that is designed by nature to create procreation and continuation of the species.

  He didn’t need to do any song and dance routine, to win her favour. He would take her, because he could. He felt that the urge to kill was quite strong with this one. He had humiliated and caused pain on his other victims and done everything but the final control; the decision to give or take life. He was growing, in his warped mind, he was about to graduate, whether it was Mandy, or the next one, who knew? He knew that while ever he did not kill, the odds of him being caught were lessened. But he was not fully satiated. Most of the old women he had abused never even bothered reporting it. Too proud. Too ashamed. And so, they should be. Making out they were equal to men; giving their orders and prancing around like it was them who gave their ‘consent’ to allow men to touch them. Thank you so much for the favour of allowing us to touch your wrinkly, ugly old labia.

  The man was a dangerous psychopath, with a soupcon of added nastiness, and Mandy was in mortal danger, if she did but know it.

 He watched the flat. There was movement; silhouetted figures.  He saw the door open. Mandy and Barbara left the flat together. They were laughing, light-hearted, excited about going shopping for their eagerly anticipated Christmas party later that night.

  Mandy was a warm, kind, individual who loved Christmas, loved people, and had a huge energy for life and the years ahead; for which she had many hopes and aspirations.

  He watched them get into Mandy’s car. It was the same car that had enabled him to get a copy of her door key cut. When he was on his nightly surveillance of her, a couple of nights ago, he noticed that she had left the driver’s door unlocked; so in he went, and there were the door keys; jackpot. Barbara always left the door on the latch and Mandy had left her flat door keys in the pocket of the car door. It had cost him ten quid to get two keys cut at the Motorway services. He had to do two as he wasn’t certain which of the bunch was the door key. He was back within fifty minutes and replaced them. He needn’t have rushed. The keys remained in there all night.

  As soon as Mandy’s car pulled away, he strolled purposefully across the road, putting his gloves on. 

  The first key fitted perfectly, and he was inside. The warmth of the flat enveloped him. He stopped and drew in a large breath to smell the flat, to smell her essence. Her life. He wiped his feet on the ‘Welcome’ mat. He took his time, moving slowly from room to room, casually observing the lay-out and seeing what might be of interest, occasionally picking items up to scrutinise. The living room was adorned with decorations and a sad looking Christmas tree was brought to life by twinkling lights.

  He found her bedroom and paid attention to her knickers, which upon discovery, prompted him to take his penis out and start to masturbate with the knickers in his hand, periodically switching them. Within a couple of minutes, in his heightened state, he ejaculated into a frilly pair, and wrapped them in another larger pair, before putting them in his pocket for later.  

  He moved a few things in her room, just slightly, to mess with her head, he picked up a jewellery box from her drawers and placed it on the bedside table. He removed a tiny box from his pocket and a small tube.  He took out a razor blade and glued it to the base so that the tiniest lip of the blade was protruding. He grinned. This is going to freak her out completely, and hopefully draw a bit of blood.

He tilted the mirror slightly, that sort of thing. Wouldn’t it be great if she sensed someone had been in her flat? That would be excellent.

 He couldn’t wait to have her. Couldn’t wait to hear her scream and beg for his clemency. Would he allow her to live? Maybe. Maybe not.

  The man was a complete psycho, set on a course from which there would be no way back. Mandy did not even know of his existence, but sadly, she would, very soon.

 

*

 

The police bar at Hucknall was full of customers, despite it being only midday. Why? Because today was the, much-anticipated, CID ‘Christmas Do.’

  Detective Inspector David Stark stood at the corner of the bar and heaved a sigh, which was inaudible due to the excited chattering from the detectives.  In his forties, he was handsome, but a little worn, greying at the temples, with laughter lines that seemed to promote the twinkle in his eye. It was going to be a long one. A 12midday start with a potential 2am finish. Fourteen hours of drinking and frivolity. It was completely bonkers, and to some extent, dangerous. At various stages of proceedings at the annual event, there was usually the odd scuffle, some tears, some damage, some sex and much laughter. Stark was not a big drinker, he’d had his moments when he was younger, and shared the sense of excitement, of course, but now it was something of a trial, particularly being the most senior officer attending. He needed eyes in the back of his head to nip in the bud anything that went beyond the bounds of high spiritedness. It would be unheard of, for him to miss this occasion, however. It was the one day of the year that the detectives and others, by special invitation, really let their hair down. They arranged cover for their patch by other detectives, so that their subsequent incapacitation would not impact on public safety. The event tended to form a similar pattern: Start at the police station bar for drinky-poos and potential hi-jinks, on to a well-known restaurant for Christmas dinner around 2pm and games or a quiz. Into town around 6pm for a tour of the more popular bars, ‘Yates’, ‘The Fountain’, ‘The Bell’ and onto the ‘Queen Elizabeth’; known as the ‘QE’, for a sweaty, raucous sing song. Thereafter, the agenda would look towards night clubs. There were many to choose from: Anabels, Isabellas, Madison, Zhivago’s, Astoria, and the infamous Ritzy’s notable for its ‘Grab-a granny’ night on a Wednesday. A decision on the venue had been deferred for the aficionado’s such as DC Ashley Stevens to sense-check his barometer of where the in-crowd was going to be. It needed to be on the night, he had insisted.

  The secret to enjoying yourself at this heady and hedonistic event was to try to pace yourself. One year a young guy started by doing the optics run at 12 midday and was tucked in bed with a bowl at the side of him, by 1.30pm. It was comparable to a stag night, without a groom. It was a one-off. The guys and gals had to put up with all sorts of shit and hassle all year, and so they were entitled to an opportunity to blow off steam.

  All of Stark’s team were there of course, as well as some police admin girls from far and wide; who had been badgering various detectives for an invite, for the weeks and months preceding it.

Ashley Stevens, complete with expensive suit and jewellery took a prominent place at the bar. He was a poseur, true, but in fairness, Ash did not have to work as a detective, knee deep in the filth of society. His father was a multi-millionaire, who had become so, by investing his redundancy money in a video shop; within a few months he had half a dozen shops, and now he had scores of shops all over the country. Ash enjoyed the private income that this gave him, but he had refused the offer to work for the family business. His heart lay in his detective work.

  Ash was talking to the younger detectives in his little circle. Steve Aston, new to the game, a vegetarian and a self-conscious, shy young man, who got good results, but struggled to adapt to the social scene that seemed to go together with CID.

  Cynthia Walker was a beautiful young woman of mixed-race; the aide to CID, trying to earn her stripes and get a permanent place as a detective; she was tall and elegant with long fingernails and a worldly-wise smile which belied her tender years.

  ‘I think Ritzy’s tonight. It’s not a final decision, don’t hold me to it yet.’ Ash said. He’d been having this conversation for weeks, now, anticipating the big day, and now on the day itself, he was still weighing up the pros and cons. ‘Madison’s, can be better,’ he continued, ‘but not with thirty pissed up blokes, it’s better when there is just a handful of you.’

  ‘What are you basing your assessment on then, Ash?’ Cynthia asked with a knowing smile.

  ‘All sorts of things, why, what do you mean?’

  ‘Not just on the type of women, and the prospects of taking them home, then?’

  Steve smiled and Ash coughed. ‘Well, I suppose if you put it like that, yes, that seems to be the general Key Performance Indicator informing my professional opinion.’

  Cynthia went through the list for Ashley’s considered opinion: ‘Come on then, Oh Wise One, what’s your opinion on the clubs on offer tonight? Start with Annabel’s on Fletcher Gate.’

Steve Aston piped up. ‘What’s the point, we’ll end up at Ritzy’s anyway.’

  ‘Let him give us his wisdom, Steve, he is our mentor, we must learn from him.’

  Steve shrugged. It was all beyond him.

  ‘Annabel’s is too dark, too small, too few customers and too many fights.’

‘Isabella’s?’

 ‘Again, too small, not enough to go around and too many SNAF’S.’

SNAF was a term used by police officers at the time, which was a shortening of the acronym SNAFU which stood for the rather unkind: Sub Normal And Fucking Useless – SNAFU.

  ‘Zhivago’s?’

  ‘Too young.’

  ‘Astoria?’

  ‘Too far and too big, and we have to pay to get in.’

 ‘Madison’s, oh you’ve already told us about that, erm Rock City?’

  ‘Too niche.’

  ‘Too niche?’ Steve queried.

  ‘Yes, too many rock chic types for my liking.’

  ‘He’s more of a twin set and pearls type, aren’t you Ash?’ Cynthia mocked.

  ‘No, now come on Cynth, don’t be like that. I just like a lady that has a bit of class.’

  She smiled. ‘A bit of class who will drop her knickers on the first night.’

  ‘Of course! That’s a given, isn’t it?’

  On the periphery of the group, DC’s Charlie Carter and miserable Jim McIntyre were chatting to Detective Sergeant Nobby Clarke. The lovely DC Steph Dawson stood close to the circle but not in it, as she was more of a people watcher, and the conversation was hardly inspirational.

  ‘How’s the piles coming along, Charlie?’ Jim asked, his Scottish accent scarcely visible. He spoke in English most of the time but had a strange habit of speaking in a heavy Scottish accent when talking to fellow Scots. He wasn’t on his own. A lot of ex-pat Scots did it. Spoke perfect English until they met a fellow countryman and suddenly it was a feast of ‘och’ and ‘aye’ and ‘hen’ and the like. Jim dropping the Scottish dialect was helpful, as everyone could, at least, understand what the hell he was saying.

  ‘Not too bad today.’ Charlie grimaced.

  ‘What piles?’ Nobby asked.

  Jim explained. ‘Charlies got piles…’

  ‘Shush, keep your bloody voice, down!’ Charlie said sharply, ‘I don’t want half the bloody world knowing about my rectal imperfections!’

  Jim continued. ‘You must have noticed, Nobby, half the time, when we are on an enquiry and he is invited to sit down, he lets out an “Ouch, you bugger!” and then rubs his knee, to infer that his knee hurts, and that he is a brave policeman with some sort of war wound, rather than someone whose arse is on fire.’

 Nobby and Steph laughed. ‘So that’s what that is!’ Steph said.

  ‘No, I did actually hurt my knee battling with an armed robber, back in 76.’ Charlie insisted.

  Nobby grunted. ‘Yeah, of course you did Charlie.’

  ‘I did!’

  Nobby was a rugged guy, not a young man; late forties, and a face hewn from stone. He was an ex-soldier, in the parachute regiment, who did not suffer fools gladly. He had recently started a secret relationship with the blonde-haired beauty that was Detective Policewoman Stephanie Dawson. If discovered, as her sergeant, he would be forced to move to another team.  It wasn’t the done thing.

 

*

 

Mandy sat on her bedroom floor with a hairdryer in one hand and hairbrush in the other. Forensically examining her every move in the mirror as a sculptor might, whilst creating a masterpiece. Her intention was to make a masterpiece out of her straggly wet hair, switching from brush to brush, and from brush to hairspray; quicker than a Texan gunslinger told to “draw”.

  The mirror kept slipping forward. ‘What’s up with the bloody thing? It was fine yesterday.’ She said to no-one.

  She could hear Barbara in the next room busying herself in similar fashion. They had decided to let Barbara have the music on loud, as they had both tried to have music on in their individual rooms; but it didn’t synchronise, and one seemed half a second behind the other.

  It didn’t fully register at first, but she turned for a second look. Her knicker drawer was slightly ajar, and a pair of white frillies were protruding out by a couple of inches.

  ‘Barbara.’ She shouted.

  No reply, just the music, and the faint vibration of Barbara humming.

  ‘Barbara!’ Louder this time.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you been in my room?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you been…oh, come here will you?’

  Barbara appeared in the doorway in bra and knickers. Mandy was a little surprised by her boobs, which seemed much plumper than she had imagined.

  ‘Have you been in my room? It doesn’t matter if you have, but…’

  ‘No. I bloody haven’t. What would I want to come in your room for?’

  ‘I’m not accusing you. It’s just that I feel sure I didn’t leave my knickers sticking out like that, in the drawer, look.’

  ‘No. Honestly, Mandy, I haven’t been in. I would have told you if I had.’

  ‘Hang on. My jewellery box has been moved as well. It’s on my bedside table. I always keep it on the drawers. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Are you sure, Mandy?’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure. I’m not daft.’ She stood and opened her knicker drawer. ‘I’m sure there’s some missing.’

  ‘How can you tell out of all that bloody lot. There must be a thousand in there.’

  ‘Okay. This is freaking me out, Barbara. It’s not funny.’

  ‘It is a bit.’

  ‘It’s not. Unless you are playing a prank on me.’

  ‘Of course, I’m not. I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you that someone has been in my room and moved my stuff, then.’

  ‘They can’t have, Mandy. No-one else has a key for a start. You’ve got your keys and I’ve got mine. No-one has broken in. It’s hardly likely we’ve left a window open, in the middle of winter, they’ve not been open for weeks, or even months.’

  ‘Something is going on. I’m telling you. I know we all do daft things, but I know I haven’t moved my jewellery box.’  She stood and opened the onyx box.

  ‘Anything missing?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘There you are then. Do you think a burglar would break in and not take anything, but just move your jewellery box?’

  ‘No, of course not. But-’

  ‘But what? Don’t let it freak you out and spoil the party, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I won’t, but I’m bloody sure I haven’t moved anything, Barbara.’

  ‘Maybe the place is haunted.’

  ‘I want a rebate on the rent if it is.’  Mandy laughed.

  ‘Show me the ghost and I will give you one. Anyway, with your kind permission I would like to return to making myself beautiful.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  Mandy picked up the jewellery box. A razor blade stuck to the base slashed through her fingertip. She dropped the box to the floor, the contents spilling out.

  ‘Ouch. You bastard. Shit!’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Blood started pumping from her finger and down her arm.

  ‘Here, watch the carpet!’ Barbara said.

Mandy ran into the bathroom and put her finger under the tap.  ‘Christ it’s sore.’

  ‘What caused it?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘There’s a fucking razor blade on the base. Are you telling me that’s me imagining things as well?’

  ‘What? A bloody razor blade. That’s odd.’

  ‘Odd? It’s more than odd, Barbara, it nearly took my pissing finger off.  What is going on? I’m scared.’

  Barbara rubbed her back. Tears had welled in Mandy’s eyes, from the pain and the increasing fear. ‘Could it be your ex, Patrick? He was pissed off when you split.’

  ‘No. Not Patrick. He hasn’t got a key anyway.’

  ‘Have you been to his house since you’ve been here? Could he have nicked one or got a spare cut?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Maybe once to get some bits.’

  ‘You’re always leaving your keys lying around, Mandy.’

  ‘I did nip next door for an hour to see Shirl.  No this is ridiculous, surely he wouldn’t.’

  ‘They say you never know a person until you split from them.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t do something as nasty as this.  Would he?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Will you get me a plaster, please?’

  ‘Sure. They’re in the kitchen.’

Barbara returned within the minute and placed the plaster on Mandy’s finger. 

  ‘That’s nice for the party.’

  ‘Could that be why he did it?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘We don’t know it’s him. Do we need to call the police?’

  ‘Can we just have the party first?’

  Mandy wiped a rogue tear away from her cheek. ‘Yes, but I’m worried, now. I daren’t touch anything. What if there are more hidden around? What if there is more to come? What else has he done?’

  Barbara hugged her.  ‘I can’t kiss you ‘cos of my lippy. It will be fine. Don’t let that idiot spoil things. I’ll knock his block off myself if I find out it’s him!’

 

*

 

  Hucknall Police Bar was ratcheting up a notch as the drinks flowed. Shouts of hooray! Came from near the door where the admin girls chatted, and plotted, and generally stared at the detectives they were going to target later. The cause of the jolly welcome was Jack, the station vicar. Each station had a local chaplain who was there if officers needed to chat about anything. Usually they were noticeable by their absence. Not Jack. Jack was like no vicar you have ever met.  He too was ex-army, a trooper and swore like one. He was a game guy and drunk like a fish. He always had his dog collar on, even when staggering home drunk of an evening, swearing at passers-by who took the mickey out of him, much to their amazement. This did not mean he was not a caring, understanding soul, but let’s say he was very down to earth. He used the station bar like a lot of the officers did, a place where he could be himself without having to stand on ceremony. A place to let the façade down and relax.

  Stark was grinning, as Jack took possession of his pint which was already waiting for him at the bar. Jack was not really his ‘cup-of-tea’, but he knew there was usually some fun to be had when he was in the room, so that was all good.

  ‘Afternoon all.’ He said, raising his glass.

 ‘Cheers Jack.’ Came the various responses.

  ‘Merry Christmas all.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Rev.’  Came cries of response.

  ‘I’m ready for this. I’ve just put another in the ground, that’s five this week.’

  ‘Five. Bloody hell.’ Ashley said.

  ‘Well, it’s winter isn’t it. They’re dropping like flies.’

 ‘True.’ Ash sipped at his pint, and winked at Steve, ‘Are you ready for the Christmas battle yet, Jack?’ He asked.

  ‘Let me get in the door first, will you, Ash? You’re not still going on about that, are you?’

  ‘Five pounds to the winner, it has all been agreed, you can’t back down now, your reverence.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ His reverence said.

  ‘He’s backing down.’ Ash announced.

  Nobby joined in. ‘No, you’re not, Jack. Get that pint down you.  You can get on my shoulders, and Steve can get on Ash’s.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Steve muttered to himself.

  Steve and Jack were the two smallest in the place, and this svelteness was what caused the original argument; one boozy night way back in October. It escalated, from who could take who in a fight, between Jack and Steve, and took a bizarre twist as the discussion evolved into a proposed gladiatorial style contest, each on top of another’s shoulders. It seemed like a good idea at the time and the championship bout was set to take place at the CID Christmas do. It had created a stir and a purse of five pounds had been agreed, with some side bets taking place. It wasn’t often you had the chance to see a vicar in full dog-collar, jousting with a detective, whilst balancing precariously on the shoulders of another.

  Nobby got behind reverend Jack and went down on one knee, sticking his head between Jacks legs, and with one thrust of his powerful thighs, had him on his shoulders and began parading around the bar to cheers and whoops from those assembled. Jack had his hands clasped together and was waving them to the left and right as if he had already won. This only served to increase the cheers and shouts amidst the hoots of laughter at the incongruous sight.

  ‘Come on then, Steve.’ Ash said.

  ‘Do I have to?’ His face was red with embarrassment.

  ‘You agreed to it.’

  ‘That was ages ago and I was pissed at the time.’

  ‘Tough titty, get on my shoulders; the honour of the team is at stake.’

  ‘Come on then. This is stupid.’

  Ash copied Nobby’s approach and with a couple of seconds Steve was on Ash’s shoulders to a further wave of enthusiastic cheers. Stark covered his eyes, sensing that this would all end in tears. Thankfully it was behind the closed doors of the members club, that was the police station bar.

  The bar wasn’t overly large, with some tables and chairs on one side and then about fifteen feet of empty space to the bar. Behind all this was the stage and dance room, which was large, but partitioned off from the bar area. With all the people there for the Christmas ‘do’, it was somewhat cramped.

  Ashley made the first move by a surprise charge towards Nobby, Steve met Jack head on, and they wrestled. Ashley bounced off the solid muscle of his DS and staggered slightly.  Steve disengaged from Reverend Jack.

  There were some ‘Oohs’ from the crowd. Both Jack and Steve remained atop their fiery steeds.

  Stark took a position near the door, in case any top brass were to wander in, although they would not believe the sight that would befall them. A vicar in a dog collar on the shoulders of a hairy-arsed Detective Sergeant, jousting with two young bucks for the sake of a five-pound note.

  This time Nobby charged at Ash; it sent him reeling, but Steve grabbed onto Jack’s black shirt, peeling part of his dog collar away, forcing the two ‘stallions’ to bend forward as their jockeys clung on to each other. The displaced weight made the four stumble sideways, and Nobby’s foot got caught on the leg of a bar stool and they began to topple. Jack would not relent; no quarter asked, and none given. The four of them half fell, half crumpled, to the floor; landing in a heap of swear words.  Two glasses were knocked off a table and smashed. The fulsome Christmas tree in the corner toppled and swayed  and as onlookers gasped, it succumbed to the imbalance, and fell across the writhing bodies on the floor. Jim threw the dregs of his pint over them all and Steph picked up a pocket bible which had fallen out of Rev Jacks pocket. Jack was the first to emerge, jumping up. ‘The Lord gives victory!’

  Ash began to protest. ‘It was a draw.’

  Nobby, Steve and Ash stayed on the floor, with hair askew and ties awry. Steve had a scratch on his face. Ashley was grabbing onto Jacks leg forcing him to hop as he tried to re-insert his dog-collar, shouting ‘It’s not over, it’s not over.’ Some tinsel from the tree was on Ash’s head and shoulders.

  Detective Superintendent Wagstaff walked into the bar. Stark had missed his approach, having got distracted by the shenanigans. Wagstaff froze upon meeting the scene in front of him. He wiggled his handlebar moustache, raised both eyebrows, rubbed at his chin, turned and walked out again. Discretion being the better part of valour.

  Jim shouted over to Stark.

  ‘What’s the verdict, boss?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ Stark asked.

  ‘Yes!’ ‘Come on, boss.’ Came the various shouts.

  ‘The verdict is that you are all a load of prats in equal measure, and so I declare – a draw!’

Cries of ‘re-match’ were quashed by Stark, who shouted that the next round of drinks was on him, as was customary. He had the unenviable task of somehow getting the team through the next ten hours, or so, without anything too catastrophic taking place. Things hadn’t started overly well on that score. It was usually about 7pm that he gave up on the idea and just joined in the revelry.

 

*

 

Mandy Towlson fought her way through the mass of writhing bodies, which gyrated rhythmically to the strident beat of Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody,’ blaring from the hi-fi speakers in each corner of her living room. She was easily seen, despite the dim light, because of her eye-catching blonde hair. She twisted and turned in between the guests, avoiding the legs and feet that shot out at her in the name of dancing, along with the occasional hand that tried to grab her backside. She moved awkwardly in her tight-fitting mini skirt, her breasts crammed into a white, low-cut, top which displayed the deep valley of her cleavage. Her camisole underneath gave some added protection, and a hint of frilliness to avoid a tarty appearance. It was roasting hot in the living room, and it stunk of sweat and alcohol.

  She had moved into the flat with her friend Barbara, a few weeks ago and they had decided to hold the Housewarming-cum-Christmas party, on the spur of the moment. It was the perfect opportunity. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Barbara had been meaning to do it for months since she acquired the place, and now that she had a bit of moral support with Mandy moving in, it gave the idea impetus and it was the festive season. It was now or never.

  Mandy usually attracted glances from the opposite sex and yet she felt she wasn’t that attractive. Average perhaps; her nose a little too large and her eyelashes very blonde. She felt, somewhat mistakenly, that smearing too much makeup on her face would help her slightly anaemic appearance. She was young and finding her way as a woman; she would get there.  At nineteen, one is very self-aware, overly conscious of appearance. These were heady times for her. It was the start of the rest of her life, free and easy, out in the big bad world for the first time and enjoying every minute of it. Everyone had been so nice to her, so friendly and genuine. All the advice and warnings some of her older friends and family had given her, had been totally off beam. The world was a wonderful place and people were so sweet. All her hopes and dreams lay ahead of her, yet to be fulfilled. Who knew what the future would bring? These parties and the chaos surrounding them would become the memories that would visit these youngsters throughout their lives, even into old age.

  A young man with short cropped hair and stubbled face met her in the hallway and took hold of her around the waist.

  ‘Mandy. My darling, how are you? You are looking gorgeous, as ever.’ He slurred; his drunkenness apparent.

  She removed his hands and turned to answer the door. Someone was knocking hard, and repeatedly, trying to be heard above the music.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ Two more girlfriends entered the throng. People had been coming and going from the party throughout the evening.

  ‘Hiya, Jane. Hiya Marion.’ Mandy beamed at yet more guests; she would soon need a crowbar to try to cram them into the living room. All these people were just a validation of how lovely everyone was, how supportive they were. They hugged each other as if they had been life-long friends, instead of the casual acquaintances they were in reality.

  ‘Sorry we’re a bit late, but we got talking in the pub, you know how it is. We’ve been knocking ages and dancing to the music, on the doorstep.’

  ‘You should have just come in; the door is unlocked.’ She said.

  ‘We didn’t like to.’ Jane said. ‘We didn’t want to be rude. We think someone is hanging around outside though.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you could have walked in, we don’t stand on ceremony here. I’m not sure if anyone else can fit in the living room, they’re going crazy in there. It’s turning into a great party.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Jane’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Point us in the direction of the booze, and the fella’s, and leave the rest to us.’

  A girl’s scream could be heard from the depths of the madness, followed by laughter.

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Marion said. They all laughed, and the two girls manoeuvred towards the kitchen, whilst Mandy remained in the door frame, watching everyone freaking out in the living room. Bearing in mind it was so cold outside, the heat from the living room was getting even more oppressive; self-generated by the extraordinarily energetic dancing. She leaned across and opened the front door, leaving it ajar, to let some cool air into the flat.

  She could see Barbara over on the far side of the room, barely visible in the murky light, strobed by the colours of the rainbow emerging from a DJ’s light they had borrowed from a friend and plonked in the corner. The room was bathed with layers of smoke; tobacco and more questionable substances, shadows rapidly flickered on the walls and indeterminable silhouettes becoming darker towards the corners, where tongues entwined, and hands searched underneath clothing. Some of the lads were barging into each other to the music, a group of girls were linking arms and trying to synchronise a kicking routine, and one guy was wrapping Sellotape around his head and chin, trying to secure some mistletoe on his forehead.  Mandy shrugged out a laugh.  It was mayhem.

  She thought she saw the outline of her flat mate jigging around. Barbara was slightly older than her; darker skinned, slim and with black velvety shoulder-length hair. She waved and smiled at Mandy from across the room, who peered into the darkness, confirming it was Barbara, before reciprocating. The party was going to be a success; if it didn’t get too far out of hand. She watched as a man approached Barb and distracted her attention. It was Dave Lampton, ‘a real dish’, as Barbara had described him. Barbara always seemed to get the handsome guys. Mandy looked around the room to see if there were any decent men left for her to home in on. Parties are great, unless you’re the host.

  A repetitive bleeping noise crept into her ears. It didn’t match the music. It took several rings before she realised it was the telephone. She turned around and took the call in the hallway, putting a finger in her vacant ear, trying to mask the music and chatter coming from the rabble. She sat on the floor and twiddled with the cord.

   ‘Hello, thanks for calling the madhouse!’

  She could hear nothing. She stretched over and closed the living room door, shutting out some of the din.

  ‘Hello?’ she repeated. Still no reply.

  She moved to sit on the stairs, the cord only allowing her to make the bottom step. She felt her tight skirt dig into her stomach. She threw her hair back and placed the white plastic phone close to one ear, and again tried to block the noise out with a finger in the other. It was a little clearer.

  The voice sounded croaky and odd. ‘I want to speak to Mandy.’

  ‘This is Mandy, who’s that?’ She didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘I don’t know. Come on, stop messing around, I’m in the middle of a party, here. Who is it?’

  ‘If I was to say, “Sweet cheeks” to you, would that give you a clue?’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, Patrick! This is not the time. You knew I was having a party tonight, and you still have to ring. There is nothing more to discuss. It’s over. We had a good time for six months, let’s not spoil it now, for heaven’s sake. Please!’

  ‘What if I was to come over and rip that lacy camisole, I bought you, right off your gorgeous body?’

  ‘You’re drunk. Why have you rung? What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter. Nothing that a good fucking wouldn’t mend, you fucking whore!’

  She was stunned into silence. She struggled for some riposte, but instead, slammed the phone down hard and held it in place. Her heart was beating fast. The phone rang again.  She picked it up and immediately replaced it. Then she got off the stairs, bent down and unplugged it from the wall. She felt someone behind her who started to dry-hump her backside as she leaned over. ‘Get off!’

She turned around and saw the drunk guy again. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘Go on, piss off! And keep your…whatever it was, to yourself.’

  ‘Charming.’ The lad felt affronted by the rebuff as he staggered away muttering to himself.

  Mandy put her hand on her chest and felt the camisole underneath her top. How did he know? Probably a lucky guess.  The call had changed her from feeling great, to worrying what was going on with Patrick. When she had told him that their relationship was over, last Thursday, he seemed to be fatalistic about it. He must have known the end was coming. This new behaviour was completely out of character, or at least she thought it was. She took a deep breath, shook her head and tried to put the episode out of her mind. She returned to the party, her thoughts her own, as she wondered through the living room into the kitchen; which was a feat not dissimilar to a game of ‘Twister.’ Barbara was pouring some drinks and turned to face her flat mate.

  ‘Another G and T, Mandy? Hey, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. It’s Patrick. He’s just rung the flat. He was drunk and swearing at me. I’ve had to unplug the phone.’

  ‘You’re joking? I didn’t think Patrick was like that.’ Barbara busied herself preparing drinks as she spoke.

  ‘No, nor did I.’ She frowned.

  ‘It could be him with the razor blade, then do you, think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think anymore.  I guess we need to speak to the police if he’s going to cause all this trouble.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He called me an effing whore. Nice isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s terrible, it’s just not true. You never charge for your services!’ Barbara smiled.

  She laughed. ‘Get lost! It’s nothing, he’s just being an idiot. It’s the booze talking. He sounded weird. What does he expect me to do when he talks to me like that?’

  ‘Are you sure it was him and not someone messing around?’

  ‘It was him all right, he mentioned the camisole he bought me, and he called me by the pet name he always used.

  ‘What, whore?’

  Mandy laughed again. ‘No, you plonker. I’m not telling you what it was. It’s personal.’

  ‘Oh, come on, now.  Don’t be a misery-guts. Let’s hear it.  What was it? Luscious lips, Pussy Galore, Sexy Bum…?’

  She playfully hit Barbara on her shoulder and took the gin and tonic. ‘Don’t be disgusting! Shut up, will you! I’m not telling you, and that’s it. Don’t you start hassling me as well, I’ve got enough on my plate with Patrick throwing a wobbler on me.’

  ‘If it’s him. He could have got a mate to ring. You know what they are like. It’s one big laugh to them.’

  ‘He did sound a bit strange. Thinking about it, it didn’t sound like him, but it had to be him from what he said, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, don’t let that weasel spoil the party for you.’ Barbara pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. ‘Let’s see. I prescribe a double dose of alcohol in large quantities, until your legs give way, at which point your emotional troubles will be considerably lessened.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Barbara. I’m having Patrick about it tomorrow though. He’s not getting away with that! In fact I might just go straight to the police.’

 

*

 

It was cold outside and the chill in the air was made worse by the occasional gust of wind that would rattle guttering and swirl the rubbish on the street into pirouetting butt ends and crisp packets. Snow had started to fall. There was a frost, and the tiny glistening stars of ice, reflected by the moonlight, began to show their faces on the rooftops. The wind and the cold were of no importance to the man in the camouflage coat, who stood, motionless, quietly watching. The party was in full swing. There were numerous people coming and going, all wrapped up in themselves, most of them drunk, or well on the way, all oblivious to him. Apart from the hub of the party, the street was desolate from top to bottom. The neighbours had been told in advance that it was going to take place and so they had battened down the hatches.

  Most houses had Christmas lights festooning windows and wreaths adorning doors. There was little noise coming from the houses; apart from the distant sound of television sets; audible only when the man moved close to the individual windows as he mooched around. The televisions strobed the curtains, implying warmth inside a cocoon of family life that this maniac had never known, nor would he know. Various smells were carried on the waves of the winter wind, mainly the remnants of a street’s assorted cooked dinners, mixing into a soup of indeterminable cuisine best summed up as ‘food’. The smells were accentuated when meeting the blank canvas of cool air out in the street. The focal point of noise, was, of course, Mandy’s new flat and ‘The Fairytale of New York’ by the Pogues now blaring out. The maniac grinned as he heard them all join in the words: ‘You’re a bum, you’re a punk, you’re an old slut on junk, lying there almost dead, on a drip in that bed…’

  Most criminals had a story to tell. A story of deprivation, misplaced upbringing, lack of moral guidance, children’s homes, uncaring parents, and the like. This guy had no such story to tell, certainly not one he would share with anyone, because he had no interest in anyone else’s perception of him. His mother’s ill-treatment of him, her overbearing, cruel nature wasn’t the reason for his condition.  He was born like it. His psychopathy was a physical difference in the way the brain worked and was permanent and incurable. It gave him a focus and a shape to his madness. This was not by choice, it was the makeup of his brain. This lack of awareness, lack of moral compass, made things complicated, particularly in the courts. His inability to consider or care about his fellow man; was because he was a psychopath. His lack of ability to understand emotions that others felt; made him a psychopath. His lack of empathy for men, women, children, animals; made him a psychopath. His enjoyment of inflicting pain and suffering to others, without feeling anything whatsoever; made him a sadistic psychopath. And this psychopath had now latched onto Mandy Towlson. This disease of the shadows was able to add to the complexity of his psychosis, by being misogynistic at the same time. Two for one, for a limited period only. The limited period would end by his own incarceration or death, which would be the inevitable outcome of his releasing the hounds of hell, that were his innermost demons. This condition was well covered in his younger years, but now, as he reached his mid-twenties, it was becoming a dominant feature of his life. Sadly, there would be casualties, as this bus with no brakes, careened through the streets, before it went over the cliff to its home in oblivion. It was of no consequence to him in any case. His mind set was crude, to the point, emotionless, without barriers, nasty, implacable. 

  Why Mandy? She was fit, but that wasn’t a deal breaker, he was happy to fuck old women or any female who happened to engage with him and attract his attention. It was all getting a bit stale though, not really getting to the core of his insatiable craving anymore. Mandy’s chirpy personality resonated with him. Irked him. Challenged him. She volunteered for the role, pretty much. It just happened that he decided he wanted to fuck her and degrade her, and then in all likelihood kill her. It was about time. He wasn’t sure he would, it depended how he felt on the day, but this need, this desire, was getting out of hand.  The lack of a decision as to whether he would kill her was his subliminal retention of power. Its strength was heightened by saving the decision until the moment; a prior decision would dilute the act itself. She had been kind to him, an even better reason. She would be one of those nice people, who squealed louder than the others. A loving soul who would put on a great show when he got to her. No rush. This was all part of it. The build-up. He couldn’t relate, but he could get a thrill. The thrill was getting harder to obtain, though. He got a kick out of the rapes and assaults and the risk of capture. It wasn’t hitting the spot as much now, though, and the extinguishing of life was the hit he needed.

  He walked towards the flat with a jaunty swagger. He wasn’t trying to mask his actions particularly; he had learned that way back when he was a kid, shoplifting. Don’t hesitate, just go in and do it and no-one bats an eyelid. He was familiar with the set-up after his earlier visit: First floor flat with two front windows and a side one next to the door at the top of the steps. Not much to see. He looked around and saw the Vauxhall Nova she used. He strolled up, his breath visible from his mouth as he tried the car door handle, it was cold and the thin layer of forming ice, slid his gloved hand along its length as he pulled. It was open, again. He got inside the passenger side, slamming the car door shut. He had no fear. If he was challenged, he would just kill. He was bladed up. No debate or questions. No jumping around or postulating. He was fearless. Invincible. Smash! Stick the blade, right in the fucking throat. Twist and rip the pipework out through the skin. Watch them choke and drown and claw at the bony ridges of their exposed and bloody trachea. Smile into their eyes when that expression appeared. That lovely pleading look of terror and desperation at the realisation of their own imminent death and better yet, their inability to stop it.

  He looked around. but there was nobody showing the slightest interest in him.

  He examined the contents of the car; the streetlight painting the dashboard yellow. It was a bit of a pigsty, with all manner of stuff scattered around the floor, and the side door compartments were overflowing with sweet wrappers and tissues. He opened the glove compartment. Nothing much in there, wait! Apart from a hairbrush. He would have that. He put it into his coat pocket. That would go with the knickers from earlier. A nice little collection was forming. It had been a good look around. Time to get home. He masturbated several times a day, and the hairbrush with her hair on it was the sort of trophy that would feed his perversion for a little while more, at least. The singing by the partygoers hit his ears as he opened the car door.

  ‘The boys of the N.Y.P.D. Choir were singing Galway Bay, and the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.’

A light sprinkling of snow had laid a thin shroud around the car and the man used his finger to write ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ on the frosty window, he thought the double meaning was amusing.

 

*

 

‘…and the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day.’ Almost all the detectives were singing, arms around shoulders, in the corner area of Ritzy’s night club. Some had fallen by the wayside en-route, the core remained, but they bore scars.

  Charlie still had gravy on his shirt from the thrown cracker incident earlier, during the dinner. Initial enquiries tended to show Ashley Stevens as the main suspect, but there was insufficient evidence to charge. 

  Ashley was still suffering with a sore arm, and wounded pride, caused by Charlie beating him at the arm wrestling. How could that be?  He was an old fat bloke. He was bloody strong, though. Ashley had forgotten that Charlie had won it every year for the last twenty years.

  Young, Steve Aston had gone giggly. His giggling fits were punctuated by moments of vacant staring and swaying.

  Cynthia Walker’s feline gait had become something of a stagger, her normally perfect hair had a straggly, rebel strand, hanging limply in front of her face which she kept blowing.

  Jim McIntyre was sprawled out on the curved settee and was asleep, his mouth making neighing noises with each exhale.

  Nobby and Steph were missing. They weren’t totally missing, just missing from the group. They were upstairs on the near deserted mezzanine, behind a curtain hanging in front of a door marked ‘Emergency Exit’. Nobby was, in fact, making an emergency entry. He banged Steph against the door, each thrust causing an ‘oof!’ to come out of her mouth. He reached down and stroked at her, feeling the wetness at the base of his cock. She started to make a high-pitched wail which he had become accustomed to and he felt the rush as his balls tightened and he emptied himself into her. As she went limp, he rammed thrice more up to the hilt, pumping and squirting inside her.

  ‘Anybody seen Nobby?’ Ashley asked those still standing.

  Steve Aston said. ‘Nobby.’ And began giggling again.

  ‘He’s having a dance with Steph apparently.’ Cynthia said.

  ‘Poor Steph.’ Ash said.

 Cynthia smiled in a strange way, which Ashley couldn’t decipher.

  ‘Where’s Stark?’ Ash asked.

  ‘What’s this, the bloody roll call?’ Charlie grunted as he swigged from a beer bottle and grimaced. ‘He’s probably having a piss, Ash. Jeez. You’re like a bloody mother hen, just chill, mate.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on, Charlie, I’m just looking out for people that’s all.’ Ash felt affronted.

  ‘Let’s see how many beer mats we can balance on Jim’s head before they fall off or he wakes up.’ Charlie said mischievously.

  ‘How much?’ Ash asked.

  ‘Tenner.’

  ‘A bloody tenner!’ The bravado of the drink always raised the stakes.

  ‘Steve. Go and get some beer mats, will you? As many as you can get.’  Charlie said. Steve went off on his mission.

  ‘Right who’s first?’

  Stark was on the far side of the mezzanine when he had seen Nobby and Steph sneak behind the “Emergency Exit” curtain. He was having a breather from the day’s events. The day had been a hoot, but exhausting. He was watching the exit door curtain. You didn’t have to be a Detective Inspector to figure out that Nobby and Steph were having sex behind the curtain. 

He waited for them to come back, dropping back out of sight as he watched her scurry into the toilets, and Nobby go back down the stairs to join the group.