The days had passed painfully slowly, testing my patience and control to the limit, but the memories of the night I had been with him and the thought of things to come carried me through and before I knew it he was standing in front of me, his small, straight white teeth glistening in the street lights, his oval-shaped head too large for his scrawny neck, perched on slim, narrow shoulders. His hair was blond and straight, shoulder-length, styled to make him look like a surfer, but his skin was pale and his body weak. The most athletic thing he had ever done was drop to his knees. His T-shirt was too tight and short, revealing his flat stomach, disappearing into hipster designer jeans worn to provoke the sexual urges of his peers.
I told him I needed to be with him again. I lied that I had been inside the club and had seen him dancing, that I had been too nervous to approach him then, but now I really wanted him. We talked some more crap then he said, ‘You know I’m not cheap. If you want to be with me again it’ll cost.’
He suggested we go to my place so I told him my boyfriend would be there, but he started rambling on about not taking people back to his flat and how last time had been an exception, until I pulled another two fifties from my wallet and thrust them into his hand. He smiled.
We went to my car, fixed with false plates, and drove to his shit-hole in south-east London where I was sure not to park too close to his block. Telling him I didn’t want to take the risk of being seen walking to his flat with him, I suggested that he go ahead and leave the door unlocked.
I waited a couple of minutes, then, as the street was empty, no one staring from windows, I walked to the flat. The block was old, cold and smelled of piss, but he had been a good boy and left the door unlocked. I quietly entered and flicked the lock on. He appeared around the corner at the end of the corridor, from what I knew was the living room. He spoke.
‘Was that you locking the door?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Can’t be too careful these days.’
‘Afraid someone’s going to burst in on us and spoil the party?’
‘Something like that.’
The excitement was unbearable. My stomach was so cramped with anticipation I could hardly breathe. Inside, my mind was screaming, but I was still wearing my nervous smile as I walked into the living room.
The whore was crouched by his CD player. I told him I wanted to clean up a little and headed for the bathroom down the hallway.
I took my bag with me and quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, pulled on the suit, the shower cap, rubber gloves and finally the plastic bags over my shoes. I looked in the mirror, filling my lungs with air drawn in hard through my nose. I was ready.
Fully prepared, I returned to the living room. He turned and saw me dressed and resplendent. He’d already removed his T-shirt, and he started to giggle, covering his mouth as if to stop himself.
He spoke to me. ‘Is this how we’re going to get our kicks tonight then?’
‘Sort of,’ I replied. ‘Sort of.’
They were the last words he spoke, although he may have said ‘please’ a little later. By then the blood bubbling up into his mouth made it just a gargle.
With a smooth, swift, practised hand I grabbed an iron statue of a naked Indian he kept on his side table and I used it to smash his skull, not hitting him hard enough to kill him straight away, merely to render him semi-conscious and virtually paralysed. He had been on his knees when I hit him, which was good − less distance to fall meant less noise when he hit the floor.
I watched him for a while, standing over him like the victor in a prizefight, watching his chest rise and fall with each painful, strained breath, the blood initially spurting from the wound in his head, then slowing to a steady flow as his heart grew too weak to pump it at the pressure his body required to stay alive. Every few seconds his right leg would twitch like a dying bird.
It wouldn’t have been as I had dreamed if he hadn’t been at least partly conscious when I went to him with an ice pick I found in his drinks cabinet. I needed him to be alive as I cut him. I needed to see him try to stop me each time I pushed the ice pick into his dying body: not stabbing frenziedly, but placing it deliberately against his pale skin before pushing the point through with a deliciously satisfying popping sound. Now and then he would reach up and pitifully try to defend himself from the torture. I told him not to be a naughty boy and continued with my work. It was a shame his brain haemorrhaging had caused his eyes to turn red, as I had wanted to contrast his blue eyes against the pale bloodied skin. Next time I’d do better.
His perforated body almost began to disgust me, to make me want to flee from the scene, but I couldn’t stop yet. Not until all was as close as it could be to how I had seen it in my mind the first time I knew I would be visiting him. I would continue with my work, despite the foul stench emanating from the holes in his stomach and intestines, the urine and excreta that were now leaking from his transformed body.
He held on for forty minutes, his eyes flickering slightly open for a few minutes at a time. When they were open I did my work, stopping whenever he passed out, unable to bear the pain or grasp his situation. I had to punch him in the face every so often to stop him calling out. Not that he could have realistically raised more than a whimper. Still, I had to be sure.
When he finally died, a slow, quiet hiss of air escaping from his lips and the breaches in his chest wall told me that my fun had come to an end. I put on a clean pair of surgical gloves and took the three hundred pounds cash I had given him earlier from his trouser pocket. I really didn’t want to leave that behind. I carefully and quietly broke apart some furniture and generally arranged the room as if a violent struggle had occurred. Next I used the syringe I’d brought to draw blood from his mouth and sprayed it about the room: on the walls, over the furniture, the carpet, making spray patterns to suggest a violent struggle had taken place. Then I moved to the corner of the room I had left clean. I removed my clothes and put them inside a plastic bag and put that bag inside another plastic bag and repeated this twice more. I ensured each plastic bag was tied securely and finally put them in my rucksack. I put new plastic bags on my feet, not wanting to take the chance that I might step on a spot of blood – that sort of evidence can be difficult to explain. I put on another clean pair of rubber surgical gloves and left the living room. I would burn the lot in my garden the following evening, the safest way to dispose of such incriminating items. To burn them in a public place risked attracting attention, while burial would leave them at the mercy of inquisitive animals.
I moved quietly to the front door. I took the plastic bags off my shoes and looked through the spyhole. Nobody about. Just to be sure, I listened at the door, careful not to let my ear press against it and possibly leave a mark like a fingerprint, which I hear can happen.
When I was totally happy I slipped out of the flat, leaving the front door open so as not to make any more noise than necessary. The statue of the Indian and the ice pick I threw in the Thames as I headed north to my hotel. The thought of the police wasting hours searching for weapons that wouldn’t help their investigation in the slightest pleased me.
When I reached my hotel I slipped in through the side door next to the bar, only generally used as a fire exit. I knew it could open from the outside and had no CCTV camera trained on it. I already had the key card for my room, having checked in earlier that day. I took a long shower, keeping the water as hot as I could bear, scrubbing skin, nails and hair vigorously with a nail brush until my entire body felt like it had been burned by flames. I had removed the plug