windows and door missing. It was to this out-of-the-way location that he dragged the remains of Janice Clayton. He cut the bag open to let the body spill out, before unscrewing the top from a two gallon can and saturating the evidence with petrol.
Backing out, he reached into a pocket of his overalls, took out a book of matches and tore a clump from the cardboard cover to strike and toss into the makeshift crematorium. The fume-filled air seemed to ignite before the matches landed on the sodden hair of the corpse’s head. The blast rocked him on his feet and singed his eyelashes, eyebrows and the front of his short, carroty hair. The sharp intake of breath he took was too hot, and he turned away and began to run back towards the embankment, to lunge into the foliage and make his way back up to the van.
Jesus wept! He should have stood a lot farther back, or jumped to the side, away from the doorway. If he had been any nearer he would have suffered third degree burns. He coughed up phlegm, made to spit it out, and then swallowed it instead. Saliva was loaded with DNA. Leave nothing. He would give the body enough time to burn, then phone the police and tell them where to find his latest victim. This deserted area would soon draw the authorities in droves, to pick over what he had dumped and burned for them to be suitably appalled by.
He drove west to Sydenham. Stopped in an alley and changed the plates on the van, then headed up towards Brixton and finally east on the 202 and A2 to Blackheath. The stink of petrol was on his clothes. He would get rid of them .
Home. The needle jets of the shower made his face burn. He stepped out and dried himself, carefully patting the reddened skin of his face. He felt a little melancholy. The house seemed empty without the presence of his late tenant. But it was for the best. Keeping prey at home was a luxury that he had enjoyed, but knew was an unnecessary risk. But he had enjoyed it being there for him when the anger at what Sandra had done demanded instant appeasement.
“ Sandra whore Scott,” he said. “One day you’ll pay in person for fucking with other men and my head.”
None of what was now happening in his life might have taken place if she had not fornicated behind his back. She had been his wife and his life. He had somehow survived his childhood, and prospered emotionally from being free of his mother and the dipshit who he had stitched up like a prison mailbag. Ha! Matricide was no big deal. They say that blood is thicker than water. Not true. You don’t get to pick your relations. And most murders are committed by spouses or family members. That was what made it impossible for the ‘filth’ to zero in on him for his current acts. They needed motive and suspects and hard evidence. And that was the only reason that Sandra was still alive. He had wanted to rip her lungs out with his bare hands, but somehow curbed the almost unbearable need to kill her. She would get hers, down the road a few years. Each and every breath she took was courtesy of him. If he acted too quickly, then he would lose everything. He would be the prime suspect. No sweat. All good things come to those who wait. There was a right time and place for everything. And until he felt it safe to deal with the promiscuous bitch, he would take other whores who bore the mark of libidinous lust. Could it be that in some perverse way he had been attracted to Sandra because of the long and almost Titian-red abundance of hair that was the exact shade of his mother’s? Could such an attribute in someone who had been so hurtful and unloving, act in the way a fancy lure will entice a fish to the barb of a hook? Had he been trying to reinvent his mother as a better person, who would worship and adore him? Maybe. But if so he had failed miserably, learning to his cost that they were all marked by the devil’s paintbrush. He
Backing out, he reached into a pocket of his overalls, took out a book of matches and tore a clump from the cardboard cover to strike and toss into the makeshift crematorium. The fume-filled air seemed to ignite before the matches landed on the sodden hair of the corpse’s head. The blast rocked him on his feet and singed his eyelashes, eyebrows and the front of his short, carroty hair. The sharp intake of breath he took was too hot, and he turned away and began to run back towards the embankment, to lunge into the foliage and make his way back up to the van.
Jesus wept! He should have stood a lot farther back, or jumped to the side, away from the doorway. If he had been any nearer he would have suffered third degree burns. He coughed up phlegm, made to spit it out, and then swallowed it instead. Saliva was loaded with DNA. Leave nothing. He would give the body enough time to burn, then phone the police and tell them where to find his latest victim. This deserted area would soon draw the authorities in droves, to pick over what he had dumped and burned for them to be suitably appalled by.
He drove west to Sydenham. Stopped in an alley and changed the plates on the van, then headed up towards Brixton and finally east on the 202 and A2 to Blackheath. The stink of petrol was on his clothes. He would get rid of them .
Home. The needle jets of the shower made his face burn. He stepped out and dried himself, carefully patting the reddened skin of his face. He felt a little melancholy. The house seemed empty without the presence of his late tenant. But it was for the best. Keeping prey at home was a luxury that he had enjoyed, but knew was an unnecessary risk. But he had enjoyed it being there for him when the anger at what Sandra had done demanded instant appeasement.
“ Sandra whore Scott,” he said. “One day you’ll pay in person for fucking with other men and my head.”
None of what was now happening in his life might have taken place if she had not fornicated behind his back. She had been his wife and his life. He had somehow survived his childhood, and prospered emotionally from being free of his mother and the dipshit who he had stitched up like a prison mailbag. Ha! Matricide was no big deal. They say that blood is thicker than water. Not true. You don’t get to pick your relations. And most murders are committed by spouses or family members. That was what made it impossible for the ‘filth’ to zero in on him for his current acts. They needed motive and suspects and hard evidence. And that was the only reason that Sandra was still alive. He had wanted to rip her lungs out with his bare hands, but somehow curbed the almost unbearable need to kill her. She would get hers, down the road a few years. Each and every breath she took was courtesy of him. If he acted too quickly, then he would lose everything. He would be the prime suspect. No sweat. All good things come to those who wait. There was a right time and place for everything. And until he felt it safe to deal with the promiscuous bitch, he would take other whores who bore the mark of libidinous lust. Could it be that in some perverse way he had been attracted to Sandra because of the long and almost Titian-red abundance of hair that was the exact shade of his mother’s? Could such an attribute in someone who had been so hurtful and unloving, act in the way a fancy lure will entice a fish to the barb of a hook? Had he been trying to reinvent his mother as a better person, who would worship and adore him? Maybe. But if so he had failed miserably, learning to his cost that they were all marked by the devil’s paintbrush. He
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