the killer inside

Eames November 2009 Crowthorne, Berkshire When Detective Inspector January David spills red wine on the kitchen counter as he pours another large glass for himself, it is a reminder of his wife’s blood dripping into the Perspex coffin I hung her above on that theatre stage. When I turned Audrey David into Girl 4. He is going to see it all again soon. They sent the tall orderly in again to deliver my post and bring me some water. They are trying to create a routine, making sure things happen at the same time each day, and that the people in my life are limited. Perhaps I may offer a glimpse of my humanity to this overgrown guard. A male and female doctor watch through the small window as he enters, alert yet casual. They are poised with a pen and clipboard. I force out a smile to the man holding my liquid and letters. The doctors notice and make a note. I smile to myself in my mind. It’s all too easy. I expect a minimum of one letter from God. You’d think He hadmore important things to do. There will be female nudity within this pile of paper, though I have my share of male admirers. I sense the hopelessness and horniness, the hatred and the holiness seeping out of every licked envelope flap. I feign more delight at my delivery but there is a tedium to this constant anodyne correspondence that I wish to be free from. And then I see it. The long brown envelope with my name written in silver marker pen. It’s here. But I do not draw attention to it. I open a different letter first while the doctors continue their scrutiny in this aquarium of insanity. A polaroid of an American woman, blonde, athletic, wearing just a cowboy hat and denim shorts, falls out of the folded wrapper. The guard backs out of the room, never turning himself away from me, and I nod at him in fake thanks. He is nothing to me. He is the damp skirting board. He is a bloated gall bladder. He is half- naked cowgirl. And now he is gone. So are the health professionals. I open the letter with the silver writing. There is no picture inside, no page of condescending prose, no lock of human hair or promise of forgiveness. But there is enough to tell me this is what I have been waiting for. And it is beautiful. Kerry Ross. She is my Girl 8.

January November 2009 Hampstead, London The room is dark. Darker than anywhere else. Nothingness for miles. For eternity, it seems. But that doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t need light to move around this place. He knows it. He’s comfortable here. He belongs. There’s dust. A thick layer below the foreboding lack of air that suffocates the people he brings here. But not him. He’s unaffected. This is where he waits, with hissingle chair and his blindfold and his off- key music. He waits. For me. I’ve been here before. In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of Malbec but pull the bottle away too quickly, dripping a broken claret path between the stem and the label. I lick away the spillage from my forefinger after rubbing it around the glass and up the bottle neck. And, still, he waits. His large menacing frame floating around the gloaming of his torture room. He dances from left foot to right, shifting the particles beneath him, silently kicking around the deathly powder that coats everything in this place. A room I thought I would never enter again. A box I thought had been locked, in my mind, at least. I switch off the kitchen light, plunging me into a near darkness only illuminated by the table lamp in the lounge next to the leather snuggler chair I share with nobody and the tall oak block I add a new wine ring to every night. It’s peaceful in the lounge and safe. Unlike the bedroom upstairs, which smells like Audrey. Still. He waits. Upstairs where the scent of patchouli and sandalwood reminds me of betrayal. Where one side of the bed is always cold. That is where he waits for me. Preparing himself for my entrance. Setting everything up for my capture. I take a large gulp of red wine, tilting my head back against the leather sofa cushion, staring at the ceiling, I think about returning to work. I think about that file in the top drawer of my desk that holds all the information on the case of my missing sister. There is a comfortable alcoholic buzz from the wine and I feel more in control, I can focus. Meanwhile, a man I have not seen in years, a seven- foot- tall spectre, is straightening that single chair and taking six steps back from it. He stands perfectly still. His head tilted forward so that hischin almost touches his chest. His yellow, protruding eyes gazing down at the dust between his feet. The fifth step creaks as I make my way up the stairs. Blue TV screen light pushes out of a neighbor’s window and eases my darkened journey to the bedroom where everything is about to change. Again. And he waits. Motionless. I forego the ritual of brushing my teeth before bed because the Malbec has laminated the inside of mouth with its blackcurrant and raisin flavor and I don’t want to pollute the taste with mint. I strip down completely and wrap the cool covers tightly over my shoulders before closing my eyes. He lifts his head now to reveal a grin that seems to take up half of his face. The enamel of his teeth is as tarnished as the whites of his eyes.