Career of Evil

Then she’d strutted away and he had not dared follow her, not then, but it had almost killed him to let her go. She ought to be lying in parcels of meat in his fridge by now. He ought to have witnessed her face in that ecstasy of terror and death, when he owned them completely and they were his to play with.

So here he was, walking through the chilly rain, burning inside because it was Sunday and she had gone again, back to the place where he could never get near her, because Pretty Boy was always there.

He needed more freedom, a lot more freedom. The real obstacle was having It at home all the time, spying on him, clinging to him. All that would have to change. He’d already pushed It unwillingly back into work. Now he had decided that he would have to pretend to It that he had a new job. If necessary, he’d steal to get cash, pretend he’d earned it — he’d done that plenty of times before. Then, freed up, he’d be able to put in the time he really needed to make sure he was close at hand when The Secretary dropped her guard, when nobody was looking, when she turned the wrong corner...

The passersby had as little life as automata to him. Stupid, stupid, stupid... Everywhere he walked he looked for her, the one he’d do next. Not The Secretary, no, because the bitch was back behind her white front door with Pretty Boy, but any woman stupid enough, drunk enough, to walk a short way with a man and his knives. He had to do one before he went back to It, he had to. It would be all that could keep him going, once he was back pretending to be the man It loved. His eyes flickered from under his hat, sorting them, discarding them: the women with men, the women with kids clutching them, but no women alone, none the way he needed them...

He walked for miles until darkness fell, past lit pubs where men and women laughed and flirted, past restaurants and cinemas, looking, waiting, with a hunter’s patience. Sunday night and the workers were returning home early, but it did not matter: there were still tourists everywhere, out-of-towners, drawn by the history and mystery of London...

It was nearly midnight when they leapt to his practiced eye like a cluster of plump mushrooms in long grass: a bunch of squawking, tiddly girls cackling and weaving along the pavement. They were on one of those miserable, rundown streets that were his especial delight, where a drunken tussle and a shrieking girl would be nothing out of the ordinary. He followed, ten yards behind them, watching them pass under streetlamps, elbowing each other and cackling, all except for one of them. She was the drunkest and youngest-looking of them all: ready to throw up, if he knew anything about it. She stumbled on her heels, falling slightly behind her friends, the silly little tart. None of her friends had realized what a state she was in. They were just the right side of legless, snorting and guffawing as they staggered along.

He drifted after them, casual as you please.

If she threw up in the street the noise would attract her friends, who would stop and rally around her. While she fought the urge to vomit, she could not speak. Slowly, the distance between her and her friends increased. She swayed and wobbled, reminding him of the last one, with her stupid high heels. This one must not survive to help make photofits.

A taxi was approaching. He saw the scenario play out before it did. They hailed it loudly, screeching and waving their arms, and in they piled, one by one, fat arse after fat arse. He sped up, head down, face hidden. The streetlamps reflected in the puddles, the “for hire” light extinguished, the growl of the engine...

They had forgotten her. She swayed right into the wall, holding up an arm to support herself.

He might only have seconds. One of her friends would realize any time now that she wasn’t with them.

“You all right, darling? You feeling bad? Come here. This way. You’ll be all right. Just down here.”

She began to retch as he tugged her down a side street. Feebly she tried to pull her arm away, heaving; the vomit splattered down her, gagging her.

“Filthy bitch,” he snarled, one hand already on the handle of his knife under the jacket. He was dragging her forcibly towards a darkened recess between an adult video store and a junk shop.

“No,” she gasped, but she choked on her vomit, heaving.

A door opened across the street, light rippling down a flight of steps. People burst out onto the pavement, laughing.

He slammed her up against the wall and kissed her, pinning her flat while she tried to struggle. She tasted foul, of sick. The door opposite closed, the gaggle of people passed by, their voices echoing in the quiet night, the light extinguished.

“Fucking hell,” he said in disgust, releasing her mouth but keeping her pinned to the wall with his body.