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Great Writing - Home > Crime > The Vulture - Chapter 2
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Crime and Thriller
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| The Vulture - Chapter 2 | |
| By employee2-4601 | ||||||||
| 02 June 2006 | ||||||||
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I can remember every detail of that moment when we heard the god-awful news. We were both working late, trying for the umpteenth time to sift through the scant information we had. Outside we could hear the traffic swishing passed. People’s voices floated up from below, the chatter rising and falling. Somewhere a dog was barking its head off madly, a small one by the sound of it. Inside the office all was quiet save for the low hum of the air-conditioning and the odd creak from our chairs. The silence was broken by the shrill ring of the phone. “Hello?” said Alf, it being his turn to answer the phone, “Yes, this is Alf Jones…yes I do; is there anything…Jesus Christ!” In minutes Alf had driven us round to the crime-scene. God I’ll never forget the look on Marjory’s face as long as I live. She was like the others, flayed alive, blood everywhere. Her mouth was gaping wide in a silent scream; her eyes were so wide it seemed as though they were being forced from her head. Terror was etched over her features. On the wall, lord knows how I brought myself to look; her skin had been pasted up with her own blood. Again a message that defied belief; something that seemed to be the work of a madman. “I captured The Castle” So, the killer had given up trying to lead us to them. Now they simply wanted to gloat over us, to show their power to strike anywhere, to show how utterly powerless we were to stop them. Maybe I should have been concerned with finding out if the killer had left any clues as to who they were or what their next move would be. But I was too caught up in grief to be able to think of anything other than how Marjory’s family was going to take the news. I knew her husband, Jack, I’d met him down the pub a couple of times; nice bloke. He loved her more than anyone in the world and this was going to hit him hard. “For god’s sake get her covered up!” I was surprised at the shrillness of my own voice. The police moved the body and I was able to get to work. There were no signs of a struggle; no smashed ornaments or wrecked furniture. The bed was unmade, the covers drawn back as though Marjory had been about to settle down for the night. Her night-dress lay perfectly folded on the sky-blue sheets, a picture of calm in an ocean of chaos. I had donned the usual forensic get-up and was walking, almost wading through the blood. And the sheer quantity of blood! I know the human body holds a vast amount, but surely there was more blood here than three people could hold. I moved over to the window; perfectly sound, it hadn’t been touched. The murderer was good; they knew what they were doing. The window was intact; the doors bore no signs of violence. Had Marjory known her killer? It was a possibility, but one I was quick to push to the back of my mind, it was too simple. The Vulture’s methods seemed elaborate, calculated. Who the hell was I dealing with? I think Alf took Marjory’s death badly. They’d known each other since the seventies; they’d gone to college together and even shared a flat, though both assured me that nothing ever happened between them. After we were finished, I drove Alf home. He wasn’t in a fit state of mind to get behind the wheel of a car; though I suppose the same could have been said of me that night. The bungalow was large and roomy. White all over with massive front and back gardens to give the kids somewhere safe to play. “Uncle Sammy!” came the tumultuous scream when I opened the door for Alf. Rebecca (6) and Ian (5) were great kids. Brown-haired, blue-eyed and growing fast. They hugged their dad and me and began firing random questions in that staccato manner that all children have. Jean, Alf’s wife, saw something was up and bundled the kids off to their bedrooms. We sat down in the living room with a gin and tonic each. Alf downed his in one before breaking the news to Jean. She hadn’t known Marjory that well, but shared our grief simply because someone was dead before their time. “What’re you going to do?” asked Jean when Alf seemed ready to talk. “We find the killer and get them sent down,” came the stiff reply. “You’re not going to turn this into a personal vendetta,” said Jean in a tone that brooked no argument, even from her husband. “Of course I’m not; I just want to see this bastard caught before they kill anyone else. We’ve spent two whole years trying to track down one murderer. There’s nothing to go on.” “You’re wrong,” I said, “Those messages; they’ve got to have a meaning. The first one mentioned Wales and, sure enough, someone is killed in Wales. We don’t get any messages until Daphne Williams. This time it just says ‘South’. We’re in the south of the country and Marjory’s the next victim. ”The killer changes the style of the messages; this time it mentions a castle. Well?” “Look Sam, there are so many castles around the country; the papers reckon this bastard is sick and I agree with them, ok?” “Alf, just think for a second. If the killer was the kind of person you think they are, then they wouldn’t be leaving messages hinting at where they were going to strike next.” “Sam, it’s been a long night, I think you should just go home.” He was right in a way. I caught a bus home, sitting at the front on the top deck; for some reason my favorite seat. Try as I might, I couldn’t focus on piecing the puzzle together, I could only think of Marjory. There was no-one else on the bus so no-one saw me sitting with my head in my hands, the tears streaming down my face. If anyone tells you blokes aren’t meant to cry, don’t believe them. The bus stank of sweat and rotten food; occasionally I could hear the rattle of an empty drinks bottle rolling back and forth with the motion of the bus. Outside were the normal sounds of a city at night; the drunks being thrown out of the pubs and clubs; the late-night revelers walking home; the beggars in the doorways calling out for any change; the clichéd whistle of the bobby on the beat. With a grinding and squealing of brakes, the bus pulled up outside Castle Avenue, my home for the past three years. I lived in a tiny bungalow; two bedrooms, one bathroom, no garden. In fact, the only bungalow in the street, a fact I was stupidly proud of. As I was walking up the gentle slope towards my home, I looked round at the other houses. Of course, we were the poor end of the market and the broken bicycles, overflowing rubbish bins and graffiti on the pavement were a familiar and somehow comforting sight. Most of the houses were dark except one where a single light shone upstairs. I stopped outside this house and stared up at that single light. The curtains were drawn against the night; behind them I could make out the shadows of two people. I don’t know how long I stood there watching, it might have been ten minutes, it might have been half and hour. My breath was misting in front of my face but I remember it as clear as daylight. One shadow was close to the window, I could see the curtains move slightly. The other shadow was there too, moving rhythmically. Something, though, wasn’t quite right. The first shadow’s movements seemed more vigorous, yet not mirroring the second’s. Suddenly, the first shadow jerked and went limp, the second still moving in that rhythmic way for a moment more. I couldn’t see well through the curtains, but I knew the second shadow had hurled the first away and was bending over it. God! I knew what I was seeing but I couldn’t move to intervene. My mind was screaming Let’s go! Finally something snapped and I flew at the front door. Locked; damn! I threw my entire weight at the door and felt it give. A second time and it caved in. I was inside, the stairs were straight ahead. I ran up, two at a time, searching for the room with the light. There it was; the other end of the landing, the door slightly ajar. I dashed forward, my boots thudding on the thick carpet, the zip from my trailing coat scraping as it caught on the wall. From the room I could hear the sounds of someone laughing; laughing with a maniacal cackle. The door wasn’t locked and it burst open to reveal a nightmare. A man lay on the floor, his half-flayed skin hanging from his body in strips. Blood was gushing from the severed veins and arteries; a crimson tidal wave. Standing on the single bed was a woman dressed in a blouse and mini-skirt. Blood spattered her clothes and she was bare-foot. With one hand she held pieces of bloodied skin; with the other she was pasting them on the walls with the blood of her victim. She spun round as I entered the room; her thick black hair obscured most of her face. Our eyes locked and I could see the complete and utter hatred that blazed within. It was like looking at a wild animal. She dropped the gory handful and leapt through the window amidst a shower of glass and wood. I didn’t waste time looking out. Running down the stairs I was just I time to see her running away down the street leaving a trail of bloody footprints. “Simon Patterson,” said Alf as he read the official police report, “Aged 22.” “I couldn’t see her face; she’ll probably go to ground for now, though.” We were in the local police station so I could give a statement. Alf and I sat across from a pair of police officers, their uniforms obviously uncomfortable from the way they kept shifting in their seats. “So, she ran down the street and disappeared?” asked one of the officers, a short man with close-cropped hair. “She was too fast.” “How high was the first floor window?” “I don’t know.” “High enough to injure yourself if you fell?” I was becoming understandably agitated by this, “Come on guys, we’re on the same side!” “We are. That’s why you’re giving us a statement.” “Well, you sound like the fucking Gestapo!” “Look, we’re just doing our jobs. We have to have all the information. I believe you’re telling the truth but we have to clarify everything for the record.” “Just go easy on the lad, he’s had a hard night of it,” said Alf as he finished reading the report. And he was damned right! No-one should have to see what I saw that night.
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