There. That should do it.
The Arcadian stood back, stared at the doll’s house once more. It still didn’t look right. It looked wrong, unbalanced. And that didn’t just niggle away at him when he looked at it; it burned. Inside. Even when he wasn’t looking at it, he knew it was there, could feel it was there. He had wanted perfection. He had failed.
The blonde doll sat at the table where she always sat. Her new friend sat in an armchair next to her. And the Arcadian hated seeing him there.
He wasn’t the one the doll should be with. One look told him that. The Arcadian had done what he could to make the new doll fit in. He had already prepared him before he had gone to the house, what he thought he should look like, be dressed in. His character built up in the Arcadian’s mind, how he would complement the doll already there. But the reality was very different. The fat, legless slob he had discovered just wasn’t right for the doll, not right at all. Not fit to share her house, not worthy of being her companion.
But he had to make do with what was there. The Arcadian had known this one would be different, accepted that. But he hadn’t known just how different. How much of a disappointment it would be.
He looked at the new doll once more. It fell off the chair.
Anger rose within him. He wanted to tear it apart, throw it at the wall. But he didn’t. He just picked it off the floor, plonked it roughly back down again, forcing it down, making it stay.
Maybe I shouldn’t have cut the legs off, he thought. But no. I had to. Because that was the way he was. And that’s the way it has to be done.
So he looked at the doll once more, mentally challenging it not to fall, threatening it with unspeakable tortures and punishments if it did.
It stayed where it was.
The Arcadian smiled. Relieved.
He thought back to the previous night. Shambles. Absolute shambles. But that was good in a way, he thought. That meant they wouldn’t connect the two murders. He thought again, mentally corrected himself. Three murders.
The blonde woman. The only good thing about the previous night.
Killing the man had been most unsatisfactory. No release, no catharsis, nothing. No butterfly. But the woman, that was different. She had been more fun.
Once he had overpowered her – which was easy, because while she stood there in shock, mouth gaping open to scream, he was on her – he stood back, regarded her. Like a butcher deciding which cut would be the most succulent. No, not a butcher. A fishmonger. Because she wasn’t meat, she was female. Smelt different, bled differently. And he had gone to work on her.
Maybe he had been angry with her and let it show. At least with her he had found his catharsis, his release.
No butterfly, though. Or at least not that he had noticed.
And no doll for her either. Yet.
The Arcadian didn’t like women. Never had. The woman who was supposed to have been his mother hadn’t been particularly maternal. And because of that he had nothing but hatred for her.
But he also had reasons to be thankful to her. Because if it hadn’t been for her, he would never have found his true calling, his real identity.
He couldn’t remember his father. He must have had one, but his mother never talked about him, or if she did, his description changed every time. Sometimes he was tall and bald, sometimes short with blond hair. It was only later that he realised what a whore his mother was and that his father could have been any one of a number of men.
That just made him hate her more.
But one thing he did remember. He’d been little, sitting at home in their flat, rehoused again in a high rise in Rotherham, watching TV. His mother had come into the room. He’d known instinctively something was up. She was smiling at him. She never did that unless she was either drunk or about to hit him.
‘Scott,’ she had said, using his real name, his old name, ‘someone’s here to see you.’
She stood aside and let two men into the room. They were both smiling. He felt immediately suspicious. They didn’t look drunk, so it must be the other thing. One of them stepped forward, handed him a present. A red fire engine.
‘You can play with that in a while,’ the man said, kneeling down. ‘We’re just going to have a bit of fun first.’
Up close the man had bad, uneven teeth and his breath smelled. The man stretched out his hands towards him. He looked up, fear and panic gripping him. He saw his mother take some money – big money, notes – off the other man, tuck it down her top and leave the room, closing the door firmly behind them.
Then they had fun with him. Their idea of fun.
No matter how much he screamed, how much he begged, his mother didn’t come back into the room. Not until they were finished. And all that evening she just sat on her own, away from him, drinking. She cried at first. But the tears soon dried up.
That was the first time. But not the last.
And the fire engine was never played with.
That day was the end of his childhood and the start of… something else. His journey to becoming who he was now. Who he could be.
After coming out of the YOI he had done time in for rape and assault, they approached him again. Not to use him any more. He was too old for that. They didn’t fancy him. No. They wanted him to go recruiting. Find new young lovers, just like he used to be, that they could play with.
He didn’t want to at first. Told them where to go, what to do with themselves. But they kept on at him. Reminding him of who had brought him up, the things they had done for him. And they had done things for him. Good things. They had given him days out, holidays. Bought him stuff, toys and clothes.
‘We were your real dads,’ the first one, Brian, had said.
And they had been, really. They had been good to him and he had even got used to Brian’s rotten teeth and breath.
Along with a few other things.
He felt guilty when they said that. So he did what they asked. And it wasn’t too bad. It was fun. He enjoyed it. They even let him join in himself.
Targets were easy. Young single mums who weren’t too choosy. Who wanted to believe everything he said. Give a fake name and he was in. He had to fuck them, which was distasteful, but he just kept in mind what he was getting in the end.
And it worked. Always. Well, nearly always. If it didn’t, just offer money. That usually did the trick.
But something was missing. He didn’t feel right. So he left town. Overnight; there, then gone. Ended up in Birmingham. Stuck in the middle of the country. He liked that.
And that was when he set about making a new identity for himself. That was when he started becoming the Arcadian.
He continued the education had started in prison. Bought books about things that interested him. Went to places that he enjoyed. Found people who shared the things he loved to do. And things were good.
Then he heard his mother had died.
He lost it a bit then. Drinking, drugs, sex, violence. Horror and hatred. Hitting out. Hard. But it was no good. Still he saw her face everywhere. And nothing he took or did could take that away.
Eventually he was spent. Slowly he rebuilt himself. And as he did so, he told himself there would be some changes made. No one would ever hurt him again. In any way at all. In fact, from now on he would be the one doing all the hurting. He would enjoy that. And it would make him perfect.
The new doll fell off its seat once more.
He blinked, the sudden movement bringing him back into the room. How long had he stood there? He didn’t know. He had phased out again.
The doll lay on the floor of the house. The Arcadian felt anger rise once more but controlled it this time. Tamped it down. Instead he went to the cupboard, rummaged around until he found what he wanted. An elastic band. He picked the doll up, forced the band round it. Tied it to the chair. He stood back, admiring his handiwork. Smiled.
That was what you could do, he thought. If you controlled your anger. If you made yourself think. He was pleased with himself.
He looked at the doll’s house once more. Still not right. But the elastic band was better. One thing missing, though. The woman. He checked his pockets. He had enough for a cheap doll. Because that was all she had been really.
He grabbed his jacket, left.
Determined to make some good come of this. Planning what he would do next.