MIKE HAMILTON KNOWS HE IS onto something. He has that feeling like an invisible hook tugging at his gut. Detective Inspector Grace Archer, daughter of a murdered police officer (a killing sanctioned by Frankie ‘Snow’ White, no less), abductee, and the only surviving victim of serial child killer, Bernard Morrice. And here she is, back in the news, pitted against another wacko serial killer. It is a delicious story that barely needs embellishment, but it is missing that key element: Archer’s viewpoint. He still hasn’t heard back from her and has done everything she’s asked including sending her the article for approval and the photographs. He is getting impatient and wants to speak with her, but she has taken to ignoring his texts and phone calls again.
Fucking bitch!
Sitting at his desk he can only half hear the drone of journalist jabber, the rapping of plastic keys and the never-ending ring of telephones.
‘How do I make this happen?’ he asks himself. She’s as stubborn as a mule. He tuts at himself for thinking such a clichéd simile. You’re a journalist, a writer, for Chrissake! Not some bottom-of-the-ladder hack.
He shuts his eyes tightly, rubs his rough cheeks and tries to think.
Over the past week he has divided his focus between Archer’s dubious past and the @nonymous murders. His concentration on the formidable, and let’s be honest, foxy Grace Archer, has caused him some criticism, but that doesn’t bother him. Sales are up and that’s all that matters. But it’s just not enough for him.
‘What’s up, Mike?’ asks Katy.
Mike sighs and frowns. ‘I’m busy, if you don’t mind.’
He can sense Katy looking at his computer, where he has opened an online story from the archives on Bernard Morrice and his final victim, Danny Jobson.
‘I saw a piece in the Express online.’
‘Good for you.’
‘An interview with Danny Jobson’s parents.’
Mike feels his body tensing. How the fuck did the Express get that?
‘So what?’
‘Our sales figures have dropped. Theirs are up. Thought you might like to know.’
And with that bombshell Katy turns and leaves. Mike feels his neck flush red. Katy’s rebellion has begun. She is getting her own back. He is irritated but also impressed. Maybe she’ll make a good reporter after all.
He rereads the old Danny Jobson article and has a thought. Grace Archer has never quite recovered from his death. She tried to save him, but failed. He thinks about Jordan Kelly, who is still missing. Mike sits up, unaware of the grin that has spread on his face. He can see the headline now: CAN DETECTIVE INSPECTOR GRACE ARCHER DO FOR JORDAN KELLY WHAT SHE COULDN’T DO FOR DANNY JOBSON? It’s sounds a little harsh, but he’ll work on that.
But not here. At home. He may have to work late.
He closes down his laptop, disconnects it from the docking bay and slips it into his shoulder bag.
He catches the bus home to his one-bedroom flat in Hackney, which has the convenience and class of being situated above a kebab shop called AbraKEBABra.
AbraKE – fucking – BABra.
Give me strength!
As if that isn’t bad enough, the hot stench of processed lamb and fried onions is forever present. He can never leave the windows open. He made that mistake once before only to come back and find the entire place reeked like the foetid sweat of a Bedouin’s bollocks. He had to buy several cans of Febreze spray to ‘gypsy-wash’ his curtains, duvet and the clean washing he had left hanging on the clotheshorse. It almost put him off kebabs for life, but he managed to get over that phase.
All that said, the flat is only temporary, or at least has been for the last four years.
He can afford nothing better. With two failed marriages, crippling alimony and debts to make your hair stand on end, there is no way he will be upgrading anytime soon. Not until he gets round to finishing his magnum opus and commands a six-figure deal from one of the big publishers. That day will come. He is sure of it. In the meantime, he has other fish to fry.
Next door to AbraKEBABra is a grocery store, where he picks up a six-pack of Foster’s, reduced in price because it’s slightly past its sell-by date. It might be kangaroo piss of the worst kind, but at that price he will willingly drink from the marsupial’s cock.
He stands at the white uPVC front door between the grocery store and the kebab shop and fishes for his keys.
‘Hello, Mr Hamilton. How are you?’ says Mr Bahadir aka Mr AbraKEBABra.
Hamilton remembers he is behind on his rent.
Fucking hell!
He grimaces as he frantically searches for his keys. ‘Hello, Mr Bahadir. I’m fine. How are you?’ A cold sweat covers his body but he is relieved to find the keys, and shoves one into the keyhole. ‘Nice to see you. Goodnight, Mr Bahadir. Goodnight!’ Hamilton turns the lock and pushes the door open.
‘One moment, Mr Hamilton.’
‘Fuck,’ mutters Hamilton. He pulls out his phone and points to it with a faux apologetic expression. ‘Must take this call.’ He hurries inside shouting hello down the phone at no one and closes the door shut behind him. The last thing he wants is another of Bahadir’s passive-aggressive confrontations on why his rent is late again.
He pushes the timer light.
White light fills the narrow stairwell with its worn red lino. He climbs up to the small landing, unlocks the flat door and enters. The beer is weighing heavily on his arm and he is thirsty. He makes his way into the tiny kitchen, opens one of the dented cans and drinks it down. The cold amber kangaroo piss stings the back of his throat but lifts his spirits.
It’s midnight when Hamilton polishes off the last of the beer and lets out a loud belch that almost makes the walls shudder. He rubs his eyes, which are sore from spending the entire evening typing his Jordan Kelly and Danny Jobson story.
On the streets below he hears the drunken hollering from the closing-time crowd as they spill out of the pubs and queue for the exotic delights of AbraKEBABra to soak up their beer and cheap cocktails.
Hamilton stands up but feels a giddiness that makes him wobble on his feet. He lifts his arms to right his balance.
‘Steady on, you old fucker,’ he mutters and stumbles into the bedroom. Unwashed underwear and socks litter the floor. Kicking off his shoes, he climbs into bed with his clothes still on. His body has had enough for the night, his eyes begin to close and soon sleep washes over him.
He wakes sometime later to the creak of a floorboard. He has a pounding headache and a bloated bladder.
He sits up.
The room is dark. He doesn’t remember switching off the lights, but then he did drink a skinful. The bedroom door is ajar and a slice of yellow light cuts through from the living room. The voices outside are gone. The only sound is the occasional beep of a car horn.
He hears breathing, deep and unfamiliar. He freezes, thinking he must be imagining things, but isn’t so sure.
‘Who’s there?’ he says, his voice trembling.
He sees the silhouette of an arm swing up and close the bedroom door, plunging the room into darkness.
‘Mr Bahadir, is that you?’
He wonders if Bahadir isn’t the weak-minded fool he takes him for. Perhaps he and his dodgy foreign mates have come to rough him up for not paying his rent again.
Hamilton points at the darkness. ‘I’m with the press, you know. I’m important. Don’t any of you think of laying one finger on me.’
The light switches on. It’s glaringly bright causing Hamilton to shield his eyes but in a single moment he catches a glimpse of a solitary dark figure standing at the end of his bed. As his eyes adjust to the light he takes in the intruder.
His mouth begins to dry and he starts to shake uncontrollably.
It’s him. But it can’t be. Why would he be here?
Standing in front of him is a man dressed in a dark hoodie. He wears a pale expressionless mask with a large bleeding red ‘@’ sign daubed over one eye. He is holding Hamilton’s phone with a gloved hand and taking pictures of him in bed.
‘Who are you?’ asks Hamilton. ‘What do you want?’
‘Time to pay for your sins, Mr Hamilton.’ The voice is deep, guttural, cold.
Hamilton shakes his head. ‘No, please. They made me do it. I didn’t mean to write that stuff. Please don’t hurt me.’ He slides across the bed with an idea he might make a run past him but the man is blocking the door as he fiddles with his phone. After a moment he sets it on the dresser with the camera lens pointing toward them.
Hamilton moves finally and makes a dash for the door, but @nonymous grabs him. He is strong.
‘Please don’t hurt me!’
The killer spins him round to face the camera. Hamilton can see his own terrified expression in his bedroom mirror.
‘Apologise for that article. Apologise to the people for writing that trash about me,’ he whispers into Hamilton’s ear.
‘I’m sorry for what I wrote. I won’t do it again. I promise.’
‘Tell them how wrong it was to write that article and how pathetic you are.’
Hamilton trembles and feels warm piss flow down his legs. ‘Oh God, please!’
‘Tell them!’ he hisses.
‘I was wrong for writing that article. I’m a pathetic hack. I should have known better.’
@nonymous drags him back to the bed and shoves a pair of underpants from the floor into his mouth. He then gags him with one of his ties, which he secures with a tight knot. Hamilton tries to break free but he is frightened and weak. The killer straddles him and lifts one of his hands in view of the camera. He produces a pair of garden secateurs and pinches Hamilton’s thumb with the razor-sharp blades.
‘Say bye bye!’
‘Nooo!’ shrieks Hamilton, his voice muffled by the gag.
The intruder squeezes the blades on his thumb, the skin breaks and warm blood flows down his hand and wrist. The pain intensifies, Hamilton screams as the intruder squeezes harder cutting into the bone and tugging at his thumb. He tries to pull away but his assailant laughs and tugs harder until the thumb is wrenched from his hand. Blood splashes on Hamilton’s damp face, electric white pain surges through his body. Sweat saturates his skin, tears stream from his eyes as he stares up at the bloody hole where his thumb once was.
‘One down. Nine to go!’
The blades of the secateurs bite into his index finger. He screams at the blinding pain which sends shock waves through his system. His head begins to spin and he, mercifully, passes out.