A full week had expired since Black’s departure from Ireland. The slopes of St. Moritz were a pleasant diversion but he hungered for news. As he strolled through the local mall, a sign, denoting newsagent, attracted him to the premises. Being fluent in French he had no problem deciphering the headline. ‘Tragedy in Belfast,’ Passively reading through the article, which the French paper described as another night of mindless violence, he smirked at the Gallic sense of drama as the article went on to describe the event in graphic detail. ‘You Frenchies certainly have a way with words. Nothing squeamish in your representation of the facts,’ he commented aloud. Leering avidly, he recalled his interlude with the boy. A familiar stirring resulted as he recounted the mother’s futile struggles to free herself, presumably to come to the boy’s aid. Enthralled he read on attaining a sensual high as the writer described the message inscribed with the blood of his victims. An almost concise account of the fateful evening’s events was reported, omitting nothing, save for the actual text of the gory graffiti. He was slightly disappointed with the omission, after all, had he not left the message as a warning to others. He sneered at the assumption that an attack such as his must be the act of a criminally insane person. Police are so predictable, just as poor Maurice had said. He smiled, picturing their amateur bumbling and felt absolutely marvellous. The murderer continued reading, absorbing every detail, with each word his ego soared but what was this?
‘Fuck,’ he screamed, causing a young mother to gather her fledgling to her side. He was made aware of his indiscretion by the vision of sheer horror on the young mother’s face, ‘Sorry,’ the apology was barely audible. Placing a note on the counter paying for his purchase he quickly fled the premises. Bile was rising; he could taste its bitterness as he reread the offending portion of the article. He had to get away, find a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. The urge to scream was almost beyond control. No one on the planet should hear him for they would recognise his despair, be a party to his failure. In agitation he flustered fumbling with his car keys. They spilled from his gloved hand. With growing anger and frustration he watched as they hit the snow’s surface only to disappear from view. Why was this happening? Nathan venomously glared at the spot before falling to his knees. Scrambling around in the freezing whiteness his frustration expanded. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he growled, as if expecting an answer from the errant key ring. At last his fingers made contact. Snapping them up he rose to his full height looking vehemently skyward. Realising for the first time what an idiotic display he was presenting he glanced, left and right, to see if anyone was observing the performance. In an effort to compose himself he gulped in a deep breath of alpine air. It was useless; Nathan was closer to panic that he had ever been in his entire life. Turning the key in the lock he wrenched open the Renault’s door. Thankfully he was at last inside. Much better. Slightly more in control he attempted to start the vehicle. The engine turned and spluttered but refused to start. Over and over, several times, he tried but the stupid contraption seemed to be challenging him, no it was laughing at him. Anxiety rising, he made another attempt but the damn thing refused to ignite. Black was beside himself. In desperation and now seething, he thumped the dashboard injuring his hand in the process. Pain shot up his arm causing him to swear as he glared at the point of impact but the self-inflicted agony did have a calming affect. He took another deep breath, sat quite still for a few moments before retrying to start the car. ‘Choke,’ he murmured, as if aiding a third party. With a sigh he tugged at the small knob withdrawing the implement halfway. ‘Steady now Nathan, you are acting highly irrationally,’ he advised himself. Pulling the car’s visor down he examined himself in the vanity mirror. ‘Flushed,’ he muttered, ‘Have to get out of here. His imagination was running riot; he could feel people’s eyes boring into his back. Peering into his soul as if they were privy to his innermost secrets. Staring straight ahead he tried again to start the car. Two turns of the key and miraculously the thing burst into life. Foot to the board he screamed away from the kerb. The rear-end of the vehicle slewed toward the centre of the road causing a motor cyclist to swerve and lose control. ‘Fuck,’ he yelled, expertly fighting the skid. He glanced in the rear-view mirror; to see the motor cyclist gingerly picking himself from the ice covered surface. The sight brought a smile as he distanced himself from the scene. Several seconds had elapsed before he allowed himself another peek in the mirror. The town had faded into the distance. An icy roar attacked his hearing as he opened the window and in an instant the car’s interior dropped to below freezing. He felt invigorated as the chilling wind’s sub-zero temperature achieved the desired effect. Satisfied that no one had given chase he eased back on the accelerator and began his search for a suitable place to stop. A few miles further along the road he rounded a bend and was past it before his brain had time to register. The perfect spot, a picnic area for passing campers was totally deserted, as it should be considering the time of year. Decelerating he made a U-turn before making his way back to the lay-by. Hardly allowing the vehicle time to come to a halt he snatched up the newspaper. Snapping on the interior light, Nathan scanned down the article until he came to the offending paragraph. ‘Tragically the husband of Clara and father of the two innocents, George Blackmore, could not live with the horror of his family’s tragic end. Who can tell what goes through a man’s psyche when confronting trauma such as this? Perhaps he felt guilty because of his absence and therefore unable to defend his loved ones. Or more likely he decided that his life was worthless without them. We shall never know because the bereaved father took his own life in the most horrific way possible.’ The article went on to describe in detail how the heart-broken father had brought about his own tragic demise but Black had ceased reading long before that. ‘Fuck you!’ howled the murderer, flying into an uncontrollable rage. His body was close to convulsion as he ripped and tore at the paper. ‘You horrible cowardly bastard Blackmore,’ he ranted. ‘You cheated me, you were meant to suffer.’ Tears of hatred and frustration gushed over his florid cheeks. Nathan Black sat in the Renault for three hours awaiting darkness. His sense of failure was, in his sick mind, a tangible advertisement to others. He did not want strangers to observe a useless figure who had fallen at the first hurdle. And what of Jason? What must he be thinking as he looks down from on high? Thankfully darkness finally cast it’s comforting cape upon him. Having gained most of his self-control he drove sedately back to the hotel, where he settled his account before making his way to the airport. There was only one way to restore his self-esteem and that was to kill again. The sooner the better. ‘I’m so sorry my beloved,’ he uttered, speaking to Jason. ‘I swear that I shall make them pay even if it takes a thousand of the bastards.’