It’s dark when the time comes. The anticipation and desire has built nicely and I’m pumped. Ready to go. Ready to act. It’s a short walk from here, just a few hundred yards to the house at most, I’m ‘normally’ dressed and there are a few people about. It’s Friday night so it’s to be expected. A varied mix of pub goers are out in force, along with those doing the early chip shop run. I’m not concerned. I’m able to walk past and seamlessly blend in. I cross a metal footbridge near a row of red brick terraced houses over a waterless brook and cut up towards a main crossroads, where the noise emanating from a pub reaches a crescendo. I walk past the open door, feeling the warmth from inside, grateful there are no smokers congregating outside, before turning right onto a quieter street. Barkby Road.
The noise dies down quickly as I walk away from the main road and up towards Joe’s house; a modest two bed terrace that would suit a young couple down to the ground, a perfect first home. It’ll have vacant possession tomorrow. Maybe one of them will buy it if I don’t fuck Joe up too badly. But he deserves fucking up, and those old timber floorboards will have blood oozing through them before the night is out.
I squeeze my rucksack strap hard as some of the anger pulses through my left arm. I turn right again and there’s nobody in the street. Perfect. His house is a terrace but there is a shared entry between his and his neighbours’ house. His neighbours are a young couple who spoke to me several weeks ago when I first came across this place. Across Joe.
Number twelve. A modern uPVC door to the front, nice and secure no doubt, with no obvious way in. But Joe’s been sloppy at the back. Careless, almost. There’s nothing modern about that door. An old timber door with a large glass panel in it, probably not even double glazed. A brick would do the job, or any form of small tool could crack it, and I’d be in within seconds. But thankfully I know that won’t be needed. There’ll be no break-in tonight, and nothing so startling that would trigger an immediate response.
I’ve learned that Joe, of all people, has a cat, but he doesn’t have a catflap, and I know that this is one door that will be both unlocked and with the key in the lock inside anyway. Fucking idiot.
The door to the rear opens into an extended galley style kitchen, typical of this type of property, with a small dining room to the left of the kitchen leading into a seperate lounge to the front, and a downstairs bathroom to the right. I set eyes on him from the darkness as he walks into the kitchen, and quickly crouch down beneath the kitchen window to stay deep in the shadows. Submerged. He drifts back into the front room, where the TV is on to keep him company. It’s inaudible but the white light illuminates the wall between the darkness of the rooms.
The couple next door are in. I can hear their TV is on too, a film. Can’t make out what they’re watching but can picture them cuddled up on the sofa after a week at work, takeaway on their laps and feet up. Maybe he was on the chip shop run earlier, rolling out of ‘Today’s Catch’ with their tea in a carrier bag. The curtains are closed and as long as the noise stays neutral, the evening is mine.
I wait patiently until I’m happy that Joe is settled in the lounge. I wait until he’s finished going back and forth so that he won’t disturb me getting in. He’s sat down, comfy in his front room, I’m sure of it. I’ve waited long enough, I’m ready.
I stand up slowly, and move towards the back door, placing my gloved hand on the handle. I ease the old metal handle downwards, forcing the pressure gently through my arm. I feel the latch drop and start to push the door free from its frame. Just enough. Enough to slide in quickly and without making a noise. I push it back behind me but not fully closed.
Joe must have heard a noise, maybe felt a draught as the door opened and closed. He shouts “Doug!” and I stand still. Rooted to the spot. His fucking cat is called Doug.
He doesn’t come, he doesn’t look.
I’ve slid a cosh out of the side of my rucksack and am gripping it firmly. If he walks in now I’ll need to attack him, overcome him quickly and get him trussed up. It would be a crying shame to start like that, though. There’ll be plenty of time for blunt force.
I make some small steps as I move up the kitchen and to the threshold of the middle room, a small square-ish room with a drop-leaf dining table with a newspaper on it. Nothing on the front pages about William Reynolds. Shame. That would have given me a lot of pleasure, been a nice touch. There are two dining chairs, which surprises me. Joe is another widow and doesn’t strike me as being somebody who shares his dinner table very often. The chairs are old-fashioned, a dark hardwood with a simple padded seat. Timber arms and solid legs. Ideal. He might be able to move it but by the time he’s strapped to one of them he’ll lose energy quickly. Like a fish out of water that I can play with. Tease.
I move through the middle room towards the open doorway, and hear a creak, a noise that sounds like he may be standing up. I can’t see him yet. The door is offset so there’s a wall between us, but not a great deal of distance. Three or four metres at most. I’m close to him now and itching for this to start. A flashback of my time with William Reynolds enters my head. A memory, a good one. This is the best bit. The bit where the fear starts for them, and builds until the realisation lands and to the point where they are stricken. Completely helpless, and mine to pass judgment on.
I wait.
Only a few more seconds and my body is bordering on ecstasy. I feel completely empowered, completely in control. Alive. I’m in his house but very much on my terms.
I wait another minute. A whole minute. It feels like an hour. Contemplating. Deciding whether to turn and walk through the door or to wait for him to come to me. The kitchen and the bathroom are downstairs, typical of an old terrace house, and he’ll need one or the other before too long. A beer, maybe some chocolate from the fridge, a coffee or a loo break. A simple matter of time.
My patience pays off. He’s definitely up and taking a few steps. And then a pause. Maybe looking for his glasses, or the cat. For Doug. I lean, pressing my back against the wall, and take a deep breath. Holding it in and waiting. Controlling my breathing.
He walks slowly through the door and into the dining room. We’re in the same room, separated by nothing. It’s dark and he doesn’t bother to switch the light on. That would have helped. The light switch is on the adjacent wall to me and if he’d gone to it he would have had his back to me, less than two yards away. It would have made an ideal starting point, allowed a clean strike. He walks past me, within a few feet of me. He’s oblivious, and continues to move diagonally towards the kitchen. He stops to yawn, arching his back with his hands.
This is my moment. He’s vulnerable and the adrenaline compels me to move. I push my back gently away from the wall and my body moves upright, supporting my own weight with my feet rooted to the spot. I draw another slow, deep breath, and take a large step forward towards Joe. It’s a good step, a light step.
I barely feel my own body weight transfer, and there’s not a sound. He must be able to sense me behind him now though. Feel me. I resist the urge to strike even though it’s ripping through my body. An inferno burning inside me. So close. He shapes as if he’s about to move forward but stops again. He’s within an arm’s reach now, and with his back to me, but I wait. I’m enjoying this too much so my patience holds. He’s taller than I recall and holds his posture. His head flickers slowly to one side, but without turning fully. I’m directly behind him and motionless.
He won’t be able to see me in his peripheral vision yet, but I think he knows, or at least now suspects, that there are more bodies in the house than just his and Doug’s. I control my breathing, slow it right down consciously, pursing my lips and exhaling slowly before sucking in a final long breath of air.
I should have attacked him by now. Maybe I’ve waited too long. Missed my opportunity. He could have been mine already. I admonish myself for my own arrogance; this could backfire. The line between rushing and waiting is wafer thin, but the first kill has given me the confidence to relish every last second of this. I lift my left leg and place it a few inches further forward. My right hand reaches into an open pocket on the side of the rucksack that is strapped tightly to my back, grabbing what I need and easing it outwards and away from my body.
Joe moves, starts to turn. Knowing but not wanting to accept what’s happening, or what his instinct is now screaming for him to do. Another indecisive old man, not something I was expecting this time around. His head turns to the left, now knowing that he’ll see something; somebody. His shoulders start to turn with the motion. I reach forward, my left hand meeting his neck as his body goes through a critical angle. He reacts, starts to mutter a noise, an inaudible grunt of a noise, as he throws his left arm around, in more of a defensive move than an offensive one. His hand is open so it would be a slap at best. It doesn’t connect.
I grab his arm, and use it to pull him around, his momentum making him spin to his left as our eyes meet for the first time. I can see the fear this time, I can smell it. Then the surprise comes. Our bodies are entangled and my arms overlap his in a dominant position. I can see the fear in the whites of his eyes, the terror on his face. This is better. The proximity is making this so palpable I can taste it. My emotions continue to heighten as my senses overwhelm me.
Joe’s body is now twisted completely, but he’s exposed as he turns. My right hand reaches up. His neck is fully exposed now, with his old skin folding thickly like the nape of a puppy.
No more noise. He’s contorted into a horrible position, rendering himself totally impotent. I hold him tightly with my left hand and pull him in towards me a fraction more, just enough. It opens up the right side of his neck further still.
The needle goes in.