Gideon Fuller came to on his sofa. His mouth was furred and dry, there were two empty bottles of wine next to the sofa and he guessed there would be more lying around in the kitchen.
His head ached as he pieced together the events of the previous night. Dimly he remembered his conversation with the policeman. So they wanted to talk about Dame Elizabeth, did they? Well they would have to wait a bit. He was now, he guessed, more or less on leave from the university. He could hardly turn up for work as though nothing had happened.
He wandered, yawning, into the kitchen of his flat. There were the other two empty bottles by the sink. He put his coffee maker on. He sat down on a chair while he waited.
The press would be round. He’d better look good for them. The last philosopher he could think of who’d killed anyone was Althusser, a Frenchman, who had strangled his wife in 1980. Fuller recalled he had got three years in a psychiatric hospital. More to the point, people still knew his name, which was more than could be said about his Marxist theories, which
now seemed pointless and very dated.
Foucault, another French philosopher specializing in society’s attitude to madness, was rumoured to have knowingly carried on having unprotected sex while diagnosed with Aids. Murder by proxy, death by virus. Fuller didn’t believe the story, but it certainly hadn’t done Foucault’s reputation any harm.
Maybe being linked to a series of murders would do his own career some good.
Fame at last, he thought bitterly.
After his shower he would call his solicitor. He was sure he would get the police off his back soon enough; they’d got no evidence. They couldn’t have. After that he’d have to think hard about his future. Well, he wasn’t going to buckle, that was for sure. He hadn’t survived childhood to be kicked to death on the shores of adulthood. He’d turned his unhappiness into strength before and he would do it again.
What does not kill me makes me stronger.
He made his coffee, strong, black, and went into his bed- room. On the pillow next to his was a familiar face. He was a lot older now and the paint had faded from his feathers so he was virtually monochrome, a dark greenish-black. His one eye looked lovingly at Fuller, and of course he still had only one wing. Fuller automatically pulled the duvet slightly higher so Vulture was covered. He gently patted him on the head. You could always trust Vulture.
He turned on his computer and checked his emails, then he opened his photo files to the one marked Gallagher.
He had built up a file of about fifty images of Animal Play and Pup Play. These were women dressed in dog-style outfits, collar, lead and so on, and an anal plug with a tail. They were engaged in dog-style activities, many of a hard-core sexual nature.
The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.
Nietzsche had nailed it again, he thought. That man was a genius.
His personal favourite was the girl on a choke chain being led to a dog bowl. He opened his wardrobe. Half of it was devoted to his S&M gear. He took down a choke chain and tightened it experimentally round his arm. It felt good. He loved choke chains, the feel of the metal links, the pattern they made on the skin, the sensation of total control. He imagined slipping it round Gallagher’s neck and pulling it taut.
He was becoming obsessed by Gallagher.
Now all he had to do was to get into the classroom where he could place a camera in the interactive whiteboard, grab some good head shots of her and Photoshop them on to his image collection. Then he’d have a better idea of how she’d look as he wanted her, tied up, submissive, helpless.
He wondered, as he stripped off to shower, how he was going to do that, but he smiled grimly to himself. He hadn’t got a first from Magdalen and a Ph.D. for being stupid.
Gallagher should feel honoured. As Nietzsche said: He desires his enemy for himself, as his mark of distinction.
He washed his hair carefully with the shampoo that claimed to thicken and volumize. He felt his mood brightening.