3

Anna took me to what I assumed was her bedroom, although it didn’t have the fittings and fixtures you would expect of a teenage girl’s room. There was a double bed, a set of powerful speakers fixed to an iPod dock, and an electronic contraption that provided a kaleidoscope of mood lighting. That was all we needed.

She was young, but she was definitely experienced. She gave me a whiskey and led me to the bedroom where we sat and talked. They were empty conversations and nothing was gained through them, but they served to put her at ease and to assure that we both wanted what came next. She kissed me and teased me on the bed, running her hand through my hair, down my chest, and then resting it on my thigh. Then she stood up, turned on some soft soul music, and began to slowly and sensually dance. I did taste some alcohol on her breath but she wasn’t drunk. Her confidence was all natural.

She danced with her eyes closed, each of us in our separate worlds and yet linked together in one moment. She swayed to the music, her hips bouncing to the beats, her hands stroking her waist and her thighs to the rhythm.

She wasn’t wearing much but she began to strip. First she kicked off her shoes, and then she peeled off her dress to expose the soft flesh underneath. She opened her eyes and looked at me, making sure I was paying attention, making sure I was enjoying myself. She continued to dance and move in her underwear, advancing on me, teasing me with her outstretched leg before pressing her breasts close to my face and then planting a soft kiss on my forehead.

When she stepped back, she removed her bra and then, watching me all the while, she took off her underwear.

“Are you ready for me, my hero?”

“Oh yes, I’m ready.”

She climbed on top of me, her genitalia pressing against the crotch of my pants. She wrapped her arms around my neck and I saw that twinkle in her eye as she looked at me.

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” She giggled and then pressed her hand against the bulge as she went in for a kiss.

She paused when her fingers brushed against something unexpected and she pulled back, the twinkle gone from her eyes.

“Actually, it’s a knife.”

Her eyes widened in horror and then, seconds later, she gasped, sucking in a breath through tightly pressed lips as the blade of the knife punctured her abdomen.

She made a move to climb off me and I helped by picking her up and tossing her on the bed. The blood had already soaked into my jeans, but it was more tolerable than the wetness from her vagina. I had been caught up in the moment and the thought of consenting to her nakedness had crossed my mind, but not for long.

She seemed too surprised to scream, and she merely lay on the bed, her widened eyes on her stomach as it gushed with blood. I climbed on top of her, straddling her as she had straddled me. There would be no kissing or fondling involved this time, though. I was there only to end her misery.

When Anna was dead, I switched off the radio and left the room in search of the other occupants. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed a kill so much—the buildup, the tension, the climax, everything was perfect. It reminded me of the night I had lost my virginity, the night I had entered Darren’s house and killed his family, knowing he was out there and incapable of stopping me. Of course, Darren was more deserving than she could ever be, but as much as I enjoyed taking the lives of those who deserved death, those who served little purpose on this planet, murder was murder and I enjoyed it either way. This one was also personal, and the personal ones were infinitely more satisfying.

There was a younger boy in another one of the bedrooms. He had his back to the door, a set of headphones pressed to his head, his attention absorbed by an idiot box in the corner. He was talking to his friends through the headpiece, and with the sound of the game, and of his friends bellowing in his ear, he never heard me coming. The room was thick with smoke and as I crept up behind him, I saw the culprit on the floor next to him, a smoking bong. Like his sister the whore, he would die doing what he loved the most.

I didn’t remove the headpiece when I slit his throat, knowing that his gurgling would be incorrectly interpreted by his dimwitted friends, who would probably assume he had taken a break to masturbate over one of his sister’s friends.

I thought the adults in the house would be sleeping and was surprised when I walked in the master bedroom to see an elderly woman doing yoga on the floor. She was twisted into an odd position and saw me enter through a gap in her outstretched legs. She was confused at first, but she reacted more quickly than Anna, immediately springing to her feet.

She raced to the other side of the room and before she even uttered a word, she was throwing an assortment of objects at me, including a mobile phone and a remote control. The room was small and eventually she cornered herself between the bed and the window.

“Please, I have money, I have jewelry,” she begged.

“I want neither.”

I grabbed her throat with my free hand and then stuck the knife under her ribcage. I spent a little longer on her than I did the others, confident she was the last one in the house and that I had all the time in the world. I left my mark on her body and, when I had finished, I left something else in her room.

——

“… local police have been assisted in their efforts by Lester Keats, the detective on The Masquerade case who was recently quoted as saying that The Masquerade is in fact a former local, pictured here just weeks before he killed eight people in town nearly fifteen years ago today. Herman, as you may recall, went to …”

I stared at the image on the television screen above the bar, and then at my reflection in the glass behind it. There was a resemblance, there was no denying that, but not much. I had grown my hair, and as much as I despised having hair on my face, I also had a short beard and mustache. My eyes hadn’t changed much, but that wasn’t a lot to go on. Those who had known me back then would probably be able to recognize me, but I had no friends and I had killed what was left of my family. The pictures no longer did me justice, they never had. After the incident in Whitegate, I went into hiding. I wore a wig until my hair grew, I let my facial hair grow. I also lost weight, turning puppy fat into muscle, serving both to make me unrecognizable and to make me stronger, more agile, and more capable. The problem is—

“… These images, which depict the killer as he is believed to look now, were given to us by the detective. He used pictures from Herman’s childhood and family to piece together this photofit …”

My face fell when I saw the image onscreen. It was luck and nothing more—they had given me a beard that didn’t look too dissimilar to the one I had.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumbled.

I burned everything in the fire, there were no traces of my old life left. I had no friends, no family, no—

“Fuck.” An image of an old and senile lady popped into my head. “How could I forget?”

“They say that’s the first sign of craziness, you know.”

I turned to see a red-faced, bulbous-nosed drunk staring at me with a friendly smile. He looked like a prune and stank like a brewery.

“Really? I thought that was drinking whiskey at three in the afternoon.”

Rudolph chuckled. “No, that’s the first sign of drunkenness. Name’s Marcus, what’s yours?” He held out a hand. I stared at him and wondered whether I really wanted to touch him. His face changed, a look of recollection swamped it, and I knew immediately that he had seen my eyes. He had seen the beard. He knew who I was.

“I know you.” He withdrew his hand.

No. You don’t.

I smiled faintly and turned back to the bar. The barman was now watching me, as was someone else who stood in an open doorway to the back room with a curious expression on his young face. Neither of them had seen the television above the bar, but it didn’t matter, I was outnumbered. I wouldn’t be able to kill the guy next to me and then make it over the bar in time to take down the two barmen. I had sufficiently vented my anger earlier in the day, but more people would need to die because of those television reports, because of Lester Keats.

“I really do,” he pushed.

For your sake, I hope that you don’t.

I wasn’t convinced I could take them all down without creating a fuss, but I would certainly try. The one who couldn’t keep his mouth shut would be the easiest, and once I took him down then—

“I’ve got it!” he barked.

I turned around to face him, my hand tightening around the knife in my pocket. The same blade that had, only hours before, glistened with the tainted blood of a young and promiscuous girl.

“You’re Pamela Brown’s son, right?”

A moment of silence followed, during which he gave me an open-mouthed, expectant stare. I could sense the same expression on the faces of the two men behind the bar as they all waited for my acknowledgment.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said with a vague smile, finally allowing myself to shake his hand.

That’s how these imbeciles’ minds work. They recognize you as a familiar face, but in their search for the correct memory, their brain twists and turns through all of the failed ones until eventually it gets tired, stops, looks around, and picks the closest one. I went from “spree killer and potential serial killer” to “friend’s son” in the time it took this imbecile to take a sip of whiskey.

“So, what are you doing back in town?” He looked infinitely more cheery now that he had a friendly face to gossip with.

I stood and drank what was left of my juice. “I was actually just leaving.”

“Oh, okay.” He looked genuinely disappointed, sensing the loneliness bearing down on him again. Back to the mindless television, the succession of watered-down whiskeys and the habitual self-loathing. “Are you in town for the holidays?

I frowned at him as I slipped my jacket on. “Holidays?”

He gave a short laugh, an utterance of disbelief. “Well, it is Christmas.”

“Oh.”

That went some way toward explaining the fact that the icy, bollock-biting wind that ripped through the country brought with it the sound of tuneless carols sung by hopeless cretins. It also explained the ads and the fact that everywhere I looked I saw posters, commercials, and flyers for children’s toys, comedy DVDs, and cover albums sung by nameless celebrities with all the singing talent of a castrated Wookiee. Yes, of course, Christmas. How could I have forgotten?

Christmas also meant that the anniversary of my first kill was coming up, but that was something I knew, something I would never forget. The fact that it was due not long after I had been outed as The Masquerade only served to increase both my excitement and everyone else’s fear.

“So, you here for long?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“You going to see your mother?”

“Grandmother, actually.”

“I thought she was dead,” he said, looking a little confused.

“Give it time.”