Mother's Boy
Hello Everybody,
So first post, the one no-one's going to read, and I'm posting fic. This is an original short story written for the crime prompt in Writing Magazine. It didn't make the short-list and so I'm putting it out here. If you do stumble across this little post please leave feedback. Construtive Crit is always welcome.
Note to Self: Must sort out an icon or two
She hadn’t been good enough.
Adam knew this with absolute certainty as he carefully placed the lock of smooth dark hair into a tiny plastic bag. He stuck it next to her picture, the one he took just before he left her. At the top of the page he neatly wrote ‘Rachel’. He didn’t know her surname. It didn’t worry him, he was sure he would by the end of the day.
He took a moment to flick back through the pages. A fresh faced young woman, each in an identical pose, adorned every page with a meticulously bagged lock of hair. Underneath the pictures were bullet pointed notes.
As he closed the scrapbook Adam pondered how many damaged girls were in the world. He’d taken eight now. Each had breathed her last under his fingers. The rush of power as their lives left them had been pleasurable it was true, but nothing compared to what fantasy had promised.
It was the girl’s fault. If they had been unspoiled it would have been sublime. Instead there was this yawning disappointment. They were too late to be saved. He was too late to stop them turning into Mother. Adam lifted the bare mattress and slipped the scrapbook underneath. Next time it would be different. Next time she would be good enough. He smiled to himself, already anticipating the event, and left Mother’s room.
***
Adam smoothed down the expensive material of his grey suit, and admired himself in the mirror. He knew he was good looking with his tall trim figure and trustworthy eyes the colour of polished steel. He accentuated it by putting effort into his appearance. Mother wouldn’t have allowed anything else. He was a reflection on her after all.
After Mother’s death Adam had revelled in his freedom, enjoyed all the things she’d denied him for fear of triggering any legacy of Him. Adam considered it strange then, that he hadn’t indulged in slovenliness, but he couldn't bare the thought of it.
His looks helped anyway. Women thought the killer would have a monstrous visage. That they would be able to tell by looking at him. They suspect the unbalanced middle-aged man who makes them feel uncomfortable with his odd mannerisms. They guard against him looming out of the darkness to spirit them away with frenzied strength and evil eyes.
They didn’t suspect the charming man who offers them a lift with a wide, open smile. Who says that he’s worried about them walking alone, and offers his I.D. to prove he’s ‘safe’.
They didn’t suspect him.
None of them hesitated long before sliding gratefully into his car. Each of them twittered away; thanking him for his kindness, discussing the weather, letting slip those delicious little details of their lives that he would relish at the end of the night. And the surprise on their stupid faces when they realised he was their nightmare was exquisite!
Adam checked his appearance one last time, slicked a rogue hair back into place, grabbed his keys and left the house. He unlocked his sleek black Jaguar with the press of a button and slid into the drivers seat. It still had the new car smell of fresh leather. Adam breathed deeply. After Mother’s death this car was the first thing he’d bought with the money she’d saved. Money he’d earned and she’d commandeered, leaving him with nothing but a meagre allowance.
Mother had known. She’d seen the demon within him, seen Him in the maimed animals of his childhood. Mother had sort to control it. She restricted his money, activities, freedom and independence to keep him as reliant on her as a circus lion on his tamer. He hated her.
Still, he had been victorious in the end. Triumph had come in a needle of narcotics, administered when she had once more drunk away the memories of Him. She’d roused from her stupor as it slid into her dry skin, but by then it was too late. Her horror at his rebellion had been gratifying. Adam had relished soothing her into death with a lullaby of grievances.
He ran his hand along the smooth line of the pristine dashboard, and down to the glossy ignition button. The engine came to life with a rich rumble. Adam sighed in satisfaction. The car was a suitable reward for freeing himself of Mother.
***
Seven familiar faces stared out at him from the front page of every paper. Adam let his gaze sweep across them all, enjoying the fear and panic he’d created. He was the talk of the nation. People couldn’t get enough of his work, craving more and more detail. The papers provided. Immortalising him without knowing his face.
They loved him in a twisted way, fascinated by his acts. Adam knew he was a legend. A god.
He knew the names of all the girls. He knew the names of their close family and friends as well, and how they spent their lives from waking in the morning to going to bed at night. Each piece of information was sacred knowledge of what he’d saved, and destroyed. Each fragment of them recorded in the scrapbook to be savoured at length.
The headlines asked if the girls knew their killer. Adam scoffed inwardly at their presumption they wouldn‘t trust someone they didn‘t know. He knew that with the right countenance, words and gestures you could win over even the most suspicious person. Idiots! Editors and women alike.
Adam picked up a copy of The Mirror and scanned the article. The police had released a profile of the killer. It sounded vaguely like him, but then it sounded vaguely like a lot of men. He wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t catch him. He was too clever.
He took the paper to the till, and queued behind an elderly women buying The Mail. She had a formidable build and brusque, bossy tone as she spoke to the newsagent. She reminded him of Mother. Too late to be saved.
They were talking about him. Speculating about the murders the way vultures pick at carrion. Adam imagined how the old battleaxe would look if she realised the killer was behind her. She’d probably keel over with fright. It was a pleasurable notion.
As if sensing his thoughts she turned and noticed him. She side-stepped to allow Adam access to the till while still gossiping. He stepped forward, laid his paper on the counter, and fished a pound coin out of his pocket while listening to the woman pontificate on the evils of modern society.
‘What has the world come to when a woman can’t walk home safely?! I remember when we could leave our doors unlocked. You could trust people then…’
Adam snorted at her . Obviously the police had been underworked and overpaid in her day. Her myopia was amusing. Human dishonesty was a constant.
The grey permed head turned to him. She stared with penetrating eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. Adam felt naked before her, revealed. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He pulled himself up to his full height and regarded her with innocent eyes. It wasn‘t hard. He felt no guilt to show.
She didn’t avert her intense gaze as she continued, “The police should do something.”
The newsagent handed Adam his change. Adam thanked him, smiling disarmingly at the busybody as he left.
***
The door was opened by a middle-aged policeman. He nodded grimly to Adam and moved aside to let him through before shutting it again.
‘Looks like it’s another one,’ he said without preamble, softening his gruff voice to prevent it carrying. ‘Rachel Stanton. Twenty. Failed to return home last night after going to the cinema with friends. Her flatmate, Tara Wood, realised at half seven this morning.’ He cocked his head to indicate a door to Adam’s right. ‘ PC Glenning’s liasing.’
Without another word he turned and opened the door. Adam followed him into a living room. It had a relaxed look with books strewn haphazardly on mismatched furniture. The fireplace had been turned into a feature with half-used candles, and on the mantle was a picture of Rachel with three other girls.
A policewoman sat on a half-collapsed sofa. Next to her was a slender girl with blonde curls. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. A cup of tea sat untouched on the coffee table in front of her. Adam realised she was in the mantle picture with Rachel. He cleared his throat.
PC Glenning looked up and acknowledged him with a small smile. She was young and innocent, but tainted by the things she’d seen on the job. Not good enough.
‘Tara,’ she said gently. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Adam Walker. He has some questions for you.’
At Tara’s small nod of acceptance Adam sat in a well-worn chair opposite her. He leant forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands loosely intertwined. ‘Tara, can you tell me when you last saw Rachel?’
So first post, the one no-one's going to read, and I'm posting fic. This is an original short story written for the crime prompt in Writing Magazine. It didn't make the short-list and so I'm putting it out here. If you do stumble across this little post please leave feedback. Construtive Crit is always welcome.
Note to Self: Must sort out an icon or two
She hadn’t been good enough.
Adam knew this with absolute certainty as he carefully placed the lock of smooth dark hair into a tiny plastic bag. He stuck it next to her picture, the one he took just before he left her. At the top of the page he neatly wrote ‘Rachel’. He didn’t know her surname. It didn’t worry him, he was sure he would by the end of the day.
He took a moment to flick back through the pages. A fresh faced young woman, each in an identical pose, adorned every page with a meticulously bagged lock of hair. Underneath the pictures were bullet pointed notes.
As he closed the scrapbook Adam pondered how many damaged girls were in the world. He’d taken eight now. Each had breathed her last under his fingers. The rush of power as their lives left them had been pleasurable it was true, but nothing compared to what fantasy had promised.
It was the girl’s fault. If they had been unspoiled it would have been sublime. Instead there was this yawning disappointment. They were too late to be saved. He was too late to stop them turning into Mother. Adam lifted the bare mattress and slipped the scrapbook underneath. Next time it would be different. Next time she would be good enough. He smiled to himself, already anticipating the event, and left Mother’s room.
***
Adam smoothed down the expensive material of his grey suit, and admired himself in the mirror. He knew he was good looking with his tall trim figure and trustworthy eyes the colour of polished steel. He accentuated it by putting effort into his appearance. Mother wouldn’t have allowed anything else. He was a reflection on her after all.
After Mother’s death Adam had revelled in his freedom, enjoyed all the things she’d denied him for fear of triggering any legacy of Him. Adam considered it strange then, that he hadn’t indulged in slovenliness, but he couldn't bare the thought of it.
His looks helped anyway. Women thought the killer would have a monstrous visage. That they would be able to tell by looking at him. They suspect the unbalanced middle-aged man who makes them feel uncomfortable with his odd mannerisms. They guard against him looming out of the darkness to spirit them away with frenzied strength and evil eyes.
They didn’t suspect the charming man who offers them a lift with a wide, open smile. Who says that he’s worried about them walking alone, and offers his I.D. to prove he’s ‘safe’.
They didn’t suspect him.
None of them hesitated long before sliding gratefully into his car. Each of them twittered away; thanking him for his kindness, discussing the weather, letting slip those delicious little details of their lives that he would relish at the end of the night. And the surprise on their stupid faces when they realised he was their nightmare was exquisite!
Adam checked his appearance one last time, slicked a rogue hair back into place, grabbed his keys and left the house. He unlocked his sleek black Jaguar with the press of a button and slid into the drivers seat. It still had the new car smell of fresh leather. Adam breathed deeply. After Mother’s death this car was the first thing he’d bought with the money she’d saved. Money he’d earned and she’d commandeered, leaving him with nothing but a meagre allowance.
Mother had known. She’d seen the demon within him, seen Him in the maimed animals of his childhood. Mother had sort to control it. She restricted his money, activities, freedom and independence to keep him as reliant on her as a circus lion on his tamer. He hated her.
Still, he had been victorious in the end. Triumph had come in a needle of narcotics, administered when she had once more drunk away the memories of Him. She’d roused from her stupor as it slid into her dry skin, but by then it was too late. Her horror at his rebellion had been gratifying. Adam had relished soothing her into death with a lullaby of grievances.
He ran his hand along the smooth line of the pristine dashboard, and down to the glossy ignition button. The engine came to life with a rich rumble. Adam sighed in satisfaction. The car was a suitable reward for freeing himself of Mother.
***
Seven familiar faces stared out at him from the front page of every paper. Adam let his gaze sweep across them all, enjoying the fear and panic he’d created. He was the talk of the nation. People couldn’t get enough of his work, craving more and more detail. The papers provided. Immortalising him without knowing his face.
They loved him in a twisted way, fascinated by his acts. Adam knew he was a legend. A god.
He knew the names of all the girls. He knew the names of their close family and friends as well, and how they spent their lives from waking in the morning to going to bed at night. Each piece of information was sacred knowledge of what he’d saved, and destroyed. Each fragment of them recorded in the scrapbook to be savoured at length.
The headlines asked if the girls knew their killer. Adam scoffed inwardly at their presumption they wouldn‘t trust someone they didn‘t know. He knew that with the right countenance, words and gestures you could win over even the most suspicious person. Idiots! Editors and women alike.
Adam picked up a copy of The Mirror and scanned the article. The police had released a profile of the killer. It sounded vaguely like him, but then it sounded vaguely like a lot of men. He wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t catch him. He was too clever.
He took the paper to the till, and queued behind an elderly women buying The Mail. She had a formidable build and brusque, bossy tone as she spoke to the newsagent. She reminded him of Mother. Too late to be saved.
They were talking about him. Speculating about the murders the way vultures pick at carrion. Adam imagined how the old battleaxe would look if she realised the killer was behind her. She’d probably keel over with fright. It was a pleasurable notion.
As if sensing his thoughts she turned and noticed him. She side-stepped to allow Adam access to the till while still gossiping. He stepped forward, laid his paper on the counter, and fished a pound coin out of his pocket while listening to the woman pontificate on the evils of modern society.
‘What has the world come to when a woman can’t walk home safely?! I remember when we could leave our doors unlocked. You could trust people then…’
Adam snorted at her . Obviously the police had been underworked and overpaid in her day. Her myopia was amusing. Human dishonesty was a constant.
The grey permed head turned to him. She stared with penetrating eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. Adam felt naked before her, revealed. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He pulled himself up to his full height and regarded her with innocent eyes. It wasn‘t hard. He felt no guilt to show.
She didn’t avert her intense gaze as she continued, “The police should do something.”
The newsagent handed Adam his change. Adam thanked him, smiling disarmingly at the busybody as he left.
***
The door was opened by a middle-aged policeman. He nodded grimly to Adam and moved aside to let him through before shutting it again.
‘Looks like it’s another one,’ he said without preamble, softening his gruff voice to prevent it carrying. ‘Rachel Stanton. Twenty. Failed to return home last night after going to the cinema with friends. Her flatmate, Tara Wood, realised at half seven this morning.’ He cocked his head to indicate a door to Adam’s right. ‘ PC Glenning’s liasing.’
Without another word he turned and opened the door. Adam followed him into a living room. It had a relaxed look with books strewn haphazardly on mismatched furniture. The fireplace had been turned into a feature with half-used candles, and on the mantle was a picture of Rachel with three other girls.
A policewoman sat on a half-collapsed sofa. Next to her was a slender girl with blonde curls. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. A cup of tea sat untouched on the coffee table in front of her. Adam realised she was in the mantle picture with Rachel. He cleared his throat.
PC Glenning looked up and acknowledged him with a small smile. She was young and innocent, but tainted by the things she’d seen on the job. Not good enough.
‘Tara,’ she said gently. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Adam Walker. He has some questions for you.’
At Tara’s small nod of acceptance Adam sat in a well-worn chair opposite her. He leant forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands loosely intertwined. ‘Tara, can you tell me when you last saw Rachel?’