Page 6 of First Blood
I both love and hate this fucking book. I hated it as a child. I feared it as a child. But now it guides me and tells me what must be done.
The first three pages bear straight black lines, shooting diagonally from corner to corner. They are done.
I turn to page 4 with the pen in my hand and realise I can’t mark it complete quite yet. Should I do a part line, halfway across the page until I complete this task?
I sit back, pondering, giving myself a minute to relive the memory of your death. I smile. I enjoyed every second of your demise.
Each one soothes another layer of my pain.
You got into my car so easily, you stupid bastard, because you thought I was just like you. You were tempted by my promises of the freedom to satisfy your disgusting pleasures. You didn’t know me but I knew you. You see, I’ve listened. I always listen, it’s what I do and I know everything you ever did.
I made you piss yourself, King Louis. A bonus, an added pleasure and a true exhibition of terror. You could not have gratified me more; the stench of the urine as it seeped through your clothes was like the aroma of a sweet summer flower to me. Because it stank of your fear.
You see, that’s exactly what I was after, you bastard. It’s your fear I wanted. It feeds my soul. It satisfies me. It’s what I crave and so far you’re the only one to exceed my expectations.
How did it feel, King Louis, given your own reign of terror?
I wish I could have felt your distress but I have felt plenty enough of my own. And now no one will fear you ever again.
My thoughts are now tired of you and return to the page. I hate that I cannot put a line through and mark it complete. The King is dead but the Queen still lives.
My gaze catches a few words from the page and I cannot help the tears that spring to my eyes.
I brush them away. Those emotions are no good to me. They didn’t help me then and they don’t help me now.
Rage is better. Blind fury gets the job done and there is still so much to do.
But it’s too late to stop that damn memory seeping into my brain.
A soft, cajoling voice that says,
‘Go on, it’s time to fetch the book.’
Chapter Five
Detective Sergeant Kevin Dawson opened one eye and employed every sense he could locate before fully emerging from the cocoon of sleep.
Where the hell was he this morning?
Okay, there was no sheet beneath him, his legs were bent and the fabric of the sofa was velour, green velour.
The single pillow beneath his head had a faint smell of Chinese takeaway.
Terry’s flat, he realised, as the man himself came through the door from the kitchen with a mug of something.
He smiled gratefully, not even sure what the liquid was.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, inhaling the aroma of strong black coffee. He took a sip. Too bloody strong. ‘Where’d we end up last night?’ he asked, looking around for his stuff.
‘Where didn’t we?’ Terry asked. ‘After your fourth pint, I couldn’t get you to listen to a word I was saying. You had a skinful.’
Dawson remembered telling his friend that he only wanted to go for a couple, just to take the edge off his misery, and to calm down his anger.
At many things.
Not least that he’d been pulled from a big team in Brierley Hill to work in a smaller team, in a smaller station with the biggest bitch in the force. He had the unnerving feeling of sitting facing forward but moving backwards, like being on a train. And forward movement was the only thing he was interested in.
Not that he’d ever met her but he’d heard the stories, knew she couldn’t work with anyone for longer than a case or two. She’d been moved around the borough more often than the five-a-side football trophy. As far as he was concerned, there was no smoke without fire.
