Page 8 of The Taskmaster
I shoved the plastic bag over his head, pulling it back so I could watch the life drain out of him. Then I lifted my knife, and I stabbed it into his stomach. He howled, his face twisting in agony through the plastic. I pulled the knife out and then stabbed again, right into his abdomen. Then another stab, right into his rancid cock. Over and over, I stabbed, pulverising him, turning the lap he’d forced me to sit on into something that resembled the contents of a cherry pie.
I smiled as I looked down at him, struggling to grasp onto his hold in this life. Eventually, his cries subsided, but my stabs continued. I didn’t want to stop. And I laughed at how fucking ironic it was... Cherry Man and his cherry pie lap. It was fucking perfect.
My breaths were ragged, my smile wide as another scar they’d created turned into a trophy. My trophy to savour and feel proud of. Another name had been ticked off my kill list.
Was it really so bad to kill people like this? People like him?
I didn’t think so.
They fucking deserved it, and I wouldn’t stop until I’d ended the life of every single sick motherfucker that’d destroyed mine. It was a fair trade. Their life for the one I lost.
Eventually, I let the bloody knife clatter to the floor and took a step back to admire my work. It was fucking beautiful. And for a moment, I could breathe a little easier. But I knew that feeling wouldn’t last long.
I went over to the table and took the bolt cutters, then I walked back over to him and slid the cutters under the leather straps that’d held him in place. I pressed down hard, cutting the first strap, then did the same to the second. His body slumped forward, and I threw the cutters to the floor. I ripped the plastic bag off his head and grabbed a handful of his hair in my fist.
“Time to eat, you motherfucking piece of shit,” I hissed, and I forced his head forward, right into his bloody lap, imagining him eating that cherry pie I’d made, and I started to laugh. “Tastes good doesn’t it, the sweetness of revenge.”
‘They’ll find you.’His words echoed in my mind, and he was right... and wrong. There were more of them out there, I knew that. But I’d find them before they ever found me. I was just getting started.
Chapter Five
THE TASKMASTER
After disposing of the body in a vat of acid in a polypropylene drum and cleaning up my kill room, leaving it ready for my next guest, I headed home.
I still had unreleased energy, so I decided to do a few rounds on my door-mounted pull-up bar. The TV was playing in the background as I worked on strengthening my arms, back, and core muscles. This helped improve my grip and overall upper body stability too. Something I needed to be on top of in my line of work. Murder victims didn’t restrain and kidnap themselves. It was a tough business. Hard on the body. If you didn’t stay in peak physical condition, you’d mess up. That’s why I’d installed this bar. I wasn’t really a gym kind of guy. I preferred to work alone, and I moved around a lot. I didn’t have the time or inclination to collect more sophisticated equipment. But sometimes, simple worked just as well. And who knew when I’d have to haul ass and disappear again. Not me. I lived day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes less than that.
The reporter on the news started talking about the disappearance of a number of local men, all in their late fifties and older. I let go of the bar as she listed the names.
“Frederick Wilson, Harold Fraser, Mario Cane, and Paul Masters were all reported missing within weeks of each other. As yet, no one has come forward with any vital information about their disappearance, and the families are hoping this fresh appeal will shed new light on an already dark case.”
Those men didn’t grant me any peace when they were alive. And they wouldn’t get it in death. Neither would their families. They were resting in pieces, which was a fitting end. Every body part had been buried, disposed of, and left to rot in every corner of this city. Well, almost every body part.
Fred Wilson, also known as needle dick, met his end with a thousand needles injected into his rancid body. Watching him thrash and convulse as he foamed at the mouth was the best thing I’d seen in a long time.
Harold Fraser, the hangman, got what he deserved when every limb was torn apart as he lay on my rack, being twisted and contorted until he broke into pieces.
Then there was Mario Cane, the whip. He had an extensive whip collection back in the day. But that wasn’t his only weapon of choice. He met his end playing a game called Lingchi, a method of torture they used to practise in China, also known as slow slicing, or as we call it, death by a thousand cuts. That one didn’t pan out quite the way I wanted it to, but he still met his end in an agonising way, just like the rest of them.
But Paul Masters? He was special. He saw things and stayed quiet. He was the worst kind of do-gooder who turned a blind eye. Spending every day working in a place where systematic abuse of the children under his care was the norm. He knew what was going on. He could’ve stopped it. But he didn’t. So I ended him. Or rather, a friend did it for me.
Every man had received retribution that the justice system was incapable of handing them. I’d done it myself. It was better that way. I could watch the fear in their eyes, and the terror as they passed from this life to the hell that was waiting for them on the other side. I felt it was my right to do it, seeing as I’d been the one they’d tortured for so many years. Every day, tapping away at my spirit and fight to survive. Every night shattering my hope for any kind of future. They took a broken boy and hollowed him out until there was nothing left but vengeance. I’d never forget what they did, I didn’t want to. Not until every man who’d been involved in what I’d endured was ripped apart in the worst way.
“From what the police have managed to establish so far, all of these men were employed at one time or another at Clivesdon Children’s Home. As we know, the home was subject to a scandalous and highly emotive court case a few years ago, when accusations of historic child abuse were under scrutiny. However, the case fell apart due to lack of evidence after an issue with the computer files that were kept in local government. Following a fire at the home, official paper records and documents were also destroyed.”
Lack of evidence? Missing files? It was bullshit. There were witnesses, but they were silenced. The police were as complicit as the abusers, and they wouldn’t escape my wrath either. Every man who had blood on his hands would shed blood because of me. I would be their judge, jury and executioner.
During the trials, I wasn’t called as a witness. Not that I would’ve attended. But back in the day, they loved reminding me there were no official records, and no one would ever come to save me. According to the men at Clivesdon House, I didn’t exist, and it was true. Later, I’d tried to search for a birth certificate,but there was none for an Isaiah Dalton. There was no record of my parents either. Like I say, every one of them was corrupt to the core. It was like I didn’t matter, and neither did the horror that was my early life.
“At this point, police are convinced the link to Clivesdon House is the key to solving their disappearance. And as each day passes, the likelihood of the men returning home alive dwindles. Like the flicker of a candle ready to snuff out at any minute, but the families will never give up hope...”
So fucking poetic, and such a crock of shit. No one cared if they returned home. Men like them didn’t have loving families. They were selfish loners, a drain on humanity, a leech on this life. They were better snuffed out. That way, they couldn’t pose a threat to another child. They couldn’t creep into a child’s room in the dead of night and take them from their beds. Steal them away and force them to do the things they’d done to me.
“We caught up with Chief Inspector Daniel Walters, who’s recently taken over the case, to discuss any potential new leads and how the case will proceed...”
My head snapped up when I heard his name. Daniel Walters. Officer Dan. His face on the TV was a little weathered compared to the image I had seared in my mind, and his hair was greyer and thinning on top, but I knew him. I’d know him anywhere. The warm man. The only one who’d shown me compassion, and yet...
Twenty-four years ago...
