Whispers - Volume 3: A Third Collection, page 11
Mercer’s thoughts returned to the present. She felt uncomfortably hot and sweaty, and her hands immediately went to her collar to loosen the button. The air felt cool on her slim, exposed neck. She remembered the blood work and scratched her left forearm again.
During the murder, the sword and knives were the primary weapons. Apparently, Jenkins went into RBP's home behaving like a man on fire, but emerged silent, fulfilled, and covered in blood, according to the witnesses. However, the blood spatter indicated otherwise. Doubt had reared its ugly head at the most inconvenient time. This occurred during the trial, much to Mercer’s chagrin.
Bloody lab monkeys.
However, there was more.
The blood spatter analysis was inaccurate, it didn’t correspond with the witness description of how Jenkins had acted, but they also found a second person’s blood during the investigation. Blood and saliva. Whoever had committed the crime did so in a controlled frenzy and was satisfied with the work, probably satiating a long-term need to kill RBP.
The list of potential murderers was a long one.
The blood work had taken some time to come back from the labs. However, the results had no identification. A John Doe had visited the scene and no one knew who it was.
They’d hit a dead end.
"Sorry for keeping you, Ms. Mercer."
Detective Jack Hopkins stepped through the panelled door. Mercer leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, once again wiping her slick forehead. The door closed with a muted thud. An hour ago, she’d been sitting in the metal chair when they advised her that the blood work was useless. It could jeopardize the case, they stated. Mercer raised her chin skywards and looked at the naked bulb above her. Hopkins smiled, noticing her discomfort. He placed a manila file on the table. "Sorry about the basic amenities. Busy day, this was the only room available."
Mercer nodded. "You said the blood work was useless? How so?"
Hopkins opened the file and spread its contents across the table, looking at a series of photographs. "Well, you already know the blood spatter was contained to a small area. After the witness testimony, it’s come to our attention that something doesn’t add up. Jenkins went in with knives a-blazing and came out normal and controlled. If he was so frantic, on edge and mad … well, this room –"
Hopkins pointed to the photo of RBP's lounge, the murder scene, with a raw looking fingertip. Mercer recognized the room from her previous visits. It still held the lack of warmth that had consumed her on her first trip.
"– would look like a kindergarten painting project. But it doesn’t, it looks like someone had a big fuckin’ nosebleed."
Mercer nodded. She’d heard this before.
"So obviously, we think something’s amiss. The jury are in there fretting about an innocent man. Everyone can see that this is a stitch-up of some kind. The man isn’t a killer. You don’t walk out of a murder scene – your first murder – all calm and collected. Most men would become a gibbering wreck after they’d done it. Jenkins doesn’t fit our profile." Hopkins scooped the photos together and patted them into a neat pile.
Mercer looked at him, searching for something. "So what’s this got to do with me?"
"Nothing really. I just wanted to inform you that we’re removing the blood work from evidence. We can’t use it. Jenkins didn’t go in there, mad about his slut wife, and focus on stabbing the man who ruined his life … that doesn’t happen. Too clean. Someone else was in there and Jenkins turned up too late –"
Mercer nodded, following his train of thought.
"– and witnessed the dead body. It explains his passive demeanor after leaving. A psychologist all but confirmed that Jenkins isn’t capable of murder, no matter if he bought the weapons to do it or not. The man has a timid personality, one brought on from care and nurturing and a good upbringing, not neglect and abuse. He may have intended to go in there and get his wife back, but he wouldn’t kill her lover to do so. The idea might have crossed his mind in the same way it does to people who flippantly say they’re going to kill someone. His job involves negotiating, so that’s probably why he went over there. To negotiate the return of his wife. We think he took the weapons for protection."
Mercer said nothing.
"He was innocent when he left that house, probably relieved – until this shit landed on his doorstep. All that remains is the witness testimony and let’s call a spade a spade, your client, ol’ Miss Penelope Spreadsherlegsalot … she won’t be sending her ex-husband down. Unless the jury are cold hearted sons-of-bitches who just want to get back to watching Oprah."
Mercer said nothing. The damage to her case could be fatal.
"Sorry ol’ girl … this could bring your case to its knees. Pretty apt if you consider the woman you’re representing."
With that, Hopkins stood up, nodded, and left the room. The door thudded shut and all was silent. After a full minute, Mercer smiled.
She couldn’t help it.
For some reason the events of the day didn’t matter anymore.
Mercer felt an itch on her left forearm again, and sighed. She unbuttoned her shirtsleeve, rolled it to the elbow, and scratched the irritation. The air felt cool on the creased, pink, inflamed skin. Burnt skin. Skin damaged from close exposure to fire.
More specifically, fireworks.
From her childhood.
The stench of burning flesh and acrid smoke, emphasized with the sounds of July 4th, popping, banging, and hissing. Her brother’s scream as his pale skin blistered, his hair caught alight, and he lost his right eye. Her strange realization that comics weren’t coming that day, until the severity of the circumstances kicked in.
The damaged skin still itched when Mercer was hot and sweaty or stressed. The last three days had driven her insane.
RBP’s sluicing blood had soothed it. She remembered it dribbling down her arms as she watched the bastard die before her. She had stabbed him twenty-seven times, each with a huge grin on her face. Each blow plunged deep, tearing flesh and muscle, and sprayed her with hot blood and viscera. A few droplets went in her mouth. She didn’t care. He died because of his sins. For what he did to her brother.
Her brother had caught the worst of it that morning. The flames scorched the right side of his body as he’d tried to protect his little sister from the sudden intrusion on their innocent home life. Later on, he’d hung himself because of the constant bullying and abuse. Look boys, its Freddy Krueger. One … two…
Mercer smiled. Vengeance was now complete.
Now the blood work was irrelevant, no one would ever know who killed RBP.
Mercer left the room.
She didn’t return to the courtroom.
No one ever saw her again.
Lepus
It all comes back to that fateful day.
That’s when it all began.
The feelings, the heartbreak. The overwhelming emotion.
When I realised I'd lost her.
My one true love.
I don’t remember anything beyond the final conflict, that particularly fond memory bank in my brain has since bankrupted. Gone. Shut itself down. I think it must be something to do with the agony, the residual pain. I once read that crippling emotional defilement can change a person completely, make them think differently, like rerouting a railway track or resetting a server. The destination is forever changed.
It all comes back to that fateful day.
"I want you to leave," she said. Calm, but forceful. A request, not a demand.
Yet.
She stood in the corner of our kitchen, her back to our American fridge freezer. Her yellow vest and cream yoga shorts were drenched with expensive red wine, a result of a mass spillage caused by shock and tremendous horror. I could see the crimson beverage trickling down her wonderful thighs. Her attractive olive skin was glowing a lowly pink beneath the glaring lights. Her aggravated poise screamed defiance. She was in the right, and I was in the wrong.
My 'confession' was for naught.
In her eyes, anyway.
But I refused to leave. After all, it was our house; both our names were on the deed and we both had a right to it. And I wasn’t finished with this discussion, not by a long shot. I loved that woman. My response was simple. "What about Shaun? I won't leave him."
"He's no longer your responsibility."
But he was. And I let her know it. "You can't raise him alone."
She sneered in my direction. "Watch me."
Defiance. I had no answer to that. Which would be my final downfall.
"I want you to leave," she repeated. This time, there was a hint of vehemence. An inflection in her tone. It made me shudder, surprised me; I'd never heard Kay raise her voice before; we were pretty happy together. Then came the crucial words.
"I won't say it again."
BAM.
There it was.
There's something definite about that type of sentence, from a relationship standpoint. For some reason, I knew we were over then, and there was no going back. I'd effectively destroyed our relationship. It was dead and buried.
One action and it was all over.
It all comes back to that fateful day.
Push the server button, and flick the railway switch.
That’s when my life changed forever.
I want Kay back.
I was determined to make it happen.
I just hope she hasn’t moved on, it's been a few months since we spoke. Seven to be exact.
Kay's an attractive woman. Just over five feet, slim, toned, long brown hair, with the amazing olive skin that enhanced her fabulous smile and those stunning brown eyes. Her laugh always made me smile, an automatic reaction, one that happens when you're happy with the one you love. I remember the special moments we shared, the moments no one would ever be able to take away from me.
Yes, she was probably seeing someone else now, probably grooming him into a potential father figure for Shaun. Maybe she was holding off, ensuring the boy was settling in with the drastic change, a huge adjustment that can easily destroy a childhood. Maybe she was holding off because she still loved me. Maybe she wasn’t seeing anyone.
A man can hope. I can hope.
Dreams come true, don’t they?
I push the optimistic thought from my mind. For now.
One step at a time, I think. Reuniting with Kay was part two.
Part one sat before me, and you don’t want to mess this up. Otherwise, it will all be for nothing and Kay will be lost forever. I feel a smile creep over my face.
It's beautiful.
I check the suit and slowly run my appraising eyes over it. I reach out and reluctantly touch it, stroking it gently, feeling the downy fur tickle my warm palm. I feel stiff gooseflesh prickle on my forearm. The reaction I was hoping for. I know it’s a job well done; it’s a magnificent work of fashionable art.
It's finally ready, complete.
I check the thick black stitching; ensure the loops are pulled taut, that no small hole or crevice remains. I tug on them gently, not too hard; I don’t want to rupture the seams. I check the sleeves, and the legs. I turn it over, check once more. Lift it by the shoulders, and at that point I almost drop it. The fur is still a little slick in places. I must remember that.
Overall, I'm happy.
I gaze over my shoulder and stare behind me, beyond the bedroom door – or archway, the cunt of a landlord never allotted me a door – and into the miserable kitchen. I hate this apartment, this fucking two-room living space with its yellowed white cooker, crispy cigarette burns in the wallpaper, and a beaten sofa with obvious semen stains on it. A living room/kitchen combination and a bedroom. The bathroom is just off the kitchen through a wooden sliding door, the tub and toilet both snot green. I can’t get the brown stains out of either. The room doesn’t even have a sink.
I hear the landlord berating me in my mind's eye, a man down on his luck, with no money and no prospects. Taking advantage of my fragile situation. "Whadda ya need two sinks for?"
So I can fucking drown you in one, you cunt.
I close my eyes. I can hear my teeth creaking as I subside my anger, my fingernails digging into my palms. I feel the skin break, which is becoming a common occurrence. His voice comes squeaking back to me and I groan, loudly.
"What more does a man need?"
I need a flat. I need working amenities, and I definitely need a fucking door on my fucking bedroom … I look at the suit and feel my anger washing away. I didn’t say those words, didn’t dare. I needed a place to stay, somewhere to live, a quiet abode to plan.
"You take, yes?"
Let's just say part three of this plan involves gutting the money-grabbing bastard.
Priorities. Get Kay back, return home, and be happy. Kill my fucking landlord too.
Easy enough.
I need to get him out of the picture before he reports me. I haven’t paid any rent in two months, and those bastards don’t let it lie. I'm also ignoring all calls and any knocks on the door. My plan is so close to completion, it would be an absolute disaster if it failed now.
I think he might also have something to say about the sixty-three skinned rabbit corpses on the living room carpet too. The stench is something else entirely, the kind that gets right up your nose and lingers for days, deep in your throat, so deep you can taste it. A putrid odour that makes you choke and cough.
I began making the body suit from their stripped fur about two weeks ago. An entire suit patched together from the fur of the dead rabbits, with a rough hole in the face so I can breathe and, well, see where I'm going. I also have armholes so I can use my hands. There's no point crippling myself out of the box.
The body is stitched together perfectly, the result of long hours and dedication. My fingers are still stinging red and blistered from all the sewing. The ears on the suit, a bunny's prominent feature, are comprised of seventy-one torn ears in total, all twisted and bunched and tacked together into a rough shape, like a slim oval for each ear. Despite cleaning them, some remain spotted with blood. I hold it up in front of me, for one last look, and smile.
Beautiful.
Terrifying but beautiful. A true work of art.
The rabbits went to a good cause. I glance down at their strewn carcasses. Some of the meat is green and slimy; the rasping of buzzing flies is familiar to me now. Even the writhing maggots no longer gross me out; especially when I hear several of them thudding on the carpet.
Nothing bothers me anymore.
After all, it’s a time for celebration. I'm getting my Kay back.
And where better to hit her in the emotional weak spot than with the kid.
Shaun. The boy. Sprogus Maximus as we used to call him.
It's Easter, and he's getting a visit from the Easter Bunny.
I can't do this in public; it's too obvious and too weird. I know people dress up as the Easter Bunny all the time, it's somewhat a tradition, but I put a particularly special spin on it. A lot of personal effort, I hope Shaun appreciates it.
And Kay, but mainly Shaun.
The suit is void of blood and sinewy gristle, but I didn’t clean it properly, not like those fur companies, I can’t afford chemicals and such. Can you even wear rabbit? Anyway, there's a chance it smells a little now, I wouldn’t know since the stack of bodies in my living room has completely obliterated my sense of smell. Everything reeks like dead rabbit to me, so if I stink right now, prancing through the woods in a man-made bunny suit stitched together from dead carcasses, I wouldn’t know. That stench is unreal, and my eyes are watering. Hell, if I focus enough, I can still hear the bloated maggots thudding against my threadbare carpet.
Anyway, the woods.
Shaun is on an Easter egg treasure hunt today, the same as the past three years. Kay loves bringing him here, and I don’t blame her. The woods are stunning and beautiful. All tall, arching oaks and dipping, winding ravines of dirt and grass decorated with a rainbow plethora of fallen leaves. The maze-like trails provide a natural home to deer and badgers, squirrels and hedgehogs, all harmless if left alone. A large lake runs through the centre of the woodland, with a sturdy timber footbridge across it, providing one of the most picturesque views in the country.
But I'm not here for the view.
I'm here for my family.
It's not long before I spot them through the trees, Shaun skipping alongside his mother, keeping pace with her, her long, muscular legs walking with elegance and poise. She holds his hand, keeping him close. He has a huge, gratified smile on his face. Kay is carrying a pink bag that bulges and rustles with chocolate treats. I imagine eggs and bars and all sorts of confectionary goodness that does a child no good at the tender age of four.
My plan is working thus far. They're heading to the car casually, the Easter fun finished for another year. I track them through the woods, taking the odd step as they gradually close on my position, and I sidestep, inches from Kay's blue Audi. I glance down and notice a grey rabbit staring up at me, confusion in its beady eyes. It cocks its head sideways. I hold my hands up, growl gently and watch it scarper, scampering off into the brush.
I chuckle, but now is not the time for hilarity.
I relocate Kay and Shaun. I need to time it right.
Kay turns the narrow bend, out of the woods. I hear footsteps on gravel now, crunching and scuffing. I hear a stone clink off the bumper of a vehicle. Distant murmurs from a crowd of people chatter across the woodland silence, but none are nearby. I don’t see any other movement through the trees.
Kay releases Shaun, motioning for him to stay still. Hushed whispers. She pulls the car keys from her pocket. Using her thumb, she pushes a fob and unlocks the car. Its lights flash twice. Kay opens the passenger seat and ushers Shaun into the car, smiling, being the doting mother. The door thunks shut and she walks around to the driver's side, opens the door, and climbs in.
Which is when I make my move.
I open the rear door closest to me, slide into the car, and shut it behind me.
