 
## Mortimer's Mark

### By Adam Patterson

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2012 Adam Patterson

 www.smashwords.com/adampatterson

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

### PROLOGUE – DEATH CELL

June 5th, 1952

Nobody would have believed by the composed and almost carefree expression upon Felix Alexander Mortimer's face that he was soon to be hanged. He sat at a wooden table set in the centre of the cell with the shadow of the seated guard darkening his left arm while he held his hands together in silent prayer. It was the guards who appeared to be the nervous ones; their eyes were constantly shifting to the far wall as though something was about to leap out from behind it.

Felix was not a religious man by far, but this morning he was concerned that he would be letting the clergyman down if he did not participate with the sermon, as he had told him a good many comforting words throughout his short time under sentence of death. The holy words seemed just a distant murmur in his ears as his mind reflected on the last terrible weeks he endured waiting inside the confining walls of his death cell within London's Wandsworth Prison. Every day he expected a reprieve would come, hoping that someone would believe his plea of innocence. But it never came and right now, more prison guards, officials and hangmen were gathering outside his cell door in readiness for the strike of the hour.

Mostly, he thought about his two young daughters, Judith and Elizabeth. They would be the ones suffering the most right now, knowing that their father – their last remaining parent – would also be lying within his grave by the end of this day. If it were not for their aunt, Anna, who would now be taking them permanently into her care, he would have surely gone completely out of his mind. His wife's sister and Elizabeth, his eldest daughter at fifteen, had managed to keep enough composure throughout most of their final meeting only a day ago. But it was the distraught look within eleven-year-old Judith's eyes that made Felix lose control of his emotions. Now he tried to push those last moments during their precious final meeting from his mind before he would break down once more and become a pathetic wreck.

The two warders were becoming increasingly agitated as the minute hand slowly and cruelly ticked towards the hour of nine o'clock a.m. Felix surprised himself on how relatively calm he felt, and wondered if all would change when he finally heard the sound of the key turning within the lock. They say that death is instantaneous, and that his executioner, Mr. Albert Pierrepoint, was the best there ever was. He was only glad that England did not have the electric chair like in the United States, as he could not bear the thought of being strapped into a seat so they could send thousands of volts burning through his flesh. Before his mind had a chance to push the thought aside, he wondered how far he would have to walk to the gallows, and what his reaction would be when he saw the rope that would end his life.

From outside, he was sure he could hear the faint sound of the anti-capital punishment protesters that had gathered beyond the prison gates. His mind cruelly crept back to the morbid thought of the days of public hangings, when people would laugh and jeer in amusement as the condemned kicked, struggled and soiled their clothing whilst the noose slowly strangled.

Felix looked down at the table to see the small glass of brandy still waiting there for him to drink. He wanted it to remain that way: he had drunk enough alcohol during his sorrowful life, and believed it to be one of the major factors in his downfall. He wanted to face God without any more of the demon drink tainting his soul.

Then, amidst the soothing chant of the clergyman's sermon, he found himself thinking yet again about God.

Who was God? Would He send him to hell after the things he had dabbled in during the last few months? And what about those people found guilty of a crime they did not commit? What happened then? What...

Suddenly the clergyman stood and the new words he began to speak were no longer low and soothing but earnest and sharply pronounced. "I am the resurrection, and the life, saith the Lord..."

Then Felix noticed that his two warders were also standing to attention, their faces beneath their caps grave and stony. He sensed movement behind him, and as he slowly turned, rising uneasily from his chair, his heart appeared to stop completely within his chest.

A stout, middle-aged man dressed neatly in a dark suit was standing before a small group of officials and guards. Only after Felix noticed the leather strap within his hand did realization sink in.

"Sir, you will need to turn around for me," he said softly but firmly. "I have to put this on you're wrists."

Everyone appeared to have their heads turned towards the floor as his eyes moved from the hangman to his assistant behind him, then over to the governor and the additional guards. After he felt the firm and persuasive grip of his executioner upon his right arm, Felix Mortimer turned round so that he could pinion his wrists. He kept his eyes fixed upon the clergyman as he continued with the sermon – the only comforting sight within the entire glum surroundings of his prison cell – whilst Pierrepoint swiftly bound his arms tightly together.

Then the hangman's face appeared before him again, and for a moment their eyes locked together. When he pulled the collar of his suit down to expose his neck, Felix winced. "Follow me, and it'll be all right."

The two warders flanking him gripped his upper arms tightly as they led him not in the direction of the main door to his cell, but towards a room that, until only moments before, had been a wooden panelled wall.

"I didn't kill those people," he said timidly as each foot automatically stepped before the other, inching him further towards his death. "I... I did not kill those girls."

The hangman was the first to step into the execution room and Felix could now see the noose coiled at head height above two wooden trapdoors.

He swallowed hard and attempted to speak with more clarity, but saliva caught and locked within his throat. He could not shift it. His feet neared the white 'T' on the trapdoors as he struggled to gulp that large lump down his throat before they could tighten the noose around his throat. That would be ironic, he thought as he stopped before the hangman: dying of asphyxiation from his own saliva before the noose could do its grisly task.

Before alarm could turn to panic, Felix successfully managed to swallow just as the white hood plunged his last vision of the world into darkness. Now his heart was thumping within his chest and his breathing was almost deafening within the confines of the cotton hood. Everything was happening too fast. He could feel the hangman's assistant pinioning his ankles together while the noose slipped over his head, the knot catching onto the bridge of his nose before being tightened beneath his left ear.

He was breathing too rapidly now and feared he would faint. Sounds of a chain rattling against concrete appeared from his far right as the hangman slipped the cotter pin from the lever. Coming from within the darkness of his mind, the vision of his two young daughters appeared before him like two angels – angels that would be waiting for him beyond this cruel, unjust world.

Yes, an angel: just like his dear wife. And Felix Mortimer clung to that vision in the same way as a drowning man would cling to driftwood when he felt more than heard the grating of the mechanism turning beneath his feet.

Then he was falling through the air, dropping down and down seemingly forever, never hearing the sound of the doors crashing against the sides of the trap, never hearing the sound of his spine snapping in two.

Then there was nothing.

# Chapter 1 – Victor Gwynne

October 29th 2013.

The first time he noticed that the old man was in poor health was Tuesday evening after his return from work. Unloading the most valuable of his tools from his van for fear of another break-in, Jason Mathews caught sight of his elderly neighbour upon his front doorstep, frozen in mid-action with his key half inserted into its lock. His head was turned downwards and cocked slightly to the right, and at first Jason believed he was simply staring at something below his feet. The tool box he was carrying was quite a heavy one so he did not at this point wish to strike up a conversation with his neighbour, even though the rare occasion of a conversation culminated to nothing more than a mere exchange of words. But after returning from his hallway to close and lock his van doors and finding the old man in the same position, Jason decided it was wise to say something.

"Found anything interesting?" He slammed the vehicle's doors a little harder than normal to emphasize his presence. At first, it seemed that the old man would continue staring at this assumed object of curiosity, but eventually his head gradually turned – reluctantly, so it seemed – in his direction.

"Just catching my breath, son." He spoke with a chirpiness that contradicted his appearance: an appearance that instantly told Jason that something was seriously wrong with his health. Maybe it was the dying light that made his lips appear almost blue and his face a snow-white pallor, but taking no chances he crossed the short distance of his front lawn, stepped easily over the small dividing wall with his long legs and up to his neighbour's side.

"Hey, Vic, you look ill, if you don't mind me saying so."

Finally, he fully inserted and turned the key. Without a return reply, Victor Gwynne swung the door open and shuffled inside his hallway. A mixed smell of mildew and tobacco – an old man smell, Jason thought – wafted from within like a gentle but stale breeze.

Eventually he turned back to face Jason, unbuttoning his jacket with arthritic hands that were far from steady, making what should be a simple procedure into a laborious task. _You should be in a care home_ he thought, not realising that his head was slowly shaking with pity, betraying his inner feelings.

"Okay... Thank you, but I'm okay," Victor finally replied. His eyes, usually bright and alert, appeared dull and somewhat confused. An inaudible mumble followed as he turned his back on him again, holding his jacket before his face in mid-air, its rightful place of rest far off to his right.

"Here, let me help you." Jason gently slipped the jacket from the old man's grasp and hung it upon a free hook by the doorway. Without a further word or gesture, Victor shuffled into his living room and immediately slumped into an armchair – his favourite chair, by the amount of ware and blemishes – with a sigh of either effort, relief or a combination of the two escaping from his lips. Jason hesitantly followed and stood just inside the doorway, his eyes skipping from the motionless figure in the chair to the contents of the room. The living room was cluttered, albeit neatly cluttered, with an array of objects ranging from books, magazines, ornaments, photo frames and pictures, to bottles of medicine, opened mail and stationery. A bulky yet modern-looking clock ticked away the seconds from its high place upon the far wall.

"Need me to get you anything, Vic? Make you a hot drink?"

The old man's gaze shifted to where he stood, appearing to be looking at him up and down curiously.

"Vic?"

Dropping his eyes, Victor shook his head seemingly more to clear the thoughts within his mind than in answer to his neighbour's question. "No... No thank you." His voice had become husky and gravelly as he laboured to speak. His head motioned towards a cabinet at the end of the room. "But in there..."

Jason stepped fully into the living room and obediently headed for the cabinet, slipping past Victor on the way. Their eyes locked for a second – just a second, but it was enough for Jason to see an inkling of... what was it? _Annoyance?_

"In here?"

"Yes, son," he replied. "Open the front... please."

Jason reached out and pulled the brass handle of the cabinet. The front swung down upon its tracks and settled in a horizontal position, exposing an array of bottles. There was mostly whisky, but cognac, Grand Marnier and port were amongst them. Most of them had been opened.

"Pour me a brandy, please," Victor asked, his head nodding. "You'll find a glass on the shelf above, to the left."

There was indeed a number of drinking glasses perched on a shelf above the liquor bottles, and Jason plucked one from its place and settled it upon the horizontal cabinet door-cum-bar top. "Brandy, did you say?"

"There's a bottle of Courvoisier in there. Can you see it?"

Glass chinked against glass as Jason reached in and pulled free the Cognac. He held it up to the old man in acknowledgement before opening the bottle and pouring him a generous helping.

"There you go, sir. Hope this makes you feel better."

Victor reached up and gently took the glass from his fingers. His eyes shut as the golden liquid slipped past his lips, seemingly savouring the moment. After he emptied half his glass, the old man let off a long, satisfied gasp and relaxed further back into his chair. When his eyes opened again they were glazy but appeared more alert. More alive.

"Better now?"

Victor licked his lips. "The best medicine an old man can have," he replied. "Yes, I'm starting to feel a bit more with-it, thank you."

"You gave me a little scare just then," Jason told him with a pally smile. "Thought you were having a... Having a..."

"Heart attack?" Victor gave a chesty laugh. "Not yet, I hope. Just been overdoing it a little, I think." The glass returned to his lips and all but a small mouthful remained when he placed it on the table before him. "Would you care for a glass?"

"Oh...no, thanks," Jason said with his smile slipping to an awkward-looking grin. "Would love to, but I've still got things to do."

Victor only nodded his lowered head. His eyes, gazing blankly across to the opposite side of the room, now appeared far away in thought. Jason stood silently for a moment, feeling awkward – feeling somewhat like an unwelcome guest. His next words remained poised on his lips as he took the time to prepare his question diplomatically. "Do you want me to call your doctor for you? I think you need to see someone... I believe... I believe that..."

"I believe I'm all right now."

"But I think..."

"I'm telling you, I'm okay."

Victor's words appeared cold and hard within Jason's ears. Only the tick, tick of the clock could be heard as the two men became silent. The old man's eyes never lifted from their place across the room as his head faintly nodded up and down. From outside, a motorbike roared past. Somewhere across the street, a child called out somebody's name. In the back garden opposite the house, a dog barked. The clock continued to tick, tick, tick...

"Well... I will be going now if there's nothing else I can do."

There was no reply from Victor as he continued with his delicate nodding. Jason backed away from his armchair and stepped back into the hallway. The old man's eyes, even though they were still staring at the same place across the room, appeared to be watching him.

From the doorway where he now stood he could see the shadows of the late evening stealthily creeping across the lounge like dark and silent assassins. He had to fight back the temptation to flick the light switch and send them cowering back into their corners: Jason had always had a disliking for gloomy places.

Eventually he cleared his throat. "You know where I am if you need anything. Don't hesitate to knock on my door." Only the continuous, gentle nodding from his neighbour's head gave any indication that he was awake or even alive. Jason put it down to the fact that he was old and obviously ill and probably never even heard his last comment. He began towards the door. "I'll be off now, Vic. Bye."

Still no answer. He turned the door handle to let himself out, feeling more than a bit guilty for leaving him there on his own knowing there was definitely something up with him, despite his denials. But as his foot stepped onto the hardness of the pathway, the crisp evening air hitting his face, Victor's soft words floated from the darkening room like a disembodied voice of a phantom.

"Thanks, son," he said.

Jason noticed that Sophie was already home when he turned into his own front garden after resisting the urge to step back over the dividing wall, resorting to using the longer route instead. Her black Nissan was parked nose to nose with his van, and seeing that the trunk was slightly raised, he knew she had just returned from the supermarket.

Sophie gave a little yelp of surprise followed by a smile of approval when her boyfriend entered the door carrying the remainder of the shopping bags. The refrigerator door was open, spilling light and cool air from its shell as she began to fill it. Yin and Yang, their two young sibling cats, wound their way around and between her legs, their habitual pestering to be greatly rewarded shortly. Jason placed the bags down gently at her side and stood back, taking the opportunity to admire her shapely buttocks accentuated by tight jeans as she bent forwards for her task.

"I wondered where you were, hon," she said and straightened to plant a quick kiss on his lips. "I was calling out for you for ages."

"Sorry love, but I had to go next door to help Vic. Think he's got health problems."

"Vic?" She began to sift through the bags Jason had just brought in. "You mean the old man?"

"Yeah. Am quite worried about him actually. He doesn't look in good shape."

"Well, neither would you if you were his age," she remarked. "How old is he?"

"Don't quite know," Jason said. "In his early to mid eighties, I guess."

Sophie straightened again and looked at him, a can of beans in each hand. "Well, what's wrong with him?"

Jason shrugged. "Well, it looked at first to be his heart by the way he just stopped on his doorstep for ages, not seeming to be able to move. And by the colour of his face. I just went over and helped him inside... see if he needed anything."

"And?" Sophie asked with her eyebrows raised. The two cans were still poised above her shoulders as though she was promoting them for a new ad.

"He didn't really need anything, no."

"I meant his heart, silly. Was it heart problems?"

Jason shrugged his shoulders again. "I... I don't think so, really. Think he's been gallivanting around too much, by what he was saying. Probably just worn out."

"And he's okay now?" Sophie finally placed the two cans down on the worktop above the refrigerator. Yin and Yang, after mistakenly thinking the cans were filled with cat food, intensified their persistent meowing and rubbing against their mistress' legs.

"Yeah. After a glass of brandy he was fine, it seems."

"Oh, my little hero," Sophie told him. A little grin followed before she continued to fill the fridge.

Jason kicked off his shoes in the hallway and substituted them for a more comfortable pair of slippers. When he returned, Sophie was opening a bottle of red wine – a Cabernet Sauvignon – to accompany their evening meal.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Not bad. More busy than I expected. Seems to be a lot of birthday and anniversaries this week."

"So we won't be getting much offcuts this time, then?"

Sophie laughed and turned the sink tap on full, allowing the water to spatter droplets upon the worktop. A large globule of water came down and splashed upon Yin's nose, sending her scurrying into the shadows beneath the dining table.

"There are always offcuts for the house," she said. "Always a little something."

One could clearly see by the vastly flower-decorated rooms that Sophie was a florist. She had a small, private business in a little shopping precinct on the outskirts of town, which her sister and a friend helped to run. 'Flower Power' had been in operation for twelve years now, although it had changed from its original, blander titled 'Betty's flowers' when Sophie took over the business from her mother, Betty Skinner, two years ago after she passed away after a long fight with cancer. Her older sister, Maxine, worked there most days, although her constant unreliability and lateness was a cause of many bitter arguments. If she were not family, then she would have been long-gone by now, but as she now had a share in the business, Sophie had little choice but to bite her lip as best she could.

On the other hand, Vicky was the one who helped to keep things going strong. She, who mostly did the driving around in the little white van delivering to their customers, had been working there since leaving school five years previous after Betty had taken her on. Always there on time, always there after it shut, always there at the weekend, Sophie was not at all surprised she never had a steady boyfriend, although there now seems to be a more prospective one on the horizon.

Tomorrow Vicky would be working even harder, although Maxine promised with all her heart that she would be there right at the beginning until the bitter end. Sophie had booked the day off for her three-yearly visit to the gynaecologist as well as her half-yearly visit to the dentist. "May as well do job lot," she told Jason earlier that week. If they needed help, then she would go directly back to the shop after her morning's worth of poking and probing gloved hands, otherwise she would prefer to have the rest of the day to herself.

Jason had quickly showered and changed, and by the time he came back down to the kitchen, Sophie had almost finished preparing the evening meal. A glass of wine sat close to hand upon the worktop as she continued with her chores, the farmhouse steak pie now sitting above the oven, thin wisps of steam emitting from its crusty topping.

"Mmmm, smells good," he told her and gave her another of his quick pecks on her cheek. She returned a fleeting yet sweet smile and donned a pair of oven gloves for the removal of the roast potatoes.

"See you've already started," he said as he gestured to the wine glass.

"Yep. Apart from my appointments tomorrow, I've got nothing but time for myself."

"Oh, yeah," Jason said and turned towards the dining room with its subdued lighting – Sophie always insisted on a tranquil setting for their evening meals, with the added soft music for good measure. "You've got to see the 'pussy doctor' tomorrow as well as the dentist."

"It's the dentist that I hate the most," she told him.

Jason spotted both Yin and Yang lying snugly together on the living room couch, obviously now contently filled with cat chow.

"I just want to know," he asked as he turned round and poured himself a glass of wine, "do they both say 'open wide' when you lay on the couch?"

"Ha, ha," she half-heartedly called before bringing a casserole dish filled with steaming vegetables into the dining room. "Just shut up and sit your bum down at the table, won't you?"

Five minutes later, as the soft and low music drifted from the living room, the two began to eat. Outside the rain began to fall, gently at first but gradually strengthening in pace. The last of the day's light was far-gone, and the black clouds that brought the rain created a more solid cloak of darkness.

"So how was your day?" Sophie asked.

"Oh, not very eventful," he told her over a mouthful of food. "Couldn't get the doors I needed delivered, so had to do the outside stuff today instead. Glad it didn't rain like it's doing now!"

"Where are you working now?"

"Still doing the pub refurb' out on the A27. It's not too far – a little close to Brighton. Big job. Still got over a month's worth of work, it looks like." He swallowed and washed the food down with three large gulps of wine, emptying the glass. He topped it up again.

"Big pub, then?"

"Pub with some hotel rooms above, yes."

"But everything's hunky-dory, though?" She also reached for the bottle and half-filled her near-empty glass. By now, even with a stomach full with food, she was feeling a little tipsy.

"Now Lisa's helping me out, yes."

"Lisa?" Sophie's eyebrows furrowed, the glass stopped at her lips. "What's she got to do with your work?"

Jason sniggered and shook his head. "Not my ex-wife, silly. I meant Lisa from the office. She helped to get things moving, get things ordered for me better than my useless boss could...other than the doors, that is."

"Oh, sorry."

"Not seen that stuck-up twat for ages, anyway – my ex."

"Oooh, language, please." She was now collecting the last of the vegetables on her plate with her fork, making little high-pitched scraping noises that Jason hated.

"Well..." Now finished with his meal, he set his plate aside. "I've heard you say things like that about Liam."

"I'm entitled to," she told him before laying her knife and fork down neatly together on her empty plate. She gave a little belch and excused herself. "He did run off with my supposedly best friend."

"If he hadn't of done that, then you wouldn't have gotten me," he told her with an added cheeky grin. Sophie pulled a face that was not quite humorous. "So, what's for dessert, then?"

She stopped to consider this for a few seconds, absently twining her long dark hair around her fingers. When she faced him across the table again, she smiled warmly. "Something sweet," she whispered.

Jason raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah?" He leant towards her. "What's that then?"

Sophie also leant forward, her previous smile transforming into a large, almost devious grin. "It's what one would call 'sweet F A'."

Victor Gwynne believed that just the smell of freshly ground coffee alone was enough to satisfy him. His long passed-away wife had always complained to him that coffee in the evenings was pointless: evenings and nighttimes were for relaxing or sleeping and had no place for caffeine. But now, at aged eighty-three, he could change his habits as much as the sun could change its daily cycle around the earth.

He was feeling a lot better than before, although his hands continued to shake more than they usually do. He had given himself quite a scare after he had stepped from the bus and onto the street adjoining his own this afternoon. He felt his left arm go numb and his chest tighten, and if the street lamp had not been there for him to collapse against, then he was damn sure he would have gone straight down like a brick in a river. There he waited for the inevitable: the moment when his heart would cease altogether, forcing him to suck in his final breath before crumpling into a lifeless heap on the filthy pavement. Minutes passed – five, ten, maybe more – before his heart returned to a near normal, steady rhythm. He was sure he was going to throw-up on the pavement when a hot wave of dizziness swept over him, but somehow he managed to pull himself upright and lean his scrawny buttocks against the lamppost. Two or three people passed him by, but not one cared to look at him, let alone ask if he needed help.

"I could have died right there and lay in the middle of the street and nobody would have stopped", he informed himself in mere mumbles as his slightly arthritic fingers stubbed out his cigar before pulling down the drinks cabinet door. He added a dash of Scotch whisky to his steaming mug and sniffed at the combined aromas. It smelled good.

In fact, he would not have been surprised if they had stepped over his body to get to wherever they were going, especially the kids. He sank back into his favourite armchair, releasing a combined sigh of exhaustion, exasperation and relief.

"Fuckers," he told the silent room, silent other than the constant tick, tick of the clock. "Worthless little fuckers with their walk-about phones and their baggy clothes." The room never answered, as expected. _And those girls with nothing on 'cept for a skimpy skirt._ He smiled at this, but it appeared as an insubstantial smirk.

Victor's head relaxed against the backrest, his coffee mug balanced upon his knee. The heat began to radiate through the material of his trousers but he paid it no attention as his mind reflected on the day passed.

As for my neighbour, well...

Outside, the rain fell hard and with more urgency. As he listened, the dripping of the water from the overflowing guttering somehow tapped in time to the steady rhythm of the clock, blending into one harmonious, hypnotic sound.

With his drink still balanced and cooling upon his kneecap, Victor Gwynne fell into a light doze, his thoughts turning into flashes of weak dreams, his shallow breath becoming gentle grunts and snores. Five minutes later, the coffee mug slipped from his fingers and onto the floor. It remained in one piece, although its contents spread and ran across the carpet before soaking into its thinning material, becoming a dark stain. Undisturbed, the old man slept on. His dreams – a rarity now – played out within his head. Those dreams were fragments of his past, and his face began to twitch as each memory came alive. Sometimes he would frown, sometimes he would smile, and sometimes he would cry out with what could only be anguish.

Then soon he was still again. His mind became a total blank and slept as his body slept, his chest rising and falling at a shallow but steady pace, his weakening heart pumping its own rhythm from within.

It would only be a matter of hours before that heart would stop pumping altogether.

"What's that you got there?" Jason asked as he squeezed his buttocks onto one side of the leather settee when the two cats refused to budge. "Is that a film?"

Sophie held up the DVD case so he could read the movie's title. 'Blood of the Devil' was printed across it in glorious red.

"Oh, no, not another horror film, please!" He slapped a hand across his forehead theatrically. Yin's eyelids managed to open enough to give him a curious look.

"Come on," she protested as she loaded the film into the player. "You know how much I love horror films, especially now Halloween's coming up soon."

"But we watched one the other day!"

Sophie plonked herself down upon the soft couch, showing less consideration with the cats than her boyfriend did. They both voiced their protestations with a series of snappy meowing after she shoved them callously onto the floor. "Oh, shut your bitching," she told them.

"What's this one about, then?" he asked with a purposely-evacuated sigh. With a title such as 'Blood of the Devil', Jason's expectations of quality entertainment were not very high.

"How do I know, I haven't seen it yet."

Jason shuffled along the settee and made himself more comfortable. Sophie snuggled up closer to him as the movie's title page presented itself across the T.V screen, its light spilling across the dimly lit room. They both sat in silence while Sophie fiddled with the remote controls until she was satisfied with both picture and sound.

"Did you get just the one bottle?" His voice was low, rather distant.

She turned her head and looked at him as the light of the movie sent shadows dancing across his face. His brown hair was sticking up at the back and she reached out and smoothed it down. On feeling her touch, he turned to her briefly and smiled.

"I did get two, as it happens," she told him. "But haven't you got work tomorrow? You've had half of one already."

"Bah! I can handle it," he said and tightly folded his arms. "It's the only thing that'll get me through this terrible movie."

Sophie slapped his arm lightly. "How do you know it's going to be terrible? It's only just come out," she said, as though this was reason enough to make a film good. "I don't want you to be snoring through it." She snuggled closer to him, still looking at the side of his face as he idly gazed at the screen. When he failed to respond, she clasped her fingers around his hand, feeling his warmth. "I need you to cuddle me on the scary bits," she said in a purposely-timid voice. Jason finally looked down at her, deep into her dark eyes. He felt that he could swim in them.

"Ok, then. Whatever you want."

She sagged away from him slightly. "Don't be like that," she told him with her voice rising slightly, although there was not a single note of anger in her words. "I'm only fooling around, you know? If you want some wine, go and get some. It's in the fridge. It's a Chardonnay."

Jason unfolded his arms and slipped the nearest one gently around his girlfriend's shoulders, pulling her closer to him. "Sorry," he said with a genuine smile. "I've just been worrying about the old boy next door, that's all. Think he needs somebody to look at him."

"You mean a doctor?" She asked from within the hook of his arm. Both of her feet were now off the floor and drawn tightly to her body as she faced the T.V. She was finally concentrating on the movie, the beginning credits now completed. "I expect he has one and will see one if he's obviously ill."

A shallow sigh passed his lips. "From what I could make out when I spoke to him, he doesn't _want_ to see a doctor. You know how old people are: they're either seeing a doctor everyday about something or never at all."

"That's true," she said. Her voice, like her skin beneath his hands, was soft and smooth. "Why don't you knock on his door in the morning before you go – see how he is?"

Jason nodded contently and stroked the smoothness of her long, dark hair. It felt like silk between the rough skin of his fingers. "Yeah, will do that... will definitely do that."

They never saw the end of the film. About an hour into the movie, Jason's left arm, which had been caressing Sophie's shoulders and back with subconscious automation, eventually worked loose the buttons of the top she wore. His hand then slipped inside and cupped around her left breast, feeling the heat from her body. Her breath began to grow deeper as his fingers found the hardening nipple. Soon she responded with her own hand, seeking and then finding the swelling between his legs. She looked up at him and the light of the screen flared like tiny flames within her eyes. Her free hand reached up and guided his head towards her, pulling his open lips to her open lips. When they broke away, Sophie sat up and peeled the top from her body, exposing her flesh. "Like you said," she told him, her voice now shaking lightly with desire. "The film's a pile of crap!"

Two minutes later they were both lying horizontal across the settee, every item of their clothing on two separate piles at each end. Sophie, with her body beneath Jason's weight, lightly scratched her nails across his back, teasing his flesh as they explored every contour of his physique. Short, playful kisses stimulated her skin as he moved across her body, sending every nerve to discharge fire, every blood vessel to throb with passion.

And while Victor Gwynne slept within the armchair in the house attached to theirs, Jason entered Sophie, holding her tightly as he slipped within her soft flesh, the two becoming as one. And as the old man's mouth opened to draw in a raspy, gust of air, Sophie's mouth opened to voice her ecstasy as her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her body shuddered with pleasure.

Outside, the cold rain continued to fall with relentless vigour. It filled the streets with numerous shallow rivers, created miniature pools that swelled towards the gutters and colleted in the ruts and dips of the roads.

High above the rooftops that appeared to cower from the downfall, high above the clouds that brought this very rain, a bright, full moon shone with a silver brilliance. And it will be under this moon when the first of the murders hit the small town of Upperhampton, where blood will run in the streets like the rain.

A town that will soon awaken to a world of death.

### Chapter 2 – Emergency

October 30th

It took four attempts before the old man answered his door. Jason initially started with the bell and, after realizing it was broken, continued by lightly but firmly banging the side of his fist against the door's wooden panelling with its peeling red paint. After the third attempt he peeped across the hallway via the frosted glass in the hope of seeing him inside (seeing him collapsed in a heap across the thinly worn carpet of his corridor, or seeing just his pair of slipper clad feet protruding from the doorway of the living room, he feared). But after his fourth round of banging, and feeling more than guilty by now of the possibility that he was simply still tucked up in his bed, Victor opened the door.

"Sorry, sir," Jason told him as he stared back at the sunken, reddened eyes of his neighbour. It seemed as though he had aged another ten years since he saw him yesterday evening. His complexion had a little more colour than it did last night, although his haggard, stubble-coated skin now had a waxy look – the look only the sick have. By the dishevelled appearance of his clothes, the same clothes he wore yesterday, Jason would not be surprised if he had slept in them. "I just wanted to make sure that you were okay... still..."

"Still alive, I suppose," Victor grunted. His eyes stared out from within the dark rings that surrounded them, eyes that remained sharp and intelligent. They began to make Jason feel a little uneasy, a little intimidated.

Looking somewhat sheepish, Jason nodded his head. "Well, I didn't quite mean it that way... just a bit concerned because of the way you were last night."

The old man gazed upwards beyond his neighbour's head, towards the new morning's sun. His eyes squinted from its brilliance, but his face seemed to liven from its touch – seemed to melt some of those added years he appeared to have accumulated since the hours just passed. Across the street, the small remaining puddles from the night's downpour reflected tiny sparkles of light like many scattered hand-mirrors.

"As you can now see," he said as he continued to relish the October sun, "I am very much alive. Old, but still in the land of the living."

"Please to hear that, sir." He smiled warmly at him and tried to hold it on his face for his neighbour's benefit. The old man managed to smile weakly back, although it was short-lived.

"Just call me Victor," he told him, "or simply Vic, like before. Thank you for your concern, young man. I seem to be feeling much better this fine morning..." His words fell away just as his eyes fell away to look, almost ashamedly, down at his obvious bedraggled look. Jason followed his gaze and could see the lower hem of his white shirt hanging down one side of his hips. "You will have to excuse me now," he told him, still not looking up. "But as you can probably see, I haven't yet finished dressing."

"Certainly," Jason said perkily. "Got to go to work now, anyway. Glad you're okay." He started to back away down the pathway. Victor looked up at him again and gave him a genuine smile (or appeared to be genuine) and shuffled back into his hallway.

"Do you want me to get anything for you? I can pop into the shops on the way back tonight, or Sophie can. She's about today... got the afternoon off."

Victor slowly turned back again. The smile was gone and a subtle look of annoyance replaced it. "Sophie?"

"Yes. She lives with me."

The old man's smile returned. "The little hen I see from time to time." He nodded. "She's your wife?"

Jason laughed. "No, not yet. Too early for that yet."

"Oh." His head continued to nod, his mind apparently deep in thought. "Oh, I see." When he looked up at his neighbour again, his face appeared much brighter. "No, thank you, young man. I seem to have all that I need for now."

Jason lifted a hand up to him. Victor Gwynne shut the door without another word and he was gone.

Why Sophie Skinner was buying things for Halloween she did not quite know. Apart from her two nieces, she had no other children who she could share the fun with. She had no kids of her own and Jason's previous marriage had been without issue, although she considered this – rather selfishly, she thought – a blessing knowing what a bitch Lisa was and how she would use their children as a weapon against them. And as much as she would very much like to have kids and was sure that Jason did too, at twenty-nine years of age, she still considered herself just a few years too young to have any rug rats yet.

From the supermarket, (she was always at one of the supermarkets) she had added to her basket a number of iced cakes shaped into skulls and pumpkins. At Kathy's Cards, she had bought some spooky decorations for the home, and from the newsagents she had picked up a few packs of candy for the trick or treaters (if they came) or for her sister's kids (if they bothered to come, too). Also, there was always a horror movie to add to the basket from some store. No doubt Jason will have a little dig as to why she was spending her hard-earned money on more crap she did not need.

She had resisted the urge to pop into her shop on her way back home after seeing the van was not in its usual parking space. This meant that Vicky was out on one of her errands and Maxine would be on her own. If she had stuck her head in the door, she could bet her bottom dollar that she would be tying her apron on and helping her with the end-of-the-day chores. Sophie more than half expected a phone call from her sister, and when she got home, the kettle on the boil, her mobile began to ring. It was Maxine, as forecast. Her heart sank and she let off a sigh.

"Hi, Max, how's things?" She held the phone to her ear as her free hand poured the hot water into her mug. Her voice was low and purposely controlled. "Hope you're not too busy."

"Busy?" The voice from the other end sounded snappy and Sophie braced herself for an outburst. _God my sister just cannot cope with a single thing!_ But she was pleasantly surprised. "I was bloody bored sitting there on my tod for most of the day, you know? Borrrrred!"

"Oh! Quietened down a bit since yesterday, then?" She was unsure if she should feel relief or envy. She fished the tea bag from her cup and threw it in the waste bin. Below her Yin and Yang were back weaving between her legs.

"A few customers this morning... then just the usual odd person here and there."

Sophie checked her watch. It was 18:05 – just over half an hour ago, Maxine or Vicky flipped the sign on the door over to CLOSED. God, where has the day gone? Jason will be back soon, too.

"Well, at least you weren't run off your feet like we were yesterday; you should think about that."

"How did it go today at the dentist and...?"

Sophie had to smile at her sister's omission of the word 'gynaecologist'. She sipped at her tea and began to fumble through her day's shopping. "Both seemed okay, thanks. Not need any fillings this time round, thankfully."

"And I suppose you've been out shopping for the rest of the day." She had to smile at this, too, especially with her hand guiltily sifting through the many cheap-jack items she bought. Her sister knew her far too well.

"Yeah, been out shopping, like you said. Bought a few things for Halloween."

"Halloween?" Sophie could hear Vicky in the background thumping and crashing as she put things away for the night. There was the odd cuss and the odd irritated growl as she went about her usual, predictable business. Vicky was a lovely girl: a sturdy built girl, but by no means an unattractive one.

"Say hi to Vics for me."

"Will do," Maxine said. "Oh, talking about Halloween, do you mind if..."

_The kids_. _She'll ask me to entertain her kids._

"...Jodie and Katy come round tomorrow? You know how they love ghosts and monsters, like you do. I don't have the patience you have and –"

"I'd love to have them, Max." By now, she was making her way up the staircase with the bag of Halloween items slapping against the side of her leg as she climbed. It was beginning to get dark now and she flipped a switch for the landing light. "That's why I went out and bought the cakes and things."

"Sure, sure. Was a good job I've given you an excuse, eh?"

Sophie chuckled at this. When she entered her bedroom, she swung the bag onto the centre of the bed. Yin and Yang had followed her upstairs and were soon on the bed with it, curiously nosing and pawing at the contents within.

"Well, like you said: I love my monsters." She moved over to the window and peeped outside. It seemed that the evening's sky was deepening by the minute. Unlike yesterday there was no rain, although a dark mass of clouds remained, forever keen to smother the heavens with its thick coat.

"But don't you go and let them watch any of those horrid films you're always watching," Maxine continued, her voice now a drone in her ear. Sophie wanted to end her conversation now. Downstairs her tea was getting cold and she hoped to start the dinner before Jason came back. She reached her free hand up to draw the curtains when her eyes spotted something. Something in next door's garden.

"I don't know how you could possibly watch so many of those bloodthirsty things for so many years..."

Sophie's eyes narrowed. She attempted to shield them from the reflection of the bedroom's light upon the glass. What was that in Victor's garden?

"...without turning into a psycho yourself..."

Is that someone lying on his lawn out there? By the crab apple tree? A body perhaps?

"...No wonder so many people are nuts these days..."

Sophie froze. Something in her mind clicked. She sucked in a deep breath and held it. Her eyes became so wide they almost filled her entire face.

"...so that's why I don't _really_ want Jodie or Katy watching..."

"Max, I've got to go. Something's up!"

The urgency in her voice stopped her sister's words dead in her mouth. Sophie yanked open the window and stuck her head outside. The cold air kissed her face and ruffled her hair as she craned her neck to get a better view. Yes, it was a body, albeit just a vague, shadowy shape of one. It must be the old man. He must have collapsed. She pulled her head back in. Now her heart was hammering in her chest. The faint sound of Maxine's tinny voice continued to spill from the phone down by her side.

"Sis... answer me! What's wrong? What...?"

"I've got to hang up!" Sophie ended the call and dialled the emergency services. She was already down the stairs and swinging open the back door when the operator asked for which service. "Ambulance please!" A few seconds later, the sound of a key within the front door travelled across the hallway. "Oh... Thank God!" she cried and stepped back into the house. "Jason? Jason, come quick!"

His head appeared round the edge of the door. When he saw the look within his girlfriend's eyes, his face twitched, sagged and then dropped. "What's up?"

She said, "It's Vic... I think he collapsed in his garden," and then said, "Hello, yes... it's my neighbour," into the phone. Sophie silently jabbed a finger towards the back door at the opposite end of the hall, which gaped widely open from the dark of the coming night, appearing like the mouth of some deep cave. Jason shuffled slowly towards it, feeling a mixture of confusion and dread as he listened to Sophie's words.

"He's collapsed in his back garden," she spoke jointly to Jason and the person on the other end of the phone. "I'm sure it's him. He...he's very old and he looked sick the other day..." Jason stopped at her side, not knowing what to do, not quite understanding what _she_ wanted him to do. "Yes... yes, it's Queen Street... number... number..." She looked up at him. In her panic she could not remember if the old man lived at number nineteen or twenty-three.

"Nineteen," he calmly told her.

"Number nineteen," she relayed to the voice on the other end of the phone. "Yes, number nineteen, Queen Street!"

By now, Jason was moving and moving fast. Her words had finally connected with the correct channels and pushed the desired buttons in his brain. Knowing that the fence that divided the two gardens was low enough to climb, he clambered past the patio in the semi-darkness, kicking over chairs, plant pots and a part of the barbeque trolley. The floodlight sensor detected his movements and washed the patio and lawn with its dazzling light, sending Jason's long and thin shadow to race before him. He diverted towards the long-ago-vacated rabbit hutch that sat against the panelled fence, hoping this to be a good launching pad. It proved to be better than expected. Once on top he cocked his leg and, with one single, swift movement, cleared the fence. A nail snagged his work jeans as he descended to the other side, tearing a triangular shape from the material as he landed firmly on his feet.

He managed to find Victor's body only because he tripped over him. With only the feeble light from his neighbour's kitchen to aid him, Jason scrambled the short distance on hands and knees within the shadows to where the old man lay face down beneath his crab apple tree, feeling the wet grass soak through the material of his slacks. He reached out a hand towards the dark shape. "Victor? Victor, can you hear me?"

When his hand came down again a sharp stabbing pain shot across his forearm. He recoiled, and only when his eyes adjusted to the dark did he realise what it was. It was the wire rake that Victor uses for clearing the dry, fallen leaves and windfalls. Jason believed he must have been out here tidying his lawn when his heart gave out. But how long had he been here?

With panic screaming from within, he turned the old man round in his arms. His body was limp – _limp like the dead_ – and his head lolled to one side at an acute angle. His skin felt cold within his hands.

He's dead.

"Victor!" Jason shook him. In the weak light of the kitchen, he could see the bluish tint of his face. His eyes stared vacantly up through the entwining, skeletal branches of his tree to the dying light of the sky that fought desperately against the black body of the clouds. The edges of his mouth had turned upwards as if in a smile – as if he had just heard a joke: a joke funny enough to knock him to the ground.

_He's dead_.

Jason lightly slapped his face. There was no response. "Victor?" He tried to get a pulse reading from his right wrist, but he was nothing but fingers and thumbs as he struggled with the motionless, flaccid body of his neighbour.

What about mouth to mouth or a heart massage? Could he do that?

Don't bother: he's dead.

"Jason?" It was Sophie. The silhouette of her head appeared over the top of the dividing fence.

"I'm over here," he called to her, "I've found him, but –"

"The ambulance is on its way!"

"Sophie... I think he's..." Small puffs of his breath were now rising into the chilly air as he continued to hold the delicate weight of his neighbour's body. He could feel the bony ridges of his spine through the jacket he wore, the hard contours of his shoulder blades. Jason squeezed his eyes shut as he faced the heavens as Victor did, squeezing them against the reality of his failure to prevent what he knew would happen. If only I persisted... If only I called somebody...

But there was always an 'if', wasn't there? Now it was too late for him. Far too late.

"Jason? How is he? Is he okay? Is he...?"

Is he dead? Yes, dear. He is as dead as a dodo. As dead as a doornail. But hey, at least you've got another customer for your florist shop. You could make a big wreath for him with a note saying: Sorry Vic, but we did try to help.

"Jason?"

"I think he is..."

Was that a heartbeat he felt? Was that a faint movement of his chest? Surely...?

He snapped open his eyelids and looked down. Those dead-looking eyes continued to remain dead looking as they persistently stared with no real interest up at the sky. That frozen little grin stayed on his face, as if he was mocking him. _You could have prevented this from happening_ , that smile seemed to say. _You_ _knew I was sick; knew I needed help._

"Victor?"

Then it came again: a shallow but definite rise and fall of his chest. He tore the old man's jacket apart and leant his head close to his upper body, lifting him further from the ground, attempting to bring his ear close to his heart. Was there movement, or was it only the desperate imaginings of his guilty mind? Jason squeezed his head closer. Was there...?

Suddenly a hissing, gasping sigh erupted from the old man's mouth. Before Jason could even react, a hand was grasping his arm with a fierce grip, digging deep grooves into his flesh with long fingernails.

"Vic!" He raised his head, almost dropping the old man to the ground. The grip loosened but remained firmly around his wrist. The little grin on Victor's face was now a gaping hole that sucked in a rasping, shuddery breath. Then his eyes slowly shifted from the dark of the sky and focused upon Jason: eyes that had life and awareness and intelligence.

"Vic!"

Spittle ran down the side of his chin as his mouth began to move in his attempt to speak.

"Victor?"

Eventually he managed to draw enough breath to form solid words, words that gurgled in his throat as if someone had taken a knife and slit him from ear to ear. "Yes, of bloody-course it's Victor," he replied.

Graeme Charmer was good at giving up bad habits. He has given up smoking about a hundred times already and still on an average of fifteen a day (a habit he had picked up from college, although he had at least broken away from smoking dope).

" _You work in a hospital,"_ they always seem to remind him. _"You should be setting_ _an example."_

And his classic reply was always the classic saying: "Do what I say, not what I do."

He was twenty years of age and a prospering interior designer. Prospering enough to beautifully design and decorate his parents' house and his rented one-bedroom flat. But nothing much else. From college it was straight to the job-seekers queue, the promises from so many design businesses or property developer firms collapsing as the recession took its firm hold across the land. His attempts at starting out as a freelance designer met with equal success, and as the months rolled by and the money became an object of desire rather than just an object, he decided that any job would be better than sitting in near poverty within his poky flat. Besides, his steady collection of women were slowly dwindling away, slowly slipping like sand through his manly, caressing, irresistible fingers. One of the first things he learnt about women (and boy, had he learnt many things about women) in his few adult years was that they all liked money wherever they were short, tall, fat or thin (although he liked the thin, tall ones best of all).

So that was how he found himself here at Upperhampton General Hospital on the Sussex coast working as a porter. The job opportunity came up, so he took it. It was hard work – much harder than expected – but the reward of a nest of young nurses was what kept him going through the long night or day shifts filled with irritable patients, including the drunk and abusive ones who always seemed to find themselves in casualty. And the dead bodies he had to wheel into the morgue.

Between the gaps in the clouds, a bright full moon struggled against the forever-present street lamps and the ever-burning lights from the imposing and sometimes suffocating hospital blocks. Graeme put the cigarette back between his lips again and inhaled deeply, and what he exhaled he could not distinguish between the smoke and his breath. Today he worked the night shift. The only reason he did not mind the late nights was that it was a lot quieter. He did not need to serve meals or attend to many disgruntled 'guests'. And some nights he sat and manned the reception desk.

Stubbing out the tenth fag of the day on the sidewalk paving, Graeme Charmer took a lungful of the chilly air, turned on his heels and continued down the pathway towards the hospital entrance. That all-too-familiar alternating red and blue light reflected from the wet tarmac as an ambulance steered into the parking bay outside of casualty. Paramedics hauled a stretcher from the back. What appeared to be a child was instantly surrounded by waiting nurses and one anxious mother.

"There goes another one. Welcome to another day at the Mad House," he muttered to himself and laughed humourlessly before grudgingly stepping inside to begin his shift.

According to Nurse Natalie Parker, every cloud has a diarrhoea lining. The day had started bad, but bad had soon descended into terrible, and from then on had slipped swiftly down a steep decline towards a pit of shit without brakes. After starting the day with a battle of willpower to lift her head from the pillow, she was threatened with disciplinary action for being late, had bruised her ankle on a bed castor, and then had to endure a constant bombardment of miserable, ungrateful and downright arrogant patients within the walls of the A&E department. It seems, consequentially, that Natalie's proverb was correct.

She smiled feebly at a middle-aged man who ambled towards the drink dispenser. By the weary, vacant look on his face, he had obviously come from the waiting room. Poor old you, she thought. Try actually working here for three years, then see what your face looks like. Her smile dropped away and her mouth returned to its usual fixed position of neither cheer nor gloom as she continued past the reception desk. She took a longing gaze at the dark night beyond the double doors as she strolled by, and for one tiny, fleeting moment the twenty-six year old, newly divorced nurse considered hanging-up her blue uniform and escaping into the crisp evening air.

"This has got to be the worst fucking job ever," Natalie brooded under her breath, dodging a stray trolley of medical equipment as she hurried over to the store cupboard for more of those cardboard 'puke-hats' – as she called them. It seems that today is puke day, for some reason. Why can't they make some other bastard do this gofer job? I'm a qualified nurse, for fucks-sake. I don't need this relentless rush, rush, rush... don't need this constant mayhem – correction – pandemonium!

_You've got to take a step backwards in order to leap forwards._ That was what her father always told her whenever she was struggling through any hard times – especially her divorce. She knew what he was talking about, but his idiomatic statements were not particularly helpful or comforting when your husband decides to run away with some bitch he was screwing behind your back.

Natalie sighed at this and checked the watch that lay upon the hill of her pert breast, noting it was only half an hour away before she finished her shift for the day. An intruding smile managed briefly to brighten her face as she took a deep breath of the surrounding, warm air.

Graeme Charmer, the flirtatious porter, gave her a return smile and a wink as he passed, obviously assuming that her smile was meant for him. Natalie snapped her eyes away from his, dropped the corners of her mouth abruptly and continued towards the cupboard, pretending she had never noticed. She had the hots for him, sure: just like the majority of the young and impressionable female nurses in this hospital (and that included Jimmy Price, the male nurse who would not stop talking about him). But she believed it best to abstain from any involvement or even playful association with this Romeo for now. She risked a glance over her right shoulder in time to see Graeme stroll down the end of the corridor in his usual cocky manner and disappear into a cubicle.

Charmer by name and Charmer by nature.

A stronger smile replaced the previous one as she turned and continued with her quest for the 'puke-hats'. She seldom smiled these days and it was not long before it fell away again and disappeared completely from her face.

"Nurse Parker?"

A sudden crash and a clatter of metallic wheels upon the hard floor surface – a sound that she recognised all too well – sounded across the corridor. A stretcher was hustled through the double doors of the main entrance, surrounded by a small collection of nurses, paramedics and a doctor that swarmed around it like bees around a hive (or flies around shit, Natalie thought). Many people that included patients and staff dived out of the way of the speeding bed that came hurtling towards the resuscitation rooms.

"Nurse Parker?" The voice cut through the clamour of the A&E department like a surgeon's scalpel. "Nurse Parker!"

She obediently turned and retreated towards the entranceway, already knowing that it was another of those life or death situations involving more blood or screaming or death. Or puke.

_You've got to take a step backwards in order to leap forwards_ she heard her father's words echo through her head once again. Yes, dad, her mind answered, but did I ever get to tell you that one who steps backwards could also step into dog shit?

"Nurse Parker, we have a category one – myocardial infarction," Doctor Winters informed her as he sped behind the stretcher, his face as deeply red as it always was when he was in a rush. She strongly believed that it would not be long before they would be wheeling him into the resuscitation room. Through the bag ventilator mask held by one of the paramedics, she could clearly see that the casualty was an elderly man.

"His breathing's laboured but he's conscious," he continued, his own breath sounding heavy. Natalie raced alongside him as they headed towards a small, brightly lit room, her shoes clattering upon the shiny surface of the floor. Once inside, the sight of more staff greeted them as they hurriedly prepared equipment and medication. With swift and effortless precision, two paramedics carefully transferred the patient to the waiting bed. Seconds later a nurse unbuttoned his blue chequered shirt ready to attach the ECG pads to his chest.

"What has already been administered? What's his BP?" Doctor Winters enquired as he ran a hand habitually through his greying hair. The steady, resonating blip of the ECG monitor soon dominated the room, cutting through the small collection of merging voices and the clatter and clang of equipment.

"We have an eighty-three year old male, name of Victor Gwynne," one of the paramedics announced. Medical history yet unknown –"

"Has he had diamorphine?" Winters cut in. "What's his –"

"He's arrested!" a voice abruptly bellowed from the small crowd, cutting above all the other frantic sounds. Everyone appeared to freeze and become silent as the high pitch tune of death from the ECG monitor began to play a duet with a warbling alarm. A flat green line passed mockingly across its display screen in a continuous cycle.

_Oh dear,_ _what a pisser,_ Natalie's mind churned. _I don't think much of your chances, old boy. I've_ _lost count of the amount of old folks who never come back round from a cardiac. Looks like you've gone and bought your one-way ticket._

The spell was broken when Doctor Winters sped to the patient's side, lifted a clenched fist above his chest and brought it down hard, creating a dull, hollow thud. All the staff appeared to look at the ECG monitor in unison. The flat-line remained, its intimidating song continued.

"Adrenalin... I want a line in him please," his voice boomed. A young Thai nurse unintentionally pushed a paramedic aside as she hurried to the opposite end of the room. The grey-haired doctor pointed directly at Natalie. "Get me the crash trolley: we'll need to shock him."

Natalie Parker instinctively rushed to the defibrillator trolley and wheeled it towards the bed. A young black doctor was already passing a tube of gel to Winters as he gripped the two electrode paddles in his hands. A paramedic began to perform a heart massage, rhythmically pumping the patient's thin chest whilst a nurse squeezed upon the air bag.

Natalie set the defibrillator. "Charging at two-hundred!" she yelled. All became hushed except for the two whining machines as the doctor stood poised above the old man, the twin paddles frozen before him like miniature shields.

"Clear!" Doctor Winters' voice boomed again. He immediately placed the two electrodes upon the patient's chest. The staff that collected around the bed shuffled back in automated unison before he delivered the shock. "Shocking now!"

Natalie watched as Gwynne's back suddenly arched away from the bed with his spine curved yet rigid with spasm. He then slumped back upon the sheet like a stuffed dummy, his body still lifeless and his heart still sleeping. The flat line continued defiantly.

The nurse attending to his ventilation proceeded pumping upon the air bag rhythmically whilst the defibrillator recharged. A moment later, the paddles were back upon his chest and the procedure repeated. "Clear!"

Gwynne's body arched once again.

"There's nothing," the young doctor informed. Winters ran a hand back through his hair before removing the electrodes from the old man's chest. The nurse continued to squeeze the air bag. The paramedic continued to pump his chest.

_He's definitely a goner,_ Natalie spoke inside her head. "Charging again at three-sixty," she said aloud.

"Give him another milligram of adrenaline," Winters ordered. Soon the next shock was gripping his body again, contracting his muscles, jerking his limbs. But still there was no pulse. No heartbeat.

That's the end of him.

The hand returned to Doctor Winter's hair again, this time wiping away sweat that had formed upon his forehead. "Let's give it another try, people," he sighed.

The defibrillator charged again. The air bag squeezed and relaxed. The old man's chest pumped in and out. The flat green line continued to sing as it paced across the screen.

"Clear!"

One more chance...

The shock was delivered and this time the toneless tune of the E.C.G monitor changed to a steady, rhythmic tempo.

"We have a pulse!" The black doctor cried out. A grin spread across his face, a grin that quickly infected the other members of the team.

"Okay, thank you people," Winters announced in one long sigh. "Let's get him checked out and up to intensive care. Keep a close eye on this one." He looked over at Natalie and gave her a brisk smile and a nod. His eyes looked tired but relieved. "He was lucky," he muttered before wiping his forehead with the edge of his white sleeve. "Very lucky."

Natalie returned a weak but sincere smile. Doctor Winters failed to notice – he was once again on the move, never seeming to stop or slow for a second. Stepping back into the corridor, her eyes followed his progress until a small crowd of visitors swallowed him, her head slowly shaking in admiration at his relentless dedication. She then checked her watch and found she had only ten minutes remaining of her shift.

When Natalie turned away, she almost walked directly into two visitors waiting patiently outside the resuscitation rooms. She gave a little yelp of surprise and her smile of elation dropped from her mouth.

"Sorry," one of the visitors said. The man who spoke this had an arm hooked around who she presumed was his wife or girlfriend. Although she could be a relative, Natalie thought as she took a few steps back. It was a regular sight in Casualty: people being comforted, people with streaming tears of worry or bereavement.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Across her face, she displayed her 'reserved for patients and visitors only' smile.

"Sorry," the man continued, "but we have just arrived here and were looking for someone."

One of Natalie's fingers began to rise in the direction of the reception desk, but when the man's companion spoke, she froze in mid-action.

"His name's Victor. Victor _Gwynne_ I think it is." Her eyes glanced up at her partner who nodded in confirmation. "He's an old man who was –"

"Oh, I know," the nurse cut in. "He was admitted just a few minutes ago."

"Is he okay?" the two visitors asked in unison.

"He's okay, yes," she assured, keeping that same fixed look on her face. "He did suffer a cardiac arrest when he arrived, but he pulled through and is in a stable condition."

"Oh, God," the man said in a near whisper and looked down at his companion. The woman's eyes widened slightly but remained relatively unmoved by the news.

Natalie began to move forwards, enticing the couple to step away from the resuscitation room just in case the medical team happened to pick this moment to wheel the old man out attached to tubes and bleeping monitors – not a good sight for any concerned visitor to see. "But don't worry: he's in very good hands now."

"Can we see him... is he conscious?" the man asked.

"Are you relatives?"

The man shook his head. "We're his neighbours. We're the ones who found him."

"Not a good time to see him now," she told him. "He's about to be taken into intensive care for observation and tests. Tomorrow, maybe."

"Okay," the man said as he gently rubbed the back of his companion. "Okay, thanks." The two visitors turned round together and began walking back towards the main entrance. Natalie watched as the man's arm slipped away from the woman's shoulder and gripped her hand tightly.

Definitely lovers, Natalie thought with a slight pang of envy. Definitely lovers.

When Natalie strolled back along the corridor towards the staff quarters she caught sight of Graeme Charmer hurrying towards her. A set of keys were jangling from his belt loop on each step upon the tiled floor and strands of his dark hair lifted from his head from the miniature breeze he created. Natalie stopped by a row of wheelchairs to let him pass by with ease.

"Hi, Gray," she said. "Think they need you in resus room 2."

"Pager's bleeping," he announced in a comical robotic voice as he approached. "Pager's bleeping!"

"Get a move on, boy," she joked as he passed her by. "Get those legs pump..." The remainder of her comment swiftly transformed into a scream of surprise when she felt a hand shove her hard into the nearest wheelchair, making her collapse over the armrests. "Hey," she yelled after she felt its hard surface dig into her abdomen. She swiftly turned her head, knowing all too well that there was nobody else behind her other than Graham. She searched around anyway, not wanting to believe that he had done this to her.

"You okay, clumsy?" he asked with a grin as he marched on ahead – a rather mischievous grin, Natalie noted.

"Why you do that?" she yelled. "Are you crazy?"

Graham, either not hearing her last comment or choosing to ignore it, turned his face to his front before disappearing into the resuscitation room.

Natalie stood up, straightened her tunic and adjusted the hair that had fallen over her eyes. "Jerk!" she growled, hoping that the approaching small crowd of visitors, patients and staff did not overhear. Tomorrow morning there would be a small bruise on her upper hip caused by the wheelchair's armrest. Right now, she rubbed a hand across her waist. "Fucking jerk," she repeated, this time under her breath as she turned around and proceeded towards the staff quarters, unaware that murderous eyes were watching her every step.

### Chapter 3 – Trick or treat

October 31st

"Happy Halloween!"

Other than her own, they were the last spoken words that Angela Carter would ever hear. Just before those words, the taxi driver had told her to take care and thanked her for the tip.

She watched until the red taillights became small in the distance as it sped across Grand Avenue before turning left behind Upperhampton general hospital. When a strong gust of icy wind kissed the soft skin of her face and ruffled her hair, she drew the lapels of her jacket closer to her chin. The light smile on her lips remained as she turned round and headed towards her flat in Stone Lane, the yellow light of the sodium lamps lighting her way across the leaf-carpeted street.

Angela thought he was the youngest taxi driver she had seen since living in this town, and boy, wasn't he so damn cute? Dark and Italian looking. The smile grew broader as she recalled her small talk with him as he guided the BMW through the busy streets predictably bustling with late rush hour traffic and the first of the Halloween party revellers. She believed she had made the right choice by ordering a taxi rather than wait about in the cold for a bus. Her shift at the cinema's snack kiosk should have ended at five today, but typically, on the day she needed a little extra time to get ready, Judy Collins had phoned in sick and she had to stay on until another colleague relieved her.

The driver was undeniably flirting with her towards the end of the trip – all in good taste – and she was the one feeding him the ammunition to do so by constantly teasing him. She began the conversation by letting him know how short her 'little black number' was going to be this evening. The Halloween party at Barnaby's Bar was, of course, fancy dress, and she was going as a vampire seductress. She added 'seductress' for the benefit of his imagination. She saw him steal a glance at her shapely legs clad in her work skirt and could easily guess what his mind was picturing. Seeing this, she heated things up a bit more. Angela Carter was in a steady relationship, but what harm was there in the occasional flirt?

"Jeez," she continued as the young driver's eyes continually flipped from the road to her face in his mirror, "I'm gonna have to be real careful if I drop anything, as that damn dress is _so_ going to ride over my ass if I need to bend down!"

The taxi driver grinned at this and raised his brow. "You'll have to put a few rubber bands around the bottom of it to keep it in place," he said.

"No way! Can you imagine everyone pulling them back and letting them go again as I walk past?" she joked. "I know I liked my bum spanked from time to time, but that's going a bit too far!"

"Woo-hoo!" The driver exclaimed. He was clearly warming to the conversation now and his eyes were visibly sparkling.

"Sorry, I shouldn't be telling you all my dark secrets!" She giggled and theatrically put a hand over her mouth, making out her comment was a mere slip of the tongue.

"Don't you worry about that, young lady," the driver told her. "Ol' Ted here has seen and heard a lot of things in this very cab that will make your eyes widen."

"Oh, yeah?" Angela said, laying her head against the backrest and concentrating her dark brown eyes upon his face. "What kind of things could they be...Ted?"

He whistled below his breath. "You wouldn't wanna know."

"Yes I would," she told him provocatively. "I like experiencing things that make my eyes widen."

The grin on Ted's face returned, wider this time. "Do you now?"

"Ah ha," she confirmed.

There was an awkward silence for a moment. On the car's radio, at low volume, Rihanna's voice rang out.

"So, who are you going into town with?" Ted asked.

"Just a bunch of girlfriends," she replied. It was a lie. Ryan would be there with his mates, but she wanted to tease him further with the image of more pissed-up girls dressed in similar skimpy outfits fooling about together.

"Are they going out dressed-up, too?"

"Ah-ha. And I think I'll be the most modestly dressed one of the bunch," she teased again.

"You're _joking_!"

"Not really," she said casually and focused her eyes beyond the passenger's side window. "That's nothing out of the ordinary."

"Wow! Where did you say you're going again?"

"Barnaby's Bar."

"Barnaby's Bar," he repeated. "Yes, I pick up all the time from there."

"You pick up there lots?" she exclaimed and looked back round at him. "Lots of girls?"

"Not just girls," he said. "Guys too." When he saw her mouth drop open, he quickly realized her misunderstanding. "Pick them up in my cab, I'm saying!"

They both laughed at that, and now, as Angela fumbled for her door key lost deep within her handbag, she started to giggle again at the memory.

"Well, you might get a chance of picking _us_ up tonight if you're lucky," she remembered adding after the laughter died down. "As long as you can keep your eyes on the road, that is."

"I'll be there," he had told her. "And I'll be looking out for you all."

Angela pushed her door open wide and fumbled for the light switch. When the single, naked light bulb lit the short corridor, she stepped inside, hung her jacket and kicked off her shoes. On the doormat below the letterbox, there were three envelopes. She bent down, swiped them from the floor and carried them into the living room. It was warm inside – too warm to deem as cosy – and she made a mental note to turn the storage heaters' temperature dials down a notch or two.

Now, as she switched on the two wall lights above her sofa, she hoped she did not go too far with the teasing and flirting. After all, he could be waiting there in his taxi when she more than likely staggered out of the pub-turned-club at the end of the night, propped-up by Ryan, her boyfriend. But why should she care? She reminded herself that it was just a bit of harmless fun.

The clock above the T.V said seven twenty-three: she had just over an hour and a half to eat, shower and change into her outfit. "Shit," she muttered under her breath before rushing to the kitchen to prepare a quick meal – something she could put in the microwave while she went about her other business. Ryan would be here at nine prompt, and he did not like to keep the lads waiting.

Children's laughter upon the crisp air flowed in through the kitchen window when she opened it slightly, and she remembered that she had a few bags of candy ready for any trick or treaters that may come knocking. As long as they did not decide to come around when she was in the shower, they would be okay.

She chose a Baker Jack's slim line range chicken and broccoli bake (even though she was slim enough), placed it in the microwave and set the time. Once that was done, she hurried over to the stereo and put on Lady Gaga's newest album for some background music. She was singing along under her breath while she removed her clothes in her bedroom, carefully folding her work skirt and blouse before laying them upon the chair beneath the window; her under garments she tossed into the laundry basket. Naked, she opened up her wardrobe, removed her 'vampire seductress' outfit and laid it neatly across her bed. Angela then entered the bathroom and donned her bathrobe, wrapping it tightly around her body before returning to the kitchen.

The chicken bake smelled good, and once the 'ding' sounded from the microwave, she opened its door and removed her meal. From within the drawer below the sink, she took out a large serrated knife from the tray of cutlery. She held its blade up to her face and gazed upon the steel edge that reflected the light of the overhead fluorescent tube. The dazzling image it created was pleasantly mesmerizing – almost hypnotizing. After she tore her eyes away, she spotted her reflection in the glass of the open kitchen window, now at a slight angle.

"Aaarrrggghhhh!" Angela held the knife up high above her head and bared her teeth, giving her best psycho impersonation. She thought she looked ridiculous and burst out into fits of laughter. Then a series of hard raps against the front door startled her, and she swiftly placed the knife onto the worktop, oddly feeling somewhat ashamed of her childish fooling. "Damn-it!" She spun round and slowly strolled barefooted across to her hallway.

From beyond the small square of frosted glass within the door, she could see nothing but blackness, but she had no doubt that the trick or treaters were outside waiting for more candy to fill their pockets. As she wrapped her bathrobe tightly around her body and tied the cord more firmly around her waist, she wondered what all the little brats would make of her psycho impersonation. Just as she was reaching for the door latch, she suddenly thought it wise that she should make the effort to cover herself more.

"I'm just coming," she called after unhooking her jacket. Angela expected to hear the tittering and excited mumbling of the children, but there was nothing but silence beyond the doorway. Instead of donning her jacket, she simply held it to her chest as she unlocked her door and eased it open. At that moment, as the squeak of the un-oiled hinges rang out ( _very Halloween_ ) she remembered the bags of candy were still on the living room coffee table. But she need not have worried about that: there was nobody there. _Just like in horror movies,_ she thought whilst peeking just beyond the door to see if the children were simply waiting around the corner in readiness to jump out on her. The air was chilly and goose flesh broke out across her exposed forearms. "Hello?"

When there was no reply, she pulled the door shut, ensuring the latch made its audible 'click' when it sprung back within its rightful place. She hung the jacket up again and returned to the kitchen, her stomach reminding her that a hot chicken dinner still awaited consumption. "Bloody kids," she told herself and stuck her index finger into the chicken bake, quickly removing it when it burnt her skin. After licking the sample from her finger, she nodded her approval. "Mmm, not bad... not bad at all!"

Lady Gaga played on in the living room as she transported the food from the microwavable packaging to a waiting plate, using the knife to slice it into small segments. Steam rose into the air as the blade coursed easily through and she relished in the aroma it released. "Lovely, lovely, lovely," she repeated before singing along to her C.D and wriggling her butt to the beat of the music. It was no cordon bleu, but if it tasted as good as it smelled, then she would be one happy bunny.

"Yum, yum, in my tum... around my guts and out my bum!" She chanted this whilst grabbing a knife and fork from the same drawer beneath the sink. Turning back, she reached out for the plate, ready to take it into the lounge to eat on the sofa. This was the moment when a light gust of warm air lifted strands of her dark hair from the side of her face and caused the gooseflesh to return to her forearms. Startled, she looked over her left shoulder towards the living room where the sensation came from. It felt as though somebody had just rushed past her.

"Strange," she said just before her face was shoved with a violent force into the steaming-hot Chicken bake meal upon her worktop. Before she could even contemplate what had happened, somebody punched her with incredible force on her lower back above her right kidney whilst holding her head down. She screamed out from within the plate, her mouth filling with food, her face burning with the heat. When the punch returned in the same place, the air was knocked from her chest.

Angela's arms thrashed frantically about, knocking cups, bottles, plates and utensils onto the floor. Some of the glass and chinaware smashed into fragments and scattered freely across the linoleum. When the hand holding her down yanked her head away from the plate by her hair, she gasped a lungful of air, spitting out the chunks of her meal that was not already choking her. Her eyes could not open due to the hot chicken gravy scorching the skin of her eyelids, penetrating through to the sclera. Angela coughed and spluttered wildly, and eventually she was able to scream. But only the once.

The hand not tightly holding her hair came around from behind and punched her in the stomach, causing the breath to explode from her lungs once again. She beat out wildly with her hands, feebly hitting the body of her attacker in a vain attempt to escape his powerful clutches. Now she could only suck air in tiny gasps as her eyes bulged with pain and terror. When her assailant finally released the grip upon her hair, she collapsed face down onto the hard surface of her kitchen floor.

Angela tried to get up onto her knees. She almost succeeded when a foot came down hard upon her back, knocking her down again. She managed to cry out just before it returned, beating her flat against the surface of the linoleum, her face and upper body crushing the broken glass further and drawing blood. The foot came down again and again, and the only time she tried desperately to resist was when she felt the cord around her waist loosen as her assailant began to remove her bathrobe.

"No...no, please," she pleaded just before the garment slipped awkwardly from her body. Her arms yanked painfully back at an unnatural angle as the sleeves pulled away, finally leaving her naked. Her legs thrashed about the floor amongst the shards of broken glass and china, and when she made a further attempt to stand, the foot came down once again. "Please, don't do this... Don't hurt me..." The world threatened to black out but she fought desperately against it, despite the fact she would rather not consciously experience what she undeniable believed was coming next. Even when she felt her vagina begin to stretch as the assailant penetrated her, even after feeling his weight pressing her further onto the floor as he lay along her back, she wanted to remain awake – awake in the hope she would see whom her rapist was.

"Don't do this... Don't do this to me..." It was no use, but her violation was mercifully short for what she assumed could be for many reasons. She hoped guilt was the factor, but dismally believed the thrill of raping a young woman caused him to climax too quickly. "Sick bastard," she managed to say just before her head smashed against the floor and she finally passed out.

When consciousness returned, she was at first vaguely aware of the burns to her face and a deep pain across both of her breasts. Had he bitten her there? Panic began to set in quickly, drawing her swiftly from her delirium. Her eyes opened but refused to focus, and the room around her (she presumed she was still upon the kitchen floor) was only a bright blur.

Where was he? She lifted a shaking, bloody hand up to her face and wiped away sticky, congealed chicken gravy from her eyes, completely unaware at this moment that a shard of glass protruded from her forearm. Lady Gaga was done with her singing, and her apartment was now in silence. When she was finally able to focus, she looked desperately about for her rapist, expecting him to be waiting somewhere within the shadows. So far, there was no sight or sound of him, and that was a good start.

Angela dared to sit up, although her head began to spin wildly and pain from the numerous cuts obtained from the shrapnel of her crockery began to register. Worst of all was the pain between her legs, but when she happened to look down at her naked breasts, a wave of sickening horror began to rise from deep within and she had to force herself to not panic – not go completely out of her mind.

There were two eyes carved neatly into her flesh like bloody tattoos – one for each breast. Above the picture on her right side, the number five had been cut with the same precision. "What's this?" she heard herself saying, although the timid little voice sounded too far away to be hers. "What has he done to me?"

Angela's shocked mind spun in unison with a swimming sensation as unsavoury thoughts tried to put a meaning to this. Had he marked me as though I am one of his possessions – like branding cattle? Are they some type of satanic symbol? Or just some kind of sick joke from a deranged mind?

Eventually, Angela managed to get onto her feet, although she had to lean against the worktop until the dizzy sensation eased enough to allow her to walk. A wave of nausea almost made her puke, but she battled against it. With nervous eyes, she continued to search her surroundings as she stumbled more than stepped to the living room, and once she reached the doorframe, she cautiously peeped inside. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was empty, although she continued to stand and scrutinize every nook and cranny, every dark and shadowy corner. Even though there was nowhere possible for her assailant to hide – no wardrobe or cupboards or any draping curtains and spaces beneath the furniture – she remained in the doorway for a long time, gripping the frame tightly for comfort more than support.

But, of course, he could be hiding elsewhere such as the bathroom, bedroom or even the hallway. He could be waiting for her to lower her guard before pouncing once again to resume his demented pleasure, relishing in her rekindled terror. Like before, he would knock her to the ground, pin her down and help himself to more sexual pleasure while she screamed and squirmed beneath his grip. He may even put his powerful hands around her throat and slowly squeeze and squeeze until...

Angela did not want to think any more about it. All she wanted – desperately needed – to do was find her mobile phone and call for help. But where could it be? Unfortunately, she had no landline connected, so she would have to remember where she last put it. Her confused mind tried to remember, but it was like trying to see within thick fog. Wrapping her arms tightly around her naked body, she cautiously stepped into the living room, silently praying that her phone was on the small coffee table by the sofa. Her heart sank when she saw it was not there and began to panic, making her memory become just a useless, dull blank.

"Fuck it!" She rubbed at her hair, feeling a dull ache where her attacker had viciously tugged her scalp, and tried to recall where she last put the damn thing. "Where is that fucking phone?" Tears were now welling within her eyes but that was good – good because she was still living and functioning and not behaving like some traumatized zombie. All she had to do was calm down enough to find the phone and... But all she had to do was walk out of here, right? Just simply step out of her apartment and bang on her neighbour's door – any door – for help. A little smile even managed to lift the corners of her lips at the thought of little old Mr. Ealing opening his door to find his young neighbour standing butt naked on his doorstep. She could even say "happy Halloween!" when his shocked eyes widened at the sight beneath his little spectacles.

Angela's smile soon dropped when she returned to the kitchen to find that her bathrobe was no longer there. Had the rapist taken it as a trophy? In a way she hoped he did, as it would be damning evidence when the law tracked him down and searched his home. And failing to see her assailant was both a misfortune and a blessing, she believed, for at least she would not relive the sight of his leering, malicious face within the nightmares she would undeniably suffer during the ensuing weeks, months or even years.

The clock above the T.V said half eight exactly, and she even contemplated staying here until Ryan came knocking at her door. But the longer she left it, the better the chances of Mr. Rapist getting away with his crime, so she decided to continue with her plan of getting help now rather than later.

Inside her bedroom, she had an entire wardrobe full of clothes and shoes. Angela shuffled over to the door that divided the living room with her bedroom, touched the handle but immediately flinched away as though it was red hot. What if he was hiding inside, as she had earlier feared? She stepped back. In an unconscious effort to conceal her nakedness, she brought her left hand down between her legs and her right hand up to cup her left breast, feeling the stickiness of her blood from the carved image of an eye. What if he really was still inside her apartment, waiting patiently for part two of his perverse pleasure?

In the hallway, hanging upon a hook, was her jacket. It was long enough to cover her most intimate of areas, and her work shoes would be there too, in their usual position by the door. Then, as that thought passed through her mind, the whereabouts of her phone returned as a vivid image. It was in the pocket of her jacket, in the place she always put it when she wore it out on chilly days such as this. She had forgotten it in her haste to get ready, and it would be there within the inside breast pocket – she was one hundred percent positive it would. All she had to do was simply walk the few feet to the hallway, retrieve it and call the police.

The rapist was not there waiting in the hallway as she half expected, but her bathrobe was. When her eyes immediately fell upon her missing garment lying just before the open doorway, she breathed another sigh of relief. He was gone. He had fled. He had beaten her, stripped her and fucked her. Now he had other things on his mind such as trying to evade the law, and Angela hoped he would have a hard time dealing with it. Her phone was in the place she knew it would be, and she held it almost lovingly within the palm of her right hand. "Thank God," she said aloud just before she was knocked yet again to the floor, although the floor seemed to come up to hit her rather than the opposite.

What had just happened? She asked herself this question as the hand still clutching the phone stretched longingly before her towards the open door. Did I just trip? Angela managed to slowly shuffle her knees up towards her abdomen and rise into an all fours position. It couldn't have been the rapist, because he has taken to his heels and fled some time ago, while I was unconscious on the kitchen floor.

Angela was still considering this when the point of her kitchen knife – the one she used to slice her chicken and broccoli bake – penetrated through her anal sphincter and deep into her rectum. The pain was something that was beyond comprehension, beyond perception. The gasping scream she desperately needed to release only got as far as her throat before a hand grasped around her mouth, blocking its escape. Her assailant then thrust the knife downwards with a great force, slicing through her perineum and into the vagina.

Now the agony was too much to bear and the world around her begun to turn hazy, threatening to become a merciful blank. But when her attacker swiftly removed the knife from the lacerated flesh between her legs, the new searing pain seemingly ignited every nerve ending within her body like fire, cruelly kicking her back into consciousness.

The hard, cold hand clasped around her mouth suddenly slipped away, and even though a scream was poised readily on her lips, all Angela could do was gasp in meagre gulps of air. The agonizing spasm from her ruptured lower bowel and vagina seemed to have paralysed her entire body, but she still attempted to crawl away towards the open doorway in what she surely knew would be her last chance of escape.

But it was to no avail. This time the knife swooped down below her chin as she shuffled across the corridor, and from the corners of her eyes, Angela saw the light of the overhead bulb reflect upon the deadly steel just before it tore into the delicate skin of her throat. It penetrated deep during its slow and deliberate course from one side of her trachea to the next. Blood released from the carotid artery sprayed the walls, floor and even as high as the ceiling during her final death throes. She even managed to reach the threshold of her door before finally collapsing face-up, allowing her dying eyes to stare one final time into the dark of the night sky.

Now the world around Angela Carter became hazy once again, and this time she drifted undisturbed into the total blackness that followed, entering a place that was devoid of all pain, all fear and all evil.

Eight-year-old David Evans, dressed in his Dracula's cape and plastic fangs, strayed from the small group of trick or treaters, breaking his father's rules of only knocking on the doors of the neighbours they knew. He would have surely liked the vampire's costume that Angela Carter had prepared for her Halloween party at Barnaby's Bar that night, but he was a little too young to appreciate the revealing nature of its shape and size.

As he strolled up the short, shadow infested path that led to her front door, he noticed that it was open, allowing the light from the hallway to seep out and paint a square of yellow upon the walkway. He was not so sure that the body he saw lying on the floor just inside the doorway was real or not – after all, this _was_ Halloween.

"Hello?" he asked more than greeted. When there was no answer or movement from the figure on the floor, the young boy, after taking a nervous and guilty glance over his shoulder, continued further up the path.

"Trick or treat," he said timidly, his breath visibly puffing out before him. David could hear his friends giggling just a few houses down, especially his sister – she was always the loudest one. At any second he expected to hear his father's booming voice calling his name when he realised he was missing from the group.

"Are you okay?" Cautiously, David continued to step slowly closer, his nerves now telling him to turn and run but his curious mind overpowering this. After all, wasn't that a lady lying half in and half out of her doorway? And wasn't she completely naked?

David stopped in mid-step and slapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the little gasp of shock, guilt and amusement. It was only when he dared himself to continue the last few feet to the doorstep did he notice that the woman's body was smeared in what could only be blood. And yes, even though he was only an eight-year-old boy and it was Halloween night when people – even adults – dressed up in ghoulish costumes and makeup, he was fully aware that this looked to be the real deal, for how could anybody want to willingly lay naked out in the cold?

When David finally heard his father calling his name as predicted, he somehow forgot how to run or scream. His eyes could not resist following the thick streams of blood across the contours of her upper body to where they mercifully disappeared behind the door.

"David! David, where are you?" His little group sounded further away now, the giggling and chanting coming from across the street. "Come on now, we're heading home!"

Again, he tried to scream, but just like the woman below him before her killer tore open her throat, the boy released only feeble gasps of air.

Then, from somewhere inside the woman's apartment, there was a sound of a door slamming. The young boy suddenly found himself running back down the path and towards home, the wind his speeding body created blowing his Dracula styled hair out of place.

"Dad! Dad...I've seen a dead body!"

If David's father had seen how deathly pale his face was when he came running towards his house, he may have taken more notice. But the fact was that he wore a deathly pale face ever since his mother applied the white makeup just after his supper. The moment he rejoined his little group, Mr. Evans slapped a hand upon his shoulder and leaned over his small form. "What did I tell you about running off?" he sternly asked. "Well, young man, what did I say?"

"But Dad, I saw... I saw a lady with lots of blood all over her!"

His father's eyes looked him up and down for a short moment before a grin broke out on his face. The rest of the group began to chuckle. His older sister, dressed in a witch's outfit, screamed out with amusement. "Did you now?" his father said and removed his hand to pat him lightly on his head. He then bared his teeth at his son. "Aaaarrrggghhh!" All the children, except for David, burst out into fits of laughter.

"But Dad –"

"Come on now, it's getting late, you've got school tomorrow and I have to get your friends home," Mr. Evans told him as he guided his son towards their door. "Follow your sister inside now, and get your makeup washed off your face."

"But it was real –"

"And don't eat too much of that candy you got – not just before bedtime!" He watched as his son reluctantly followed his older sister into the house before turning his attention to the other waiting children. "Bloody kids," he muttered under his breath. "Come on now, you lot. Let's get you all home," he said aloud.

### Chapter 4 – Death comes to town

November 1st

"Is he awake?"

There was a slight twitching from the old man's eyelids before they slowly opened, reminding Sophie somewhat shamefully of Boris Karloff's Frankenstein's Monster awakening from the dead. It took a little time before his eyes were able to focus upon his two visitors but once recognition set in, a weak but sincere smile brightened his white, bristly face.

"Hi, Vic. Hope we didn't disturb your sleep," Jason said looking down upon his neighbour, the bed sheets tucked snugly beneath his chin. "You look very cosy lying there."

"I've slept enough," he replied, surprising his visitors on how chirpy his voice appeared, "although I'm not complaining too much." He shuffled his body upwards, removing his arms from within the sheeting.

Sophie leaned over closer. "You're not missing anything, I can tell you. It's cold and damp outside." She shivered theatrically to emphasize her report. "Horribly cold."

The smile faded away from Victor's face. "Is it Friday today?"

"All day," Jason replied. "We would have come by to see you yesterday, but we thought it best that we let you rest up before we came round to bother you –"

"Not to mention that I was run off my feet trying to get things ready to entertain my two nieces," Sophie cut in. "They were a goddamn nightmare! But I suppose they fit in well for Halloween."

The old man's smile returned as he looked up at them – more in politeness than amusement, Jason believed.

"What have the doctor's said about your..." Jason caught the look in his girlfriend's eyes, a look that told him to be tactful. "About what happened the other night?"

"That I should cut down on my drinking and smoking for a start," he said after a moment of thought. "They've been in here about every hour wiring me up to some monitor or something and checking this and checking that." His smile remained, but it now looked more like a sneer. "I will need to take a lot of pills from now on, and have regular check-ups." His two visitors stood silently as he worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, his mind churning out his thoughts. "Apparently it takes about two months for your heart to heal after a heart attack, so I will have to take it easy for a few weeks, although I can do light chores and exercise, such as short walks."

"Don't forget we're here whenever you need us," Sophie told him. "Just knock on our door or phone us... we'll give you our number." She looked up at her partner who nodded back.

Victor continued to work his tongue around as though he had something stuck between his dentures. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling directly above his head. "I should expect to feel depressed at some level and maybe afraid after my return home. I must have plenty of rest but not too much, and I have to watch my diet... And I can join a rehabilitation programme if I wanted." He then turned his head upon the pillow and grinned boyishly up at them, mildly startling his two visitors. "Why don't you both sit down? There are some chairs behind you."

Obediently, his visitors each turned to pull a wooden chair forward before sitting, being mindful of the patients resting in the neighbouring beds. Now out of intensive care, Victor rested in a small ward and Jason marvelled on how much more pleasant-looking modern hospital wards looked compared to the ones he used to visit during the times both of his grandfathers lay dying, between twenty to twenty-five years ago.

"Now, isn't that better?" Victor asked.

Sophie returned a single nod then reached down into a plastic bag by her feet, suddenly remembering something. "Oh, we've bought you these. I didn't know if you like them or not..." She produced a box of Belgium chocolates, neatly packaged in golden wrapping and ribbons. Victor thought they looked expensive. Also held in her hand, folded neatly against the chocolates, was a national newspaper. It was this second item that caught his interest. "They are low fat, apparently," she continued in a whisper as if they were a banned substance. "A bit more healthy for you."

"We weren't sure if somebody would have got you a paper, but we bought you one, just in case," Jason said. Victor reached out and grasped the newspaper, totally ignoring the box of chocolates. He mumbled a quick 'thank you' before unfolding it and swiftly scanning the headlines, his eyes hungrily darting back and forth across the text. "There's nothing about that murder in there yet: it's too early," Jason added. "That's if they'll bother to cover it at all."

"I don't think Victor will want to know about gruesome things like that at the moment," Sophie told her boyfriend. The old man looked over at her inquisitively before reaching out towards the bedside table, searching for his reading spectacles.

"What murder?"

"You not watched T.V yet?" Jason shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, I suppose it's only been reported a few hours ago. Apparently last night a young woman was stabbed to death in..." He stopped to think. "In Stone Lane, which is literally a few streets away from this very hospital, I believe."

Victor's eyes widened behind his newly donned spectacles as he listened, folding the paper neatly before laying it upon his chest.

Sophie said, "They say her boyfriend found her naked body on her doorstep." She spoke in whispers again, but her next sentence was barely audible. "They think she was _raped._ "

The old man slowly nodded his head mechanically as his mind began to wander. His two visitors sat patiently and waited, both watching him while his eyes drifted across his little space within the hospital ward. His face took on a blank but somewhat negative expression, raising concern for his new friends.

"Nobody that you knew, I hope."

Jason's sudden voice snapped him from his musing, and he jerked his head back in their direction. "No, no... I doubt it very much," Victor replied huskily.

"Well, come on," Sophie said, her voice now rising. "Let's talk about something more cheery. I think the last thing Victor needs right now is a discussion about murders, isn't that right?"

Victor forced a smile.

"So when do you think you'll be out of here?" she continued.

"If my tests are all up to scratch, then I'll be home in just under a week."

"That's too soon! Will you be able to cope on your own? Me and Jason will always be there if you need us, don't forget."

Victor nodded his head. "You're very kind."

"Oh... talking about home, I must give you your key back," Sophie said as she reached down for her handbag. "We locked your house for you while the ambulance took you here. I was meant to hand it into reception when we came round the –"

"Keep it on you, if you don't mind," he cut in. "Will you be back? Back to visit?"

"Sure..." Sophie looked round at her boyfriend beside her for confirmation. "Sure we will."

"It's because I will maybe need a few things from home... if that's not too much bother."

"I can make it," she told them. "I can pop out any time. I'm always covered by one of the girls."

Jason sniggered. "You call Maxine a _girl_?"

She simply ignored him.

They talked about more things – mundane things – but Victor's mind seemed to be in a different place. His two visitors, hoping that it was due to tiredness and the effects of medication and not through boredom, decided it best to leave him be so he could get some more rest. Before they said their goodbyes for the day, Victor made a short list of items he wanted them to bring from home. Most were items of clothing, such as his slippers and dressing gown, but one of the things he wanted, which he listed last – almost hesitantly – was a book.

"I'll tell you how to find it," he began as he pulled himself with an effort into an upright position. "It's in my front bedroom, on the top shelf of my bookcase there. I have hundreds of books at home, as Jason may well tell you." He smiled at his neighbour, referring to the evening when he helped him into his house. "You can't really miss it. It's a big, black leather-bound one with its title imprinted in gold."

"What's it about?" Jason asked as he took the list from his fingers: a piece of paper torn from an opened envelope.

"Nosey!" Sophie joked.

Victor smiled sheepishly. "You may find this a little odd – alarming, maybe – but it's about the occult. I have a deep interest in the world beyond this one: always have."

Jason had to bite his tongue to stop himself saying, "You almost found out first-hand about the world beyond this one."

"That's great!" Sophie exclaimed. "I love things like that, too. I'm always watching and reading things about ghosts and demons, ain't I?" She looked over at her boyfriend, who was rolling his eyes.

"Normally the ones with blood and guts in," he returned. "Surprised you're not more interested in that murder across the road."

Sophie slapped him on his thigh. "I'm not _that_ bad!"

"It's a very old book," Victor continued, "and some of the pages are a little loose."

"We'll be careful," Jason assured him as he stood. "We'll find it tonight with those other bits. Sophie will bring them tomorrow sometime."

"Thank you. And thank you for the paper and chocolates."

"You're welcome," his visitors said together.

Sophie stood up. "Now get yourself some more rest, and I'll see you later." She lightly patted the hump beneath the blankets where his feet were. "Are you sure there's nothing else you want?"

After a moment of consideration, Victor looked up and warmly smiled. "Nothing else," he told them. Then his smile appeared to twist into a devious-looking grin. "But I could murder a tot of whisky right now!"

George Fields was the first of the journalists to arrive at the scene of the crime in the early hours of this morning. Although he was from the local rag – The Upperhampton Herald – he knew that, because the murder was so brutal, a hungry pack from the national newspapers and television networks would also be here, setting up camp as close to the action as possible or allowed by the police. Next to arrive were the local regional news team: South Today. They were currently residing in their large van parked a few feet from his Volkswagen estate.

However, because the police knew all too well that the media were a good tool for finding information from the public in cases such as this, they tolerated if not welcomed the press' intervention.

George stood donned in a grey trench coat with a steaming polystyrene cup of coffee in his podgy hand, looking at the white tent covering the entranceway of the victim's ground floor apartment. She was apparently still inside, the forensics team continuing their painstaking task of gathering samples for possible evidence. So far, the police have not released the victim's name to the public although George already knew her name through information gathered from his team back at the office.

People in blue paper overalls and boots occasionally entered or exited the apartment via the tent, while a uniformed police officer stood sentinel at the head of the short pathway just beyond the police tape crisscrossing the low gate entrance. Another reporter from Sky News was hovering close by while a cameraman, possibly from the same team, began filming the crime scene and its surroundings.

But George was mainly waiting for one person, D.C.I Lonsdale, who was currently on his way over from a scheduled meeting – or so he was told. Over the last three years they had developed a strong rapport that had grown from mutual understanding to a beneficial professional relationship. Almost two years ago, on a gang-like murder case that had happened in the early hours, a young man was stabbed to death while walking home alone from a bar in the main town. Police had a number of suspects but no solid evidence to link them to the crime, and weeks went by without a conviction. But it was only after a lucky break while interviewing one of the deceased's associates for an article on the murder when he discovered who the true killer was. The young man, after gentle persuasion and tactful questioning, unwittingly revealed that he knew the identity of the murderer. It turned out that he was too scared to go to the police for fear of reprisal, and it was only after promises of protection and anonymity that he revealed his information to D.C.I Lonsdale, leading to the conviction of a small-time local drugs dealer. This led to a cooperative working relationship – almost friendship – to develop between them, and whenever he could, the Detective Chief Inspector would disclose publishable information to him for his articles.

George Fields breath puffed visually into the crisp air as his head turned towards an approaching car. The police were limiting vehicles down this tight street to residents and tradespersons only, as the amount of 'ghouls' that had driven past so they could curiously peep at the murder scene had become so great that the road had blocked solid with traffic. It was an unmarked police car, and as soon as it parked behind a police van, he caught a glimpse of the man he was waiting for.

George crossed the road and approached the short but stocky D.C.I, waiting patiently while he talked briefly to a police officer who was in the process of taking notes from an elderly neighbour on his doorstep. Seeing the reporter take a sudden interest in this new arrival, the Sky News team also turned their attention to Lonsdale.

"Good afternoon D.C.I Lonsdale," George greeted as he turned away from the police officer. "How is the case developing?"

"We are still in the midst of gathering important forensic evidence and any possible witnesses," he replied as he started towards the crime scene. "What I want –"

"Good afternoon, sir," the other reporter cut in. "We are from Sky News. Can you tell me more about the young boy who claimed he found her body but nobody –?"

"All I will say at this point is that it seems the murderer or murderers could have possibly entered through the back window of the victim's apartment rather than through the front entrance. We are appealing to the public for information of any suspicious activity within the area between the hours of seven and nine p.m. last night to come forward. Thank you." He stopped outside the entrance of the pathway to the crime scene. The police officer guarding the walkway lifted the police tape for him as he ducked under it.

"Just one question for you, if I may?" George asked. The D.C.I looked back at him and gave him a single nod.

"It was Halloween last night. Do you think this could have anything to do with it? Maybe a deranged, random killing or something like that?"

Lonsdale shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid it's far too early to come to any conclusions, but we will not rule out this possibility. Thank you, gentlemen." Then the D.C.I swiftly turned and continued towards the victim's home.

"I feel so nosey coming in here, looking around his stuff." Sophie stood on tiptoes whilst she stretched upwards towards the row of books within the top shelf of the floor to ceiling bookcase. Jason stood behind her, looking about the room with wonder, not just at the vast display of books but at the collection of artefacts and memorabilia placed here and there within the second bedroom of Victor Gwynne's house.

"Why don't you grab a chair to stand on?" he asked. "There's one under the window."

Sophie turned her head to see there was indeed a wooden chair. But when she saw a small glass display case sitting upon it with what could only be a freeze-dried tarantula stretched across its base, she thought otherwise. "Thanks, but no thanks," she mumbled before continuing on her quest to find the old man's so-called book on the occult. As she looked, she read aloud the numerous titles printed along their spines, and they each appeared to have similar subjects. "History of the supernatural... Ritual and Magic... The Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Paranormal... Evil Serial Killers..." Her index finger ran lightly across each spine as she searched. "Public Executions throughout History... ehghh, how disgusting!"

"But what are you looking for?" Jason asked. "I thought he said a big, old, black one."

"But most of them are big and black," she argued. "And about the occult and supernatural."

Jason pointed to her right, although Sophie had her back to him. "On the end, silly. I can see a big, old black one right there."

"Oh, yeah," she said after turning her head and seeing what he was referring to. Sophie reached out and began to pull the hardback book forwards when suddenly the one next to it slid unexpectedly out with it and tumbled to the floor. "Shit!"

"Careful!" Jason exclaimed and immediately knelt down to retrieve it. As he picked it up from the carpeted floor, he realised to his dismay that the cover had come freely away from its pages, leaving the contents of the book behind. "Oh, no. Now you've gone and damaged it."

Sophie, now holding the book that Victor wanted in both hands, looked at the hardback cover hanging loosely in Jason's hand, then down at the spineless pages upon the floor. "Well don't just leave it there, silly," she told him with a cheeky smile. "Pick it up." Then, as if in afterthought: "You should have pulled it out for me because you're taller."

He looked up at her from where he knelt with an expression of non-amusement before obediently collecting the sheets together with extreme care. "You're gonna have to be the one to tell him that you've damaged it," he told her with a sigh. As he stood, he attempted to straighten the odd loose pages before folding its cover back around it.

"Don't worry about it," Sophie said as she stepped over to his side. "I can fix books – I've done it before. If not, there's a place I know in town."

They both looked down at the title as he held it in his hands. Printed in bold red letters, it read, 'Super unnatural – investigating the paranormal by Joseph Rothschild'.

"Do you think it's an old book?" she asked.

Jason shook his head as he turned it over in his hands. "Don't really know. It's not new, that's for sure, but it looks a hell of a lot worse than it did five minutes ago."

"All right, stop beating me up about it."

"I'll beat you across your backside," he told her with a grin.

Sophie looked at him with her big, brown eyes. "Either that or you could get Victor to give me a spanking over his knee."

Jason's grin stretched wider. "And you would like that, I suppose? Having an old man spank your bare bottom?"

"I wouldn't think that would do his heart any good, that's for sure."

"No, I don't," he agreed. "Otherwise he might invite you to get his books for him on a daily basis."

She giggled as they both walked from the room. "Take it with us, then I'll see what I can do. I used to fix my school books all the time when I was a kid."

"So what's the one Victor wanted?" Jason asked as they headed for the staircase. "That one looks quite old."

Sophie stopped at the top of the stairs and held the book up so they could both study it. The front cover was rigid as though made from either very thick card or thin wood, and it was tightly clad in stretched black leather. "It looks handmade," she said before gingerly opening it. She began to randomly leaf through the many pages, smelling the sweet and musty smell of old paper yellowed with time and usage. "Hey, it looks handwritten, some of it in French, I think. Look: there's tiny pictures in pen and pencil, it seems."

"Who's it by?"

Sophie turned to the front cover and read the gold print. "It says, 'The Experiment on the Magical Arts: My Personal Experiences by H. F. Richmond'."

They both looked at each other. "Someone he knows? Or _knew_ , I wonder," Jason said.

Sophie snapped the book shut. "Who knows?" she sighed as she started down the stairs. "But after we've found the last of his other bits and bobs, I'm going to have a good old nose at it."

### Chapter 5 – Copycat killer

November 2nd

As soon as he spotted Sophie walk into the ward, Victor Gwynne smiled to himself and pulled the headphones from his head. He was already sitting up watching the television by his bed, hopping between channels for the next news report that will hopefully cover the local murder. So far, there had been a brief account on the national BBC News and a slightly lengthier one on the local South Today, otherwise, the story had been relatively untouched by the media.

Although there was an article in the local paper that went into more detail. It was, of course, headline news, and what they now referred to as the Halloween Night Murder was illustrated with a number of photographs of the crime scene. The Upperhampton Herald had even mentioned that the killer had specifically marked his victim, although the police were withholding any precise details at present until they had carried out further investigations.

"Hi, Vic. How are you feeling today?"

The old man smiled up at her as she walked over to his bedside. She was holding a carrier bag in her left hand with what he guessed contained the items he had requested from his home. In her right, held out before her, was a bunch of neatly wrapped flowers. She was wearing a long, black overcoat that hung just below her knees, and a stylish white beanie hat sat snugly around her ears. Her dark hair that seeped from within swept across her collar, and Victor noted with admiration how the light glinted off its silky surface. His neighbour was a lucky man, he thought, and he felt privileged to have her company.

"Right as rain," he replied and motioned for her to sit upon one of the wooden chairs by the bed. "By the way you're dressed I believe it's pretty damn cold out there."

"You're one-hundred percent right about that one," she told him as she sat. "It's all right for you, looking as snug as a bug in a rug." On the edge of his bed, folded with half of the front page facing upwards, was a national newspaper. She could see no mention of the murder but guessed it would be covered somewhere within. These days, it appeared that only celebrities make headline news.

"Believe me: I can think of a lot of better places to be than here."

"I've brought you some flowers from my shop," she told him as she placed the bunch carefully upon his bedside cabinet. "I know men don't really do flowers, but I thought it would cheer the place up a bit."

"Thank you. They look nice. I will get someone over to put them in water."

"There's some carnations and some roses in there... and some chrysanthemums." She then reached into the carrier bag now at her feet. "I've got your slippers and things that you asked for." There was a rustling as she began to withdraw the items, placing most of them on his bedside cabinet. The large book was the final object she pulled out, and she held it up before him. "I managed to find it."

Victor's eyes widened and appeared to brighten. "Oh, good!" He reached out and took it from her hands, executing as much care as one would handle delicate glass. Noticing this, Sophie hoped dearly that the book she dropped and damaged last night did not mean as much to the old man as this one did. "Was it much trouble finding it?"

"Not really," she told him, not wanting to confess about her little mishap. "I saw you have a great collection of books about the paranormal. I love watching things like that on the T.V and reading about it."

"Horror films, I gather." Victor smiled almost wickedly as he looked directly into her eyes. He now clutched his book tightly – seemingly lovingly – to his thin chest. "What about the ones you read?"

Sophie shrugged her shoulders. "I read about certain articles in magazines, but I mostly read fiction, like Stephen King and James Herbert. When I get the time, that is."

Victor looked away, nodding to himself. "I see." He became silent for a moment, appearing to be deep in thought, and Sophie was about to ask how his health was progressing when he snapped his attention back to her. "What about that murder down the road? Have you heard anything else about it?" He now became even more sprightly and alert, and his eyes were almost shining with vigour. Sophie, a little taken aback at his sudden change of appearance, became momentarily blank.

"Well... I... I don't really know..."

"On the T.V or heard whispers about it?" he prompted enthusiastically. "From at work or people you know?"

"Oh, only from the telly or radio," she managed to say. "Otherwise I haven't heard anymore about it."

"Shame," he simply said and looked down at his book, still clung tightly to his chest. He now looked disappointed.

A young nurse with notable fiery-red hair approached them, a broad smile fixed on her lips. "Is everything okay?"

Victor nodded. "All's okay, Louise, my dear."

"Oh, what lovely flowers," she said. "If you give me a few moments, I will come back and put them in a vase for you, okay?"

When the old man failed to answer, Sophie thanked her instead. The nurse dutifully smiled again before returning to her chores.

"Well, tell me how you're progressing," she continued in a voice that was purposely cheery, wanting to move away from the subject of murder. "Did the doctors tell you anything on your health?"

When Victor looked back up, his expression and mood had returned to its previous mild cheeriness. "They keep saying I'm making good progress and I appear to be on the mend. They don't rig me up to their funny machines so much now."

Sophie smiled. "What about when you leave here? Can you get home help?"

Victor nodded and began to roll his tongue about his inner mouth as he done the previous day. "I can if I want, but I prefer not to," he eventually said.

"What about family? Have you any children living nearby who could help out until you're fully back on your feet?"

"No children," he simply replied.

"Well... don't forget we're always there next door, especially in the evenings. I'll give you our phone number, just in case of an emergency."

"You are very kind," he mumbled, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

Sophie sat in awkward silence as the old man gazed down upon his book, now appearing disinterested in the conversation. Whilst looking about the ward, trying to think of things to say, she caught the eye of an obese man in the next bed who seemed very interested in her conversation. When she gave him a little smile, he swiftly averted his eyes to the opposite side of the ward. Not knowing what else to say, she eventually decided to return to what her neighbour appeared the most passionate about.

"I couldn't help noticing that that book you have is hand written."

His head slowly rose, turned and looked at his visitor. What cheeriness he had possessed within those eyes were now gone, and the icy stare he now gave unnerved her. "It's quite an old book, and it's been written by more than one person over the years," he explained in a grainy voice. Victor looked back down again as though he was cradling a newborn child rather than bound paper. "Including myself."

"Oh, really?" she asked, trying to sound interested. The truth was that she now wanted to be far away from here.

"This is not fiction. You wouldn't understand."

Sophie hesitated before speaking, noticing with inner irritation how sheepish her voice appeared. "I had a little sneaky look at it last night after I found it. I hope you don't mind."

It seemed like ages before the old man finally answered, and when he did, his eyes never strayed from the book within his arms. "So? Did you find anything of interest in there?"

"Well, I..." she began, not knowing how to begin, not wanting to say the wrong thing. She had concluded that the old man could be more than a little capricious. "I only flicked through it out of curiosity. I wish I had more time to look properly, but I had a lot to do last night." She hoped her last words satisfied him, and when he looked back up at her and smiled, albeit feebly, she inwardly sighed with relief.

"Of course," he said with a nod. "You are always very busy. I understand that."

Sophie looked at her watch, purposely holding it up to her face. Although she had originally planned to spend a little more time with her neighbour, she now desired to be gone from here before he slipped back into his strange Jekyll and Hyde character. She knew that his ill health and the drugs he had to take were obviously affecting his moods, but she no longer felt comfortable within his presence. "Well, I'm afraid I will have to be making a move now," she said with a dramatic sigh and a fake grin. "Like you said – I'm always busy!"

"Of course, of course. Thank you for your time... and your flowers."

Sophie plucked her handbag from the floor and slipped the strap over her shoulder. "Will you be wanting anything else?" She dearly hoped not. She did not want to be coming back here again tomorrow. If it came to it, she would send Jason here instead.

"Nothing more," he replied. "I think that's all." They both smiled at each other.

"Okay, then. Goodbye and take care." Sophie turned away. Then, just as she was about to put one foot before the other, Victor called out to her.

"Wait a minute!"

She froze, slowly turned back and smiled again. "What's up?"

"The key to my house," he said flatly. "Do you have it?"

Sophie stared at him for a few seconds, his words not yet registering. Then suddenly she remembered. "Oh, yes!" As quickly as she could, she opened her handbag and rummaged inside until she found her neighbour's door key. She then dropped it into Victor's waiting, open palm.

"Thank you," he muttered.

"Okay, then?" she asked, still keeping her forced, pleasant look upon her face.

"That will be all, thank you," he replied. Victor watched as his visitor turned and retreated across the ward towards the exit, never taking his eyes from her until she disappeared through the doorway. He then released his tight hold upon his book and let it drop onto the bed sheets before him. "Not want you to nose around my things no more," he mumbled under his breath as he began to flip through the pages with almost loving care. "Little nosey bitch."

D.C.I Ben Lonsdale, a Senior Investigating Officer of the Sussex Major Crimes Team – nicknamed the penguin by his colleagues behind his back because of his short stature and hooked nose – was more than worried. As he sat at his desk in Upperhampton police station, he read a printout from an old murder case during the fifties of a killer who had slain four young females in remote spots in North London. In most cases, there was evidence of sexual assault before the killer brutally dispatched his victims with a sharp or blunt instrument. Also, which was the reason why Lonsdale was so concerned, the sadist always carved the shape of an eye upon each of their breasts, including a number denoting what order he had slain them.

"He was hanged in Wandsworth Prison in nineteen fifty-two," Detective Sergeant Alex Bromfield told him, startling his superior. In his keen interest in the remarkable similarities of the crimes, over sixty years apart, he had completely forgotten there was another person in his office. "And I would surely love to do the same to whoever killed that girl."

Lonsdale slowly nodded in agreement. "Yes, I read about it in that first report last night." He looked up to see his younger colleague gazing idly from his second floor office window that overlooked the car park. Today he was dressed in a dark pinstripe suit and a light blue tie, which Lonsdale believed, to his tastes, did not go well together. His habitual immaculate dress sense reflected his astute and often fastidious personality, although his fussy attention to detail and keen observation had won him many cases in the past.

"But was there a specific reason for his crimes?" Lonsdale asked as he continued to read the three-page account, running his index finger down the lines of printed words. "Did he explain why he cut an eye into the skin of his victims? If he did, then maybe we could find out why this new character is using the same modus operandi... It seems that our copycat killer has researched extensively into this Felix..."

"Felix Mortimer," Bromfield completed.

"Yes: Mortimer. He has researched enough to know which number to continue with."

"He told them nothing. Right up to the moment the rope snapped his neck he continued to protest his innocence." The D.S had now moved away from the window and was stepping over to the desk. Like his moustache, his hair was neatly trimmed, and the D.C.I noted that he would not look out of place in a Victorian police drama. "Which most of them did, although it didn't do them any good."

Lonsdale turned the page. There was a black and white photograph of the killer printed at the top, and he took time to study his face. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, and his features were hard looking, as though carved from stone. His eyes, although ill defined because of the print, appeared even harder.

"The tabloids called it 'Mortimer's Mark' – the cuts on his victims – during his trial," Alex Bromfield continued." Before they caught him, they referred to the killer as the 'New Jack the Ripper'."

Lonsdale turned to the final page, which detailed the original forensic evidence of the four victims. "One who would mark his prey like that would definitely strike again. As a copycat killer, who's obviously continuing where his predecessor had left off, there's no doubt that we have a serious problem on our hands. With a lot of cases of sexual serial killers, their victims were mainly people they had never met before. The opportunist type killer, you know?"

"Obviously we cannot keep this information under wraps for long. As soon as word gets out on Angela Carter's markings the whole damn world could make a comparison," Bromfield said.

Lonsdale folded the report, slid open one of his desk drawers and placed it inside. "No doubt our tabloids will get a sniff at it before long and come to their own conclusion." He sat back in his chair and gazed up at his colleague, although his mind seemed elsewhere. "Has there been any film or T.V programme about this old crime within the last few weeks or months?" he finally said. Bromfield simply shrugged his shoulders. "How about publications: something that could have sparked the interest of a deranged mind?"

"I could get them to find out for you."

"Yes...Yes, do that," Lonsdale agreed. On his desk, the telephone began to ring. Before he picked it up he said, "I gather Mark or James are still looking deeper into this 'Mortimer's Mark'?"

"Yeah. They're in the incident room right now."

"Okay. Give me a few minutes and I'll be down with you."

November 4th

"Here she is!" Emma Pecharova called as Natalie Parker turned the corner and stepped into the canteen. It was empty of people except for one canteen staff member, Emma, Sebastian Checker and Louise Regan. Each one of their heads turned in her direction as if she were about to introduce a play.

"I'm missing most of my break," she muttered through clenched teeth, but nobody heard her. With a brisk, forced grin, she passed them by and hurried over to the hot drinks machine.

"Thanks for doing that for me," Emma told Nurse Louise, turning her head back round to face her across the table that had been hurriedly and carelessly wiped only minutes before, leaving a glistening smear that was still slowly evaporating. "I was worried about her, y'know? Little Missy, the girl next door who always walk her when I do night, is away this week."

"That's fine by me," she replied as she fiddled with strands of her long, fiery-red hair. "I miss having a dog."

"Shouldn't have dog as pet if you have job like this," Sebastian said, trying to mimic Emma's Czech accent. The nurse looked sharply over at him but instantly read the harmless look in his eyes; saw the faint smile beginning on his lips. The male nurse shook his head and broke into an all-out grin, his teeth appearing whiter than normal against his dark skin. "Hell, I should know," he added, "I've got a dog and two cats myself."

"But you also have a wife," she returned. "I don't have anyone now. It was Paul's dog. He also left the poor thing when he left me." She looked sorrowfully down at her half-drunk coffee. "Didn't seem to care about anybody, anyway."

"Well listen to this!" The sound of Natalie's voice made them look up again as she scraped a seat across the tiled floor and sat down next to Emma. "Looks like I've found my soul mate. Useless, good-for-nothing men – the story of our lives, eh?" She looked over at Sebastian. "Isn't that so?"

Sebastian looked down at the table briefly and dropped his smile, appearing almost ashamed. His eyes then stared directly and challengingly into Natalie's eyes. "Oh, but I'm one-in-a-million, don't forget." His grin returned. "I'm the type of man that every lady wants."

A snigger erupted from the others' lips.

"So what makes you think that _I_ would want you?" Emma challenged.

"Ah! Remember I said: I'm the type that every _lady_ wants." There was a triumphant expression on his face. She only stared back at him with her pale-blue eyes, her lips pursed.

"Beginning to sound like 'Charming Charmer'," Natalie said. "No woman could ever love him as much as himself."

Sebastian shook his head and laughed. "No way! I have much more style than him. He's far too tasteless."

"I heard he has a new nickname now," Emma said.

"Go-on, then," Natalie prompted eagerly.

Emma firstly took another gulp from her steaming coffee. "It's 'Mr. Minute', because that's how long he lasts... apparently."

There was loud but equally weary laughter from each of them except for Louise. Natalie believed, by the sudden silence and sheepish look in the nurse's eyes, that she had experienced first hand Graeme Charmer's sexual capabilities – or _incapability._ The canteen was beginning to fill up again as more staff began to stroll in at a steady rate – some appearing pleased to be on their break; others looking like they needed a weeks' worth of sleep.

"Hello geezers and geezeresses!"

"Talk of the devil," Sebastian muttered as everyone around the table, after recognizing the distinctively loud and confident voice, looked up to see its creator. Graeme Charmer, wearing his usual grin, made an immediate beeline to their table. His short, dark hair was neatly gelled to make it stick upright like a porcupine's quills. "Mind if I join you bunch of losers?"

"As you're one yourself," Sebastian said, "you might as well."

"Is this an Ann Summer's party or somethin'?" Graeme asked as he sat at the now crowded table between Sebastian and Louise. Natalie turned her face in the opposite direction.

"Afraid we've sold out of the big dildos, baby," Louise said with a giggle. "You're out of luck, sorry."

"As long as you've still got some rubber masks left, I'll be pretty damn happy. Did you miss me on my two days away?"

"I did miss you, actually," Sebastian told him. "I took several shots at you and missed every bloody time!"

"Ha-bloody-ha!" Graeme said and slapped the palm of his hand down onto the table. He looked opposite to where Natalie sat, seemingly gazing at the far canteen wall. "You okay, Nat?"

She looked slowly round at him, giving him only a brisk smile and a nod before lifting her plastic cup to her lips.

The Czech nurse suddenly stood up, scraping her chair along the floor. "Got to go back to work now, but before I forget I'll give you the key to my apartment." She slapped a single door key upon the table and slid it across to Louise. "That one's my spare, so after you walk my dog, just post it back through letterbox for me. Thank you."

"Careful it doesn't bite your hand when you post it back," Graeme said teasingly.

Louise picked it up. "What's her name, by the way?"

"It's a 'he' and he's called Apollo," she replied. "He's a little older than a pup. A golden retriever." She turned to Graeme. "And he doesn't bite!"

"Perfect," Louise said with joy. "I've got a date tonight, so I'll do it as soon as I get home." She theatrically brushed a coil of her long, red hair from her face, smiling smugly.

"Really?" Natalie asked, sitting up attentively.

"Have I fuck!" she said and laughed humourlessly. "Apollo is the only one I'm taking out tonight."

"Jesus," Sebastian said. "Sounds like lonely hearts club here!"

"See you folks tomorrow!" Emma called out as she returned to her ward. "And thanks again!"

They all shouted or mumbled their goodbyes before shuffling along to fill the space that she left behind, creating more room around the table.

"Just over two hours to go, thank God," Louise said before draining the remainder of her coffee.

"I'm finishing the same time as you Lou," Graeme said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms behind his head. He turned to Sebastian. "So what time are you knocking-off?"

"Ten," he sighed and rubbed at his eyes as if to accentuate on the long day ahead. He looked at his watch. "I suppose I had better be going."

Louise suddenly stood. "Yep, me too, but only a few hours to endure."

"Then you've got a date with a dog," Graeme said.

"Better company than you ever were," she replied. He looked genuinely upset by her remark and Sebastian began to laugh at the expression on the porter's face.

"Well, I might come and see you when you walk that dog... might jump out and surprise you."

"Can't wait," she mumbled, her sarcastic tone almost completely lost as she turned away.

After Louise and Sebastian returned to work, Graeme turned to Natalie. She had her head lowered, checking her watch.

"You're not thinking of leaving me too, are you?"

The nurse looked up but said nothing. Instead, she lifted her cup from the table and continued drinking.

"I see," he continued. "You're ignoring me for some reason or other." He leant forward, making it obvious he was trying to make eye contact. "Was it something I done or said?"

Natalie dropped her hand on the table, spilling tea from what little she had from her plastic vending cup. Her eyes met Graeme's, and the look she gave him made him sit back in his chair. "Oh. So there _is_ something I've said."

"Not something you've said, but something you've done," she told him. The innocent, perplexed look on his face was rapidly infuriating her. "Don't try to pretend you don't know what I'm saying. It's damn obvious what I'm pissed off about, isn't it?"

He still looked baffled. She could see his mind straining to remember any horseplay and buffoonery he had engaged in within the last week – something that seemingly happened on a regular basis. "But I wasn't here for two days," he finally said, his eyes blinking rapidly as though trying to clear the freshly probed memories from his head.

"Try casting your mind back to the day in the A and E corridor. Try remembering the part when I went flying rather dangerously over the parked wheelchairs!"

"But... but that was your fault," he blurted out. "I'd already passed you!"

"Exactly! I was turning to look at you and you pushed me as you went by –"

"But I was nowhere near you," he interrupted. "Didn't you see?"

Natalie smirked at him. "After I picked myself up, I saw there was nobody else but you."

Graeme gave a short, bewildered laugh. "I don't believe you're accusing me of your own accident!"

"Keep your voice down," she snapped, then said in a near whisper, "Everybody's listening." Natalie attempted to calm herself while she drained the remainder of her drink. Graeme, his face burning red, looked down at the table while his head slowly shook from side to side.

"Okay, maybe I was mistaken, but I know I was pushed," she eventually said. Her voice was more composed now.

The porter looked back up at her. "Maybe it was a ghost from all those dead people you never saved," he said before grinning boyishly. By the look she gave him, he could tell she was far from amused by his comment. "Jesus, I was only joking!"

Just as Graeme was on the verge of walking away in a sulk, Natalie broke out in a smile. "So what's with the spiky hair?"

He looked up at her, making sure her mood had genuinely changed for the better. "Cost me a lot of money for this." He ran a hand gently over the top of his head so as not to disturb the neatly gelled spikes.

"Cost a lot? For _that?_ "

"Don't mock it. Hair has feelings too."

Natalie chuckled; her body appeared to relax. Seeing this, Graeme slouched towards her. "What time you finish?" he asked.

"Nine."

"Want me to walk you home?"

"No. I have a car – remember? Why?"

"Cos I worry about you, coming out at night."

"Worry? Worried about what?"

Graeme remained tight-lipped for a moment as he fiddled nervously with a set of keys. "Because of that murder: the one that happened not far from here."

"Oh." She leaned back in her seat and discreetly checked the time. "And you think I'm next on his list?"

"Maybe." He looked up at her. The cold, serious expression in his eyes – an alien look for Graeme – sent a chill through her spine.

"Oh, thanks," she told him.

He straightened in his seat, but he never took his eyes away. "I'm being serious. He could strike again at any time... and any young woman."

She waited for the moment when he would burst into fits of laughter. When he showed no such sign, Natalie forced a smile for him. "Well, I'm flattered by your concern, but my car's only a few yards away in the car park. Unless you want to come all the way back here and walk me the short distance?"

Graeme just shrugged his shoulders and became preoccupied with digging at his fingernails with a key.

"Look, I've got to go back to work now, but give me your number and I'll call you if I feel threatened."

When he looked back up his demeanour appeared to have changed. Now he was almost his usual, smiling, chirpy self. "Good. I knew you'd see sense." He slid an unused napkin towards her. "Write your number down on here."

Natalie plucked her pen from her breast pocket but hesitated before writing. "And don't you use this as an excuse to keep phoning or texting me."

"I won't," he said. "Although I know you secretly want me to." He grinned his usual grin, and when Natalie stood, she gave him her no-nonsense glare before breaking into a wide smile, unable to hold the pretence any longer. "I'm warning you, Charmer."

He leant back in his chair again and stretched his arms out above his head. "I bet you'll be phoning me as soon as those ghosts start pushing you around."

"Don't start me off on that again," Natalie told him before turning on her heels and marching away. With the grin still on his lips, Graeme watched as her shapely buttocks bounced graciously on every step she took.

"Her little body will belong to me very soon," he muttered to himself as he rose from his seat and ambled over to the vending machines. "One way or the other."

### Chapter 6 – Prowler

"So how am I supposed to sneak this book back now he has the key?" Sophie was calling to Jason from the dining room while he sat watching an old comedy film in the lounge. She could see, through the glass within the dividing door, he was sitting attentively on the edge of the settee with a can of beer held loosely above his knee. Yang the cat, who was far from being a comedy fan, was in a deep sleep on the opposite end.

"Honey?"

Upon the dining table, the damaged book she had just repaired sat beneath the glow of her desk light which reflected off the age-dulled silver letters of the title. Adorning the majority of the front cover, an illustration of a five-pointed star spread from corner to corner in bold, red lines.

"What bloody crap is he watching now?" she muttered to herself before turning to the kitchen to fill the kettle. Yin, their other cat, sat upon the tiled floor looking up at her expectantly while she fussed above the worktop. "What he finds funny about them, I don't know." Moments later the lounge door crashed open and Jason strode out, crushing his empty can.

"What a stupid film," he declared as he headed directly towards the fridge for another beer.

"So why are you watching it then? I haven't heard any laughter coming from in there yet."

There was a sudden hiss as he tugged the ring-pull of his can. "Cos I want to know how it ends."

"Happily," she told him as she reopened the fridge for the milk. "That's how comedy films usually end."

Jason sucked the froth from the top of his can. "It's not a romantic film." He began to head back to the lounge. "But I know what you mean."

"Wait a minute; can you look at this and tell me what you think?" She ushered him over to the dining table. "Here, take a look at this and see if you can find where I fixed it." She handed him the book. "Careful, cos the glue is still drying."

Jason turned it around in his hands, gently flipping the pages and studying the area of the spine. His brow rose as he looked, and after a nod of approval, he handed it back. "I'm impressed," he said. "I can't see where you've joined it. Don't think he will ever notice any difference. Well done."

"But how am I supposed to sneak it back in his bookcase now he has his key back?"

Jason smiled. "Leave that to me. I'll tell him that you or I borrowed it because we found it interesting. I'll just say that it caught our eye when we were searching for the book he wanted."

"Okay," she said. "I suppose you could always say it was me: because of my interest in horror films and witchcraft and..."

He interrupted her with a quick kiss on her lips. She grinned back.

"Why are you so afraid of him?"

"Not afraid," she told him, returning to the kettle to pour her coffee. "It's just his weird attitude... his changing of moods. He just seemed a bit snappy on Saturday; not so friendly." Sophie suddenly swore at the cat as it began to wind around her legs.

Jason sniggered. "Sounds like you." He noticed the reproachful look she shot him. "Joke!" he quickly added.

"Oh, it's probably because he's in hospital and old and drugged up and all, but I don't truly know him. Understand?"

"Yeah, I understand. And when he comes back from hospital, I'll tell him we borrowed it. Or I could sneak it up to his room when he's not looking."

"Better idea," she said. "And when he comes back home, you will be the one who can check up on him!"

Jason gave a short laugh and walked back into the lounge.

"I just think it's odd, though," she continued in a near mumble. Her boyfriend looked round at her with his can poised before his lips.

"What you say?"

"I was saying that it was an odd request to have us bring him an old, tatty book about black magic and witchcraft. I could think of more pleasant things to read if I was lying in bed recovering from a heart attack."

"Yeah, it was a bit strange he was so keen to have us go to his place especially for it," he agreed. "I can't see why he couldn't have waited for a few more days."

"You should have seen him when I gave it to him. He was like a little kid with his teddy bear by the way he kept hugging the damn thing."

Jason smiled before returning to the couch to watch the remainder of the movie. "Maybe he's a warlock or wizard," he said.

Sophie turned back to the book sitting upon the table and stared at the illustration of the five-pointed star while the cat rubbed around her legs. "I think maybe you're right about that," she mumbled. "Maybe you are right."

"You're a good little doggy, aren't you?" Louise Regan said as she turned the key within the lock of Emma Pecharova's flat. It was now almost fully dark and she switched on the single hallway light as the golden retriever trotted keenly inside ahead of her. "Yes you are, and I like you lots and lots."

After shutting the door, she locked and bolted it – something she tends to disregard at home – before following Apollo into the small but tidy kitchen where she found the shadowy form of the dog standing expectantly by his empty bowls.

"Oh, Emma didn't give me any instruction about feeding you, but..." she found the kitchen light switch and her eyes searched around the room. The obvious place to start looking for some tasty dog snacks were the wall or base units. After opening and investigating each cupboard without success, she looked down at the dog to find him sniffing at a bag within a space adjacent to the sink. The animal looked up to see if Louise had noticed, and as soon as she began to approach, he continued to nuzzle the canvas bag tucked neatly at the side of the garbage bin.

"You clever boy! You know exactly where your doggy treats are... yes you do!"

After reaching in and plucking out what happened to be a box of dog biscuits, she filled his bowl with a generous portion and topped-up the second bowl with water. Apollo immediately began eating the instant the bowl touched the floor, his hungry crunching filling the silence of the kitchen.

"There... you deserve some doggy treats, don't you? Yes you..."

Louise looked up when she heard a sudden noise that appeared to come from outside the door, her eyes immediately seeking the darkness beyond the frosted glass.

There's somebody following me...

She only saw reflected light upon the glass surface. After a moment of nervous scrutiny, she looked slowly away, reluctant to take her eyes fully from the door. With a smile that was somewhere between genuine and nervously forced, she returned her attention to the dog as he eagerly fed, oblivious to any intimidating noises.

For some reason, Louise felt on edge while walking Apollo. She had a nagging sensation that somebody was following her within the growing shadows, and the dimmer the light of day became, the more agitated she began to feel. Whilst strolling aimlessly across the park, with not one other person in sight, she held the dog's leash tightly within her clenched fist as her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, from each dark corner to each looming tree. The tall shrubbery on either side seemed to hide too many dark, unidentifiable shapes, and on more than one occasion she heard the snapping of a fallen twig as though a heavy foot had stepped upon its brittle form. Louise was beginning to blame her imagination when Apollo had reacted the same way, looking suddenly in the direction of the noise, his ears standing to attention as he listened.

But there appeared to be nobody there, and she assumed the murder of the local girl only days before had caused her jittery imagination. Nevertheless, she had quickly let the dog do its business, cleaned up what he had left behind and hurried back towards Emma's flat, her head constantly looking behind until she was within the reassuring lights of the street again.

"Sorry boy, but I've got to be going now," she said in a cheery manner more for her own benefit than the dog's. This time Apollo did not share her agitation but continued eating his way through the generous portion within his bowl, any unidentified sound from outside no longer an importance. "But you'll protect me from any bad guys, won't you?"

Louise laughed at her own words, but it was purely from nerves. She inwardly felt anger at her sudden nervousness – her unexplainable unease of the looming shadows and the unseen mysteries that could be hiding within its enshrouding darkness. "Okay," she began in a cool, matter-of-fact voice as she reached inside the pocket of her jeans for her phone, "I'll call myself a cab and..."

And why? She lived two streets away. It would take her under ten minutes to walk at a steady pace. It was not yet fully dark outside, so why call for a cab?

But...

But her mind tried to find a reason. Was there a reason?

She laughed her nervous laugh again and forced a feeble smile. Unless she truly believed there was someone following her, that the mysterious noises and unexplainable shifting of shadows were made by that of some stalker, then what was she fussing about?

Louise knelt down next to Apollo as he continued to eat and patted his back. He was not yet fully-grown, but already he was a big dog. He twisted his head to one side as he crunched a mouthful of biscuits and stared up at her, the whites of his eyes gleaming within the overhead fluorescent.

"Good boy," she near whispered. Apollo stopped chewing. "Good doggy... good..."

He looked sharply upwards as if somebody had approached them from behind and began to growl from deep within his throat, his teeth showing from behind drawn lips.

"Good doggy..." Louise stopped patting his back as the muscles in her arm froze. Hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end as though a static charge passed through the air. "What's wrong, boy?" Her question came stiffly out of her mouth – a mouth that refused to move enough to form the words. "Wha wrong...?"

Pain suddenly tore through her head and she crashed forwards onto the dog below, briefly crushing the animal beneath the weight of her body and from the force above. Apollo gave a short, sharp yelp as she rolled over him before landing on her back, her arms and legs flailing wildly like a dying bug.

During the confused, blind seconds before her mind blanked out, she could clearly hear the sound of Apollo barking and growling at whoever was within the kitchen with them.

And just before the dog prepared to leap wildly into the air, teeth bared for attack, Louise's unseen assailant slid a butcher's knife from its place within the knife rack and turned towards her inert, vulnerable form upon the floor.

What in hell is that book the old bastard keeps reading?

Jimmy Bernstein looked over his flabby right shoulder to spy upon the sleeping man in the next bed and search across the collected clutter upon his bedside table. One of those objects had to be the thick, doorstep of a book that the old buzzard clung to as though his life dearly depended on it, and he believed he could see one corner of its leather-bound spine protruding below a box of facial tissues.

After pulling the headphones from his ears, he shifted in his bed and craned his neck for a clearer view. Hell, there was nothing interesting on the TV but the same old boring soap operas that his missus religiously watched every damn day, so he had to find some other means of entertainment, no matter how mundane or trivial it was.

He had attempted to spark up a conversation with the old man on numerous occasions, trying to while away the boring, dragging hours between the times Maureen, his third wife, came to visit. But no matter what he said to him, no matter how much prompting and probing, the old, miserable bastard would not interact – only a few disinterested grunts and the occasional nod of his head if he was lucky. It was this morning after breakfast of mostly boring, non-nourishing fruit and cereal (God, how he missed his cooked breakfast – one of the factors that earned him a bed within this hospital) when he asked yet again what was so damn important about that bloody book. He appeared to read the thing throughout the day and most of the night until he fell asleep with it still clutched within his fingers, only to keep him awake with his God-awful snoring.

Victor – or so he believed – gave him a look that could kill from behind his spectacles, and his only reply was in the form of a facial expression that told him far better than any words to 'fuck off and mind your own business'.

So what was his problem? He was old and probably going senile, but Jimmy was far from being a spring chicken himself. His own life story was far better than any damn book he could read, because his contained _real_ life experiences of the rich and famous – the type you can only read about in autobiographies. Yes, he has been part of the road crew for such bands as the Rolling Stones, Iron Maiden, Suzi Quatro and Mott the Hoople, humping around and rigging equipment during the day, having wild drink and drug sessions throughout the night (that and his former chain-smoking habit was another factor that brought him here). Apart from rubbing shoulders with most of the band members, he has met the likes of Jimmy Page, David Bowie, Mickie Most and Bob Dylan. His biggest claim to fame was to smoke a joint with John Lennon.

But hell, he thought as he lifted back one corner of the bed sheets, exposing the large hump of his belly, I bet the young little shits these days have never even heard of any of them. They're only interested in that weird electronic, hypnotizing crap they all seem to listen to, or those boy or girl bands where they have about five singers to sing one song and no sign of a musician anywhere...

Jesus, at sixty-five and retired, I can act as if the entire fucking world owed me a favour, he reminded himself as he leant a little closer towards the old man's bed. But my life had been exciting and eventful, even if it was now just a happy memory, and I believe life is far too short to sit in your own little world and fester in your grievances and self pity and...

And what was in that fucking book?

He looked over at the small desk where the nurses sat behind, seemingly with their noses constantly touching the computer monitor day and night as though they could control the entire hospital business from their chair. Well, maybe they could, Jimmy Bernstein pondered as he always did whilst slowly sliding his obese body from his bed and slipping into his slippers. Maybe life is turning into those science fiction movies like Star Trek and George Orwell's 1984 with their Big Brother eyes watching your every move. Hell, they are probably watching me right this second as I'm making my way over to the bathroom – or pretending to be slowly making my way to the bathroom.

He noticed that old Victor was not snoring this time but looking as though he was in a deep, calm sleep. Maybe he was dead, he pondered further as he shuffled more than walked across the short open space between the beds and into the old man's own little private space. Now, that wouldn't be such a great loss to society, eh? Maybe that nice young chic who came to visit a couple of times – a granddaughter, perhaps – would miss him, but I doubt there would be a big crowd at the door of the church at his funeral.

After another glance at the nurse's desk and one at the neighbouring beds informed him that his movements were seemingly going unnoticed, Jimmy proceeded with his task to quench his curiosity. The book he sought was indeed sitting on the edge of the old man's bedside table, and he gingerly and quietly slipped it from its place beneath a box of Kleenex tissues.

A smile that was more of deviousness than satisfaction increased the heavy lines upon his brow and around his eyes as he lifted the heavy, thick book up to his face and studied the leather-bound front cover. The title whet his curiosity further upon reading that it possibly had something to do with black magic, and he eagerly began to turn the yellowing pages, suddenly forgetting he was intruding upon the old man and his private property.

"So, you're into all this witch-craft mumbo jumbo, eh?" he mumbled to himself as his eyes darted hungrily across the neatly handwritten words and the various illustrations. "Or is it because it's worth a bob or two?"

Words such as premonitions, ritual sacrifices, out of body experiences and omens danced across his vision as he avidly flipped the pages. The many pictures, finely created with inks of red and black, depicted scenes of ritualistic symbols, floating spectral bodies and bestial apparitions.

Jimmy's eyes nervously jerked towards the nurse's station and then back towards Victor's bed to assure him that his little nosing excursion was still being unnoticed. His mind then returned to the thick, sometimes uneven pages that appeared to have been added throughout the years of its life. He wondered about the book's age as he hurriedly leafed through the remaining contents, occasionally tearing the odd page that failed to turn in time to his careless fumbling.

The last picture he saw before the book slipped from its precarious position upon his sweating, left palm showed a spectral figure of a man hovering above his slain victim, a knife or some sharp instrument held aloft within his hand. Before he had the chance to react, the heavy book came crashing back down onto the bedside table, dislodging a vase of badly arranged flowers and sending it crashing onto the hard surface of the floor. It shattered upon impact, spilling its contents.

This time the nurses behind the desk did look up in Jimmy's direction, but it was the sudden reaction of the old man, previously sound asleep in his bed, that made him stumble backwards and almost trip over his own feet.

"What in the name of fuck...!" Victor screamed out as his arms jerked skyward and his legs twitched violently beneath the bed sheeting. The old man appeared as though an electric charge had passed through his body by his sudden reactions and the way his scant, white hair stood out at every angle.

"I...I was on my way to the bathroom," Jimmy stammered as he clambered back into the sanctuary of his bed. "Just knocked into your table, that's all. Your st...stupid vase was too near the edge!" He swiftly yet clumsily pulled the sheets back over his large body and began to fumble with his headphones. "It's your stupid fault," he repeated in a mere mumble as two nursed hurried over to their side. "It's your stupid fault..."

Ignoring the nurses' words of inquiry and concern, Jimmy Bernstein slipped the headphones over his ears and leant his heavy torso back against the two supporting pillows. With his eyes eagerly focused upon the television programme, he failed to see the look of fury Victor Gwynne was giving him from the next bed.

### Chapter 7 – Mortimer's Mark

November 5th

D.C.I Lonsdale was pissed off that he did not get to interview the intended victim of this assumed copycat killer. He was attending a meeting with his superiors when they took the distraught nurse into the police station, still cradling the young dog she refused to part with in her arms. He will have a chance to speak to her during their further investigation, no doubt, but so far, he keeps getting second-hand information from various departments. To date, the only knowledge they have from the victim is her belief that somebody was stalking her prior to the attack, and that she did not get a chance to identify her assailant before she was knocked to the ground. The nurse claimed the dog saved her life, and that just before she fell unconscious, sure she was never going to wake again, she saw him leap into the air at the intruder.

They have reasons to believe it was the same person or _persons_ who viciously slain Angela Carter four days ago on Halloween night, although they have no solid evidence or clues other than the tenant's own butcher's knife lying upon the linoleum floor, which they are now testing for fingerprints. The absence of any sign of a break-in was baffling them all, and right now, as the detective stood in the kitchenette of Nurse Emma's apartment, his feet clad in protective overshoes to prevent cross contamination, he wondered how he managed to leave the flat in a hurry without even opening a door or climbing through a window.

Was he a copycat killer of a man they hanged for murder sixty years ago? And why him? Why reproduce this so-called Mortimer's Mark? Maybe his modus operandi struck a note somewhere within his twisted mind. Maybe his obsession with murder and death has led him to believe he can identify with the former killer, or the actual spirit of the killer has possessed his body or taken control over his actions.

There was a shuffling of plastic clad feet upon the hallway carpet and Lonsdale looked up as D.S Bromfield exited the lounge, his latex gloved hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his trench coat. Before he pulled the door shut behind him, he saw the white overalls of a crime scene investigator completing the last of her searching, probing and examinations.

"Nothing much to go by, eh?" Bromfield mumbled as he entered the kitchen. "Seems a bit of a Harry Houdini, this one. All the windows are tightly closed and the door was locked as well as bolted; victim still had the key."

"Yes, I already know about that, thanks," Lonsdale sighed impatiently and turned to stand above the near empty dog's bowl, still within its rightful place upon the floor. "And if he had a dog biting his arse as the girl claimed, I have no doubt that he tried to leave in a hurry."

"Unless he had a spare key," the D.S said.

"Which we're already looking into," Lonsdale replied. He moved away from the kitchen and entered the hallway, his head turned to the ceiling in deep thought. "This asshole doesn't seem to have the same M.O as that Felix Mortimer."

"How comes?"

"For a start, he always attacked his victims outside, like in parks and dark alleyways. Secondly, he used his own weapons: that's how he was eventually caught. This one seems to prefer his victim's own kitchen utensils."

"Yeah, but remember that he may not be re-enacting it exactly but merely copying the mutilations and markings on their body."

Lonsdale opened the door and began to peel off his latex gloves the second he stepped outside and onto the cracked and weed infested paving. "I don't need a criminal profile report until we get a little more info, at least. This may be a totally unconnected case of some other wacko: the copycat killer copying another copycat killer scenario."

Bromfield followed him onto the pathway outside the apartment, pulling the door shut before removing his gloves. "But I really think we are looking for some local weirdo who probably knows of the single women living around this area, by the way the two crimes are only streets apart. He has obviously done his homework first by staking out their homes rather than conducting mere opportunist attacks. I think the nurse who actually lives in that place was the intended victim instead of her colleague." Just like his superior, the D.S removed his overshoes and stuffed them into a pocket of his jacket.

"Well, I think we should be looking for someone with a large tear in the seat of his pants where a dog has taken a big chunk from it. Maybe we should've taken a sample from its teeth just to be..." His eyes suddenly widened when the familiar form of the local newspaper's crime reporter began to amble up the pathway, his permanently fixed smile stretched across his round face.

"Good morning Detective Chief Inspector and... Detective Bromfield?"

"Detective _Sergeant_ Bromfield, thank you," he corrected as he barged passed George Fields on his way towards the street, almost knocking him sideways. The reporter ignored this and approached Lonsdale, the smile never faltering.

"Good morning, George." The return smile seemed an effort to produce, and it appeared more like a guilty grin. "What can I enlighten you of today?"

He lifted one gloved hand from his pocket and the inspector firstly believed he was offering it to shake, but the reporter simply gestured towards the apartment he had just stepped out from. "I've already had a few words about what happened here last night, thank you, although any new info you may have will come in handy."

Lonsdale shook his head once and shrugged his shoulders. "We are just trying to determine if last night's attack was related to the Halloween murder. Forensics are doing their thing at the moment... and no witnesses have yet come forward." The D.C.I continued along the short pathway and onto the street where his colleague was waiting by their car. "I'm afraid that's all I can tell you at this point in time."

"Just one more thing, Detective," he called as Lonsdale hurried along the pavement, the tail of his long coat flapping in the cold morning's breeze. He stopped, turned and cocked one eye at the reporter.

"Can you make it quick, please? I have a bit of a hectic day ahead, as you may guess."

"Certainly, sir," he said, his smile now appearing mischievous. "I just wanted to know if you've heard of a certain case in the nineteen-fifties that may bear similarities to this new one. Tell me, have you ever heard of 'Mortimer's Mark'?"

Jason Mathews unfolded the foil wrapping around his sandwiches to find Sophie had given him sliced tomatoes yet again. Jason loved tomatoes, especially with ham, but, as he has explained on numerous occasions, the juice tends to turn the bread into a soggy, unmanageable mash by the time lunchtime arrived.

He sighed and let the package drop to the table with a thud.

"Wassup with you?" Mark Lawson, the company's burly plumber, asked before a steaming mug of coffee reached his lips. The spoon he used to stir the sugar was still within the mug and it swivelled towards his face as he took a sip.

"Sophie put tomatoes in my sarnies again," he told him, picking his foil wrapped lunch from the table again for a closer inspection. "They've gone all soggy... as usual."

"Oh, poor you." He sat with his face turned towards the low ceiling of the poky site hut for a few seconds, seemingly contemplating something before turning back to Jason. "Better sexually punish her tonight, then. Better ram a big stick up her bum for that... and twist it!"

From the corners of Jason's eyes, he saw Wesley, Mark's young apprentice, slowly shake his head at his mentor's usual comments about sexual punishment for disobedient, promiscuous or any woman that happens to not be an angel – although he would still find reason to penetrate her with some phallus-type object.

"God, you sound like the maniac who chopped that girl up the other day," the apprentice said as he idly gazed at the football results in his newspaper. "Apparently, she had a knife shoved up her arse hole."

"Ouch!" Darren Bradley, the site foreman, exclaimed from his table across the small room.

"Well, thanks for that," Mark said, turning in his direction. "Nice to know who your mates are."

"That's what happens when you keep talking about bondage and whippings and shoving things up women's orifices all the time," Wesley retorted, still never lifting his head away from the sports page. "You must be the country's number one sexual deviant."

"Shut your cake-hole," Mark mumbled before taking another, cautious sip of his hot coffee, "before I shut it for ya."

Jason sniggered and gingerly began to peel the sandwiches apart. "So, how comes you know so much about the murder, then?" he eventually asked just before he stuffed a large wedge of bread into his mouth.

"It's in this paper," Wesley replied, this time looking up at him. "It's says that whoever raped and killed her sliced her up afterwards... maybe special markings."

"Huh! Charming," the foreman exclaimed further.

"Why?" Jason's words were barely comprehensible through his mouthful of sandwich. "What's that all about?"

"I dunno. Maybe it's satanic... They don't really know yet." The young man returned to study the sports page.

"Has he killed before, then?" the plumber asked, looking from Jason to his apprentice. "So those markings are his trade mark, then?"

"I dunno, I'm not a fuckin' detective," Wesley mumbled, now sounding irritated. "But they think he struck again yesterday."

Jason looked over suddenly, the remainder of his lunch poised before his opened mouth.

"Another one?" Mark asked before he could.

"Yeah. I heard it on the radio driving up here. It happened about last night in the same area, although she wasn't killed, I don't think."

Jason and the plumber looked at each other for a moment while Wesley continued. "She wasn't sliced-up or nothing, but she didn't get to see who it was, either." He gave a short chuckle. "Apparently, it was her dog that saved her."

"Shit, we've got a serial killer starting up in the area," Jason said.

"Yeah, and it looks as though he's going about 'sexually punishing people'," Wesley added before folding his newspaper and tossing it aside to continue his pack-lunch.

Mark Lawson saw the smirk growing across his face. "I'll stick a blowlamp up your skinny arse and use you as a heater, you little mouthy shit," he told his apprentice as he eagerly reached out for his paper.

"See what I mean?" Wesley mumbled to whoever was listening.

Jason only smiled before lifting his mug of tea to his lips.

The previous web pages George Fields visited had some interesting knowledge about the case of Mortimer's Mark, but the one he was currently looking at on the computer within his small but adequate office, the one he stumbled upon by pure accident, had more in-depth information.

The local newspaper's reporter, forty-years old, unmarried and a closet bisexual, smiled as he scrolled down the pages detailing the old murder case's presumed connections with the occult. The symbols the killer carved into his victim's flesh – a particular shape of an eye – was apparently identical to the emblem used in a now defunct secret spiritual and psychical cult that began in the early nineteen hundreds.

The author of the web site's interesting work, Joseph Rothschild, has extensively researched and investigated many aspects of the occult, religious practices, psychical and parapsychological science from across the globe. The Richmond Cult, whose members were known meddlers in psychic phenomena, was founded and funded by a Henry Finbarr Richmond in nineteen twenty-eight and began as a small, private gentlemen's club in North London for the curious dabblers in fortune telling and the paranormal. Like Aleister Crowley before him, Henry Richmond was a devout practitioner in black magic and mysticism and believed he had supernatural abilities. Over the years, this small, esoteric cult remained little known, and it was only because of the murders of four young women between nineteen-fifty one and fifty-two why it finally became exposed to the public, thus creating its eventual downfall less than a year later.

The significance of the eye remains a closely guarded secret to this day, and only a handful of the cult's elite members, who joined a secret unit within this cult, truly knew of its meaning. Although the All-Seeing Eye has been a popular symbol used by many religions, cults and societies throughout time, such as the Freemasons, it is not believed to be the identifying symbol of the cult itself but of this smaller 'elite' group within – the aforementioned secret unit.

George smiled when he reread that Felix Mortimer was one of those so-called 'elite' members. He had been with the cult for only two months before being accepted into this group, and the first murder in March of nineteen fifty-one happened less than one month after his acceptance.

"Got ourselves a little black magic dabbler, perhaps," he whispered under his breath as he stared at the screen. "With a keen interest in this 'Richmond Cult', maybe." He scratched his chin – a common habit of his whilst concentrating – as he continued to scroll down the pages. He was more than pleased with himself for obtaining this handy piece of 'inside information' and his smile widened at the memory of D.C.I Lonsdale's resigned expression this morning when he mentioned 'Mortimer's Mark': his acceptance that the press always sniffed-out undisclosed information before they were ready to release it to the public. Although the detective gave him no confirmation about his discoveries, he neither gave any indication that he forbade him from publishing his theories.

George continued to read the facts about the bloodstained hammer found tucked-away in Mortimer's tool shed after the discovery of a discarded knife close to the final murder scene. Fortunately, the police already had his fingerprints on record due to a previous burglary and managed to identify him quickly. The hair and blood upon the hammer also matched that of his third victim, Josephine Barrymore, who had the killer's customary 'eyes' cut into each breast and the number '3' carved just above the right symbol.

Mortimer, a long-time alcoholic widower with two young daughters, denied the charges against him, and although his defence put up a good fight, he was found guilty by Judge D. Harlow and hanged in Wandsworth Prison on June 5th nineteen fifty-two.

What the reporter now discovered was that the police questioned several members of the Richmond Cult about the murders after the discovery of the second victim, including the aged Henry Richmond himself. The reason was because one of the investigating detectives, D.S Jack Squires, through inside information, had identified the similarities between the style of the killers 'eyes' and the symbol used for the cult's elite members. Although Felix Mortimer was questioned, he, along with his associates, was released without charge.

George smiled as he read about the six elite members, most of their names of no meaning, before scanning the remainder of the web pages, the various black and white case photos flashing before his eyes. One particular picture that was far clearer and more graphic than any other he had seen of Mortimer's victims showed every detail of the eye symbol and number etched into the skin of his final prey – Sarah Jane Jackson. Like the grim photos of the infamous Black Dahlia and Jack the Ripper cases, they left nothing to the imagination.

George shook his head and continued down the last page, unaffected by the morbid sights due to his exposure to the many evils of the human race during his job as a crime reporter, the majority of his experiences mainly from his work in the big cities of London and Glasgow where crime and violence is rife. Then, just before his editor phoned him, he had a sudden idea to write the names of the original suspects from the Richmond Cult, omitting the names of the two he already knew were deceased: Felix Mortimer and Henry Finbarr Richmond. With a grin of satisfaction spreading across his face, he exited the site, picked his phone from his desk and sat back in his leather chair. His editor will be pleased with what he has ready for tomorrow's headlines.

November 6th

Becky Fogarty, a trainee hairdresser at Curlz and Cutz salon, knew her mother would be more than extremely pissed-off if she ever discovered where she spends many of her evenings. At this very moment, she should be watching the next instalment of her beloved romantic vampire movies with her friends, Dawn and Lilly, at the local cinema. However, because she has since grown tired of the boring storyline and characters as well as seeing a somewhat rough copy on the internet, she had used this as a cover story so that she could drink wine within the poky yet cosy tool shed in her grandfather's rented allotment. At seventeen years of age, she has long since discovered boys and the joy of sex, and over the recent months has used this very shed as a regular place to hang out with her latest lover. Sometimes one or more of her friends would bring their boyfriend along to drink and smoke together, seemingly always ending up by having sex on the dusty floor, against the door or upon the wooden workbench that spanned the length of the hut. Sometimes she would question her own morals when she woke the next morning with a hangover and broken memories of her sexual adventures within the dark confines of the wooden shed walls haunting her.

In the past few months, her grandfather had regularly complained that some local youths or hobos were breaking-in somehow by the state of disarray and the occasional discarded, empty bottle. Then, after he discovered more than just the one used condom lying on the muddy wooden decking, he had decided to add extra locks to the door and windows. This did not deter Becky from continuing using his tool shed, as she had the audacity to get more spare keys cut during his absence. Since then she has made a conscious effort to clean away any mess and evidence of her visit, and her grandfather now seems satisfied that the extra security has paid off. But boy, if her mother ever found out...

Tonight, it was just Dawn and Becky snuggled together upon the workbench against the mild chill of the evening, the adequate light of the moon seeping into the two small side-windows having a mesmerizing quality. Lilly refused to join them, preferring the warmth and light of the local bars to the dark, cold and sometimes damp-smelling shed. Because Becky and Dawn were well known in most bars, clubs and pubs to be under the legal drinking age and the added fact that neither had the budget to pay for drinks, they had little choice but to come here to get pissed-up. Lilly, being eighteen and having the I.D to prove it, bought the cheap white wine from a supermarket for them before going their separate ways.

Only the regular burst of giggles and the occasional train that thundered past the allotments – heard but never seen – broke the tranquil silence that suitably accompanied the peaceful scene as the two girls passed the bottle between them. Dawn sat with her back resting against the splintery slats of the shed wall, her shoulder-length dark hair momentarily swinging across her face as she tipped the wine towards her lips.

"Are we going over to Dom's place, or what?" Becky asked. "He's got some weed on the go."

Dawn Perkins plucked the hair from her eyes and looked at her friend staring back in expectation of an answer. She lowered the bottle into her lap as she considered her proposal, her head turning towards the far, dark corner where tall, black shapes loomed like eavesdropping spectres. After a moments thought she looked back to Becky and shrugged her shoulders. Even within the deep shadows that dominated their space, her friend could clearly see the usual expression that said, ' _I'd like to, but I can't'_ presented across her face.

"I'd like to, but I can't," she predictably said whilst pulling a look of sorrow. "You know... mum and dad get panicky if I –"

"Fuck me, Dawn," Becky laughed more than spoke. "You're seventeen, not seven! Why can't you just phone them and say you're crashing over Tina's house tonight?"

Dawn became silent once again to consider this before reluctantly agreeing, her voice barely audible, even in the stillness of the night.

"Stop worrying. I don't understand why they're so fucking uptight about you staying out after midnight. You ain't got no job to go to tomorrow like me. Are they scared you'll turn into a pumpkin, or somethin'?"

"You know parents!" Dawn snapped. Becky sighed and plucked the near empty bottle from her friend's grip, feeling the effects of the alcohol taking control of her senses. The truth was that she did not need to smoke marijuana – she felt more than satisfactorily intoxicated – but she had the hots for Dom Shepherd for a long time now, and had the urge to try her luck with him.

"Yeah, I know parents." She took a large swig of the wine, its cheap, over-sweet taste no longer making her grimace and slid from her place upon the workbench. Dust coughed up from the decking floor when her sneakers made contact.

"If you don't wanna come, then grab a cab. It's no problem."

"I'll come," Dawn immediately said, trying to sound keener than she actually was. "It's not too late yet, and I can always call a taxi from his house."

Becky stuck a thumb in the air and the whiteness of her flesh appeared to glow within the moonlight. "Good girl. You know it makes sense."

_It's only because you want to screw him_ , Dawn thought to herself as she slid her own butt from the dirty surface of the workbench. _You just want me to keep you company until you're safely inside his house._ "Do you fancy him, then?" was all she dared to say.

"Who?" Becky asked, reaching for the rusty door handle.

"You know... Dom!"

She giggled as she opened the door. It creaked characteristically. "I wanna fuck him, yeah, but fancy him...?"

Dawn tutted and placed both hands on her hips to express her feigned disgust at her promiscuity, although the gesture was somewhat lost within the shadows of the tool shed.

"What are you tut-tutting about?" her friend enquired as she stepped from the wooden hut. "Haven't I seen you on numerous occasions being done from behind against the workbench you were sitting on a few moments –?"

"What was that noise?" Both of the girls' eyes immediately shifted towards the moonlit mud path leading from the shed where long shadows and dark outlines dominated the allotment gardens beyond. Although there was a slight, chilly wind in the air, the visible landscape appeared to be completely still and calm.

The length of Becky's mousy hair slipped across her shoulders as she turned back to her friend and whispered in the near darkness, "What noise?"

Dawn's mouth had dropped open and she was staring dead ahead, beyond Becky's silhouette. "Wasn't that somebody just outside the door? Oh, I knew we should've brought a light with us!"

Her friend's eyes shifted back round to the semi-darkness beyond and shook her head, the features of her face becoming hard and serious with concentration – not the usual youthful look she normally possessed. Seconds later, she inched forwards and cautiously peeped behind the open door.

The gasp that came from her mouth instantly brought gooseflesh erupting across Dawn's forearms and a deep chill to her bones. Her jaw hinged open again and froze in position. When Becky swiftly withdrew her head and stared wide-eyed at her, she wore not the expected look of shock but a mocking, wicked grin. "He was looking right at me," she told her in a hushed voice.

"Who?" Dawn was unsure if she was joking or not; sometimes she could never understand her humour. "Who's out there?"

"He was looking at _both_ of us... through the window!"

"Shut up Becks," she ordered in an unsuitably timid voice. When her friend lifted the bottle to her mouth and drained what remained of the wine, she breathed a sigh of relief before allowing a nervous giggle to follow.

"There's a man in the dirt and he's looking up your skirt..." Becky began, reciting an old rhyme they had learnt from the school playground years before. "And he's lying on the ground and he's looking at your mound..." She then turned her back on Dawn and stepped further into the moonlight, pulling down the seat of her jeans and exposing the crack of her buttocks, grinning devilishly all the time. "And he's crawling on the grass and he's staring at your ass..."

Dawn drew in a sharp breath at what she was now witnessing. "Becks!" she gasped, but then began to recite the next verse in unison with her friend, their two voices merging and rising in tone. "Now he's crawling on his back, and he's looking up your crack!"

After Becky pulled the remainder of her jeans over her hips and bent over, the two girls looked blankly at each other within the shadows for a few seconds before bursting into fits of laughter. Dawn staggered out from the tool shed and fell against a wild cherry tree that was all but pushing against the hut's side. She brought a hand up to her mouth in an effort to stifle the hysterical cackles that was a result of alcohol, relief of her previous scare, and the sight of her old school pal's exposed, wriggling pallid buttocks, seemingly glowing in the moonlight. A low branch snagged the cotton of her coat and she pulled it away indifferently.

"Now he's playing with his thing while he's looking up your ring..." Becky Fogarty could still hear the muffled sound of her friend's giggles even after feeling the empty wine bottle wrenching from her grasp and coming back over the base of her skull. The pain that tore across her brain was incredible, indescribable. She did not drop to the wet surface of the grass immediately but seemed to collapse in stages, her hands firstly making contact with the earth followed by her forehead, face and then shoulders and upper body. Absurdly, her exposed buttocks remained pointing to the starlit sky after her knees folded inwards under her abdomen.

Confusion set in. She heard Dawn repeatedly screaming her name, but the words did not truly register in her dazed mind, even though her ears clearly perceived them. With glazed and blurry eyes, she saw a brief flash of light an instant before the sound of a sickening thud. The screaming abruptly stopped. Next was the warm sensation of blood spattering her face followed by a rapidly growing shadow as Dawn's body collapsed and sprawled over her arched back.

Over the proceeding minutes (or was it hours? She could not comprehend) Becky remained in the same position upon the damp grass, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her body felt numb but her head was warm and buzzing. The weight of her friend's body was gone from her back – she could feel and understand that much.

With immense effort, she tried to lift her right arm but could only manage to raise it an inch from the ground before the strength drained from every muscle. Her mouth opened to cry out but only air silently escaped. Her fiercely pounding heart was the only thing that appeared to be functioning, pumping harder than ever and sending blood rushing painfully through her thumping temples. Then she blacked out again, and the next time she woke, there was a pair of garden shears lying by her face. Although the moon had now disappeared behind the surrounding trees on its journey across the globe, she had enough starlight to see dark red across its blade – the dark red of sticky blood.

Then she felt hands upon her, pulling at her ankles, slipping her jeans and panties the rest of the way across her legs. She opened her mouth to scream again but all that erupted was a feeble gurgle – as inaudible as it was incomprehensible. One final tug and her jeans were free. At this point, she mercifully blacked out once more.

She never woke again.

### Chapter 8 – Welcome home

November 8th

As a young man, Victor Gwynne loved to fool around somewhat dangerously with fireworks on and around Bonfire Night, or, as a more sensible adult, simply watch the larger local displays that sent an impressive variety exploding across the normally chilly yet clear November night sky. Now he was an old man, he was more than pleased he was not at home on Tuesday to listen to the sudden bangs and crackles that regularly erupted from the park close to his home.

He found himself remembering his childhood when, during the Second World War, he was permitted to light a bonfire only in daylight because of the threat of German bombers at night. A smile crept across his lips as he sat in his favourite armchair within his lounge, a milky mug of coffee steaming upon the tabletop before him. His smile became almost sorrowful from his memories of his happy albeit possibly misspent youth – a youth he could never have again.

He sighed and reached for his coffee, considered adding a tot of whisky to it and quickly dismissed the idea. Not yet, anyway. He was lucky to be alive, and holding back on a little of life's pleasures was the least he could do. He has already cut back on the cigars, so he could use the same willpower to cut down on his alcohol.

Well... there are other pleasures in life, he mused. Old doors close and new ones open... although... The smile was back upon his lips again, and this time there were no woeful undertones. Or are the old doors reopening for me again?

Even though he has reached his eighties and is recovering from a near-fatal heart attack, Victor felt that the world has suddenly become a worthwhile place to be, and that the new life ahead of him, whatever time he had remaining, was worth living for. In fact, it was likely to be far better than ever before, and if he did have a glass of whisky in his hand right this moment, he would have surely raised a toast to the empty room.

Instead, he settled for his coffee the way he liked it without the added dash of scotch. He tipped it to his lips and took a sip, carefully as not to scald himself. He sank back further into his armchair and listened to the familiar and somehow soothing sound of the continuous ticking of his clock. How he had missed that sound – a stupid thing, he believed – but it was a symbol of comfort, of being home.

Just as he was raising the mug to his mouth again, there was a light tapping at his front door. The old man cocked his head to one side and listened, unsure whether his mind was playing tricks. When the tapping, this time stronger, came again, he knew there was no mistake.

Victor sighed. Should he ignore it? Could it be a nurse checking-up on him as promised? He placed the mug back onto the table, spilling some of its contents. He had better go. He has been gone for a full week, and it may be something important – maybe a package from the post office. After easing his thin frame from his chair, he shuffled more than walked across the worn carpet towards the door. He stopped when he saw the tall figure of a man through the glass, and although its frosty effect distorted his features, he immediately recognized who his visitor was.

"Hello young man," Victor greeted through the widening gap as he slowly swung the door open. "Nice to see you again."

"Hello, Vic," Jason said with a smile. "How are you settling back in?"

"Good to be back at home again, thanks. Feels like I've been away for months, though." He stepped back and gestured for him to enter. "Thought you'd be at work right now."

"Finished early today," he replied, following his neighbour inside the hallway. "It's P.O.E.T.S day today." He pulled the door shut behind him before entering the living room. Victor was giving him a puzzled look. "It means 'piss off early, tomorrows Saturday'... excuse my French."

"Oh!" Victor smiled and nodded his understanding before returning to his chair. "I hope you don't mind, but I must sit down again."

"Not at all! I just came round to see if you needed anything. Me and Sophie are going shopping later, and we can easily pick up any items you need. There must be a few essentials you are short on, such as milk."

"I've already picked up a few things, thanks," he replied after settling back into his armchair, "but I can make a little list out if it won't be too much trouble."

"Of course it won't; we'll be more than happy to. If you like, we'll pop by from time to time to see how you are. I know how hard it is after a heart attack because one of my granddads suffered two of them."

Victor grunted his appreciation. "They say I will have to take it easy, of course, but I can still do very light chores and a little mild exercise, such as walking. I also have a shit-load of pills to take. They also told me I may possibly feel depressed, frightened or even angry for a few weeks." A thin but sincere smile brightened his face. "To tell you the truth, I feel better now than before I went into hospital."

Jason smiled back. "You certainly look chirpier than when I last saw you at home!" He glanced down upon his table and noticed the steaming mug. Just beyond it, a folded newspaper lying neatly to one side caught his eye and he could just make out the words 'double murder' printed across the front page. He cleared his throat. "I assume you've read about the other attacks, then."

Victor looked up at him as he reached for his coffee, realizing what his neighbour was referring to only after following his eyes. "Oh, yes... the other night." He took a slurping sip from the mug; it had now cooled enough to drink without the risk of burning his lips. "Two young girls. What a shame."

"Wouldn't expect that type of thing to happen in a small town like this," Jason said, slowly shaking his head. "You should see the amount of media attention it's caused. There's vans and journalists all over the place. They're like vultures." He dropped his eyes from the newspaper. "I hope they catch the sick bastard quickly."

Victor nodded in agreement but said nothing – only continued drinking his coffee.

Jason's voice suddenly brightened. "Well, I won't keep you any longer, Vic. Just write your shopping list out when you've got a spare moment and I'll pop back for it after Sophie finishes work in an hour or two."

The old man refreshed his smile and made to stand up, but the younger man quickly ushered him back down again. "It's okay. Stay where you are, I'll let myself out."

"Thanks, my friend," he returned. "I really do appreciate what you and your young lady does for me, even if I do seem a bit of a grumpy old fart."

Jason could not prevent the chuckles that followed his sudden surprise at Victor's last statement. A moment later, they were both roaring with laughter and the only thing that calmed him down was his concern for the elderly man's heart, since his face had turned a deep red.

"Take it easy, Vic, before you have another attack!"

The old man's laughter gradually eased until only a beaming, almost boyish smile remained, although there were plenty of tears in his eyes. "Sorry," he said as he began to wipe them away with a handkerchief plucked from his trouser pocket. "It's just the relief to be back at home in one piece, you know?"

Jason smiled fondly at him, the memories of his own grandfathers returning. "That's okay, Vic. I enjoy your company."

A moment later, he was closing the door behind him, leaving his elderly neighbour alone with his own happy thoughts and memories.

Detective Chief Inspector Lonsdale was standing before the two display boards within the incident room, scrutinizing the many photographs, maps and sketches of the recent murders and attacks that have seemingly toppled the small town of Upperhampton on its head. Only just over an hour ago, he was sitting before a horde of eager journalists and camera crew within the town hall, conducting the first press conference about the three murders and assault upon the young females that started on Halloween night. There were the usual appeals for the public to inform the police of any suspicious activity they may have witnessed, although, within the last week since the first murder, the incident room has received just under two thousand calls, most of them leading nowhere. Apart from a few helpful pieces of information, such as the sighting of the victims before the attack from various people that included friends, passers-by and a taxi driver, and of possible disturbances and break-ins in and around town, most of the calls were from over-imaginative minds, mistaken identities, pranksters and the usual lunatics claiming to be the killer.

Yesterday evening, they received a promising call from a man who wanted to confess to the murders of the three women. What made them believe he could possibly be the actual killer was the fact that he mentioned cutting shapes into his victim's breasts and a number. Although it was in all of the national papers and T.V news reports that the murders were sexually motivated, and that the assailant left markings on his victim's bodies, they have not yet made it public knowledge about the details of those markings and the numbers cut into their flesh. Their caller either was a prankster with a lucky guess, had inside information or was the real deal. Then, just as the team within the incident room began to trace the call, their mystery confessor began to tell them how sweet the taste of their breasts, tongues, hearts and vaginas were, and how he enjoyed cooking their flesh at his secret den the police had yet to discover. Disappointed with their bogus killer, they cautioned him about wasting valuable police time and their prankster swiftly cancelled the call.

That was the main problem with the tabloids and television: big murder sensations like this one always attracted the nutters from all across the country, and it seemed there was never a shortage of them.

Lonsdale shook his head and looked away from the carnage displayed before him, but the images had seemed to have burnt into his brain, and no matter how he tried to shake them from his head, the sight of the mutilated bodies of the recently slain young girls remained with him like taunting ghosts. These three murders were the worst he had ever seen, even beyond this little seaside town. Forensics now had in their possession the weapon used to mutilate the two recent victim's genital regions with all the precision and care of a market stall butcher – a blunt pair of garden shears.

Cut haphazardly into the scant right breast of Dawn Perkins, a college student, was the number six. With more precision, as if taking more time and care, the killer clearly etched number seven within the more ample flesh of Becky Fogarty's right breast. There were no removed or partially eaten breasts, tongues, hearts or any other body part, but what the sick bastard left behind looked as though a hungry wild animal had torn them both open with teeth and claws. Unfortunately, Becky's grandfather was the one who discovered the two bodies lying halfway inside his tool shed. Before he fainted, he must have seen his own garden shears protruding from between his granddaughter's legs. The old man is still slowly recovering from his shock.

So what leads did they have? So far, they have discovered footprints around the latest crime scene and from the apartment where the nurse narrowly escaped death. Although these footprints, imprinted in the soil around the allotment shed and as muddy markings upon the apartment hallway floor, were only partial, forensics have discovered they came from bare feet of identical size. Because the allotments where they found the latest victims happened to be on the opposite side of town to the first attacks, they now believe their killer has changed tactics from singling out selected homes to simple opportunist killings. This is possibly because the attention of police, public and media has likely driven him to other areas, which may explain why he conducted his latest murders in the open rather than inside somebody's home. Forensics has yet found no evidence of foreign D.N.A on each of the victims or around the crime scene and no fingerprints. Although the killer may have raped his victims, evidently before he killed and mutilated them, they have found no traces of semen, so he obviously used protection. The forensics team have collected numerous samples of human hair and fibres from all the crime scenes, but have yet to identify those that do not belong to the victims.

Professor of Criminology, Francis Turner, in his profile of the new serial killer, stated that their suspect had a deep-rooted hatred of women, possibly starting at a very early age and more likely created from his mother's overprotection. In many cases, killers like this one tortured and mutilated animals for amusement and a sense of power before progressing to humans, and his obvious interest in copying the signature characteristics of the Mortimer's Mark case was a sign of lacking identity – a need to become somebody else. The fact that he uses this barbaric means of mutilation and makes no effort to dispose or hide the bodies is an indication that he seeks media attention and desires to be regarded as more than just a classic 'disorganized offender'. This is also a sure sign he wants to be caught, but he may kill more frequently before this happens.

He is likely to be single or in an unsteady relationship and possibly uses prostitutes regularly – probably for S&M. The fact that they have found bare footprints could indicate the perpetrator strips naked before the attack for added sexual thrill.

Lonsdale sighed and began to stroll slowly towards the hot drinks machine for yet another black coffee. All this educated guesswork – let's face it, it is only _guesswork_ – has not helped them get any closer to who their killer actually is and where and when he will strike again. This did not help to explain how their suspect managed to enter and leave a locked apartment without opening a single door or window unless he had a key. This does not help to explain why, especially if their assailant is presumably stalking about the area barefooted if not completely naked, he has not left a single cell of evidence behind or been noticed by anyone, including the many CCTV cameras in the area.

There were a few differences between this case and the original crime. For a start, Felix Mortimer, although using various weapons to inflict wounds to their throats, genital and anal regions, he never butchered their flesh beyond recognition. Also, there was no evidence that Mortimer stalked his victims without shoes, let alone naked. Apart from the latest murders, the other two separate attacks were within the victim's own home, whereas the original murderer always operated in dark alleyways or parks. Their suspect was obviously using the same signature as the original killer but was not paying much attention to details if re-enactment was his sick-minded game.

Lonsdale almost collided with D.C Purvis as she was returning from the drinks machine, her swift evasion preventing the two coffees she was carrying from ending up on the floor. "Sorry," he blurted in surprise. "I was deep in thought."

"Well, this coffee was meant for you, but I don't think you intended to wear it," she told him with a smile. He apologised again and took the plastic cup she was offering him. "Two sugars?"

"I've been fetching your drinks for years now, I could hardly forget."

"Sorry... sorry," he continued. He looked up at the young detective and managed a weary return smile. She had the type of face that was always good to look at when times were stressful. "How have you been getting along?"

"I've been talking to Miss Pecharova and she told me that, apart from her elderly landlord who's living in London, she has the only keys to the apartment. Apparently, her ex-boyfriend had one but she made him give it back. She said he returned to the Czech Republic about two months ago, and we're currently checking to make sure he's not been back in the U.K."

Lonsdale nodded his head. "Yes, best look into it to eliminate him from our enquiries, at least." D.C Purvis began to turn away. "Just one more thing. Did you get to interview that young porter from the hospital, the one Louise Regan had a brief fling with recently? Didn't she say he was going to meet her that night and 'jump out on her?'"

Purvis shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't yet, mainly because she didn't seem to think it was that important... said he was always the joking kind."

"But he lives in the same area as the Czech nurse – and the first victim, too."

"Agreed," she said, "but he works at the hospital across the road, which is probably why he lives in the area."

Lonsdale began to scratch absently at his hooked-shaped nose as he considered this. "Didn't she say he was away the day after the first murder?"

"On his official day off, yes." She noted the straight way he was looking at her and pursed her lips. "I'll call in on him, then. Find out where he was the other night."

Satisfied, the D.C.I nodded, smiled and marched back to his desk with his steaming cup of coffee in one hand.

The sudden gust of heavy rain against the old man's window woke him mere seconds before the banging upon his door could. Victor Gwynne's eyelids slowly opened at first, but the sudden rapping from his downstairs hallway caused his eyes to snap to attention. With a grunt and a sigh, he slipped his bare feet from his bed, eased his body from between the warm sheets and shuffled in the darkness the short distance to the window. He believed it must be Jason and Sophie returning from their shopping trip, but did they tell him they would be here about six? Victor checked the illuminated clock on his night table; it was not quite five yet.

Cautiously, he peeled back a corner of the drawn curtains and peeped out into the gloomy wet of the rapidly growing darkness. From where he stood, he could always see whoever was at his door as long as they stood back a step or two. On this occasion, because the rain was so hard, his caller was obviously huddling beneath what feeble shelter the little archway above gave.

Victor waited. The banging came again, this time for longer. About ten seconds later, the plump figure of a man clad in a long grey raincoat stepped back from the doorstep, his face masked by shadow. He immediately looked up at the window where he stood. For one fleeting moment, Victor believed this stranger acknowledged his presence, but he knew that with the absence of his bedroom light and the obscuring rain upon the glass, he could not possibly see him.

Then the man looked away and rapped upon the door one final time before retreating along the path towards his car that waited on the opposite roadside. Eager to be out of the heavy downfall, the man never stopped until he was inside the dry interior of his Volkswagen. Victor waited further until the headlights and the engine burst into action before he dared to open the curtains a little wider for a better inspection. The car eased away from the kerbside and then suddenly stopped again, the bright-red brake lights shimmering upon the running water on the road.

The old man was positive his mystery caller was looking up at him from his side window, but surely he could not see the small movement he made. A moment later, the car eased forwards again and continued along Queen Street to join the main road.

With what could only be a sigh of relief, Victor allowed the curtain to fall back into place and stepped away. Now he was awake, he decided he would go back downstairs and make another hot drink. He dearly hoped his mystery caller would not be back again. For some reason, he knew he was trouble.

George Fields, after climbing back into his car and struggling against the wind to shut the door, immediately reached for his pack of Marlboro on the dashboard. He cursed again under his breath about the typical wet November weather as he popped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it.

What he found out through the power of the internet was something that got his mind more than racing. It must be pure coincidence, but there could be a connection somewhere along the line, whether this Victor knew about it or not. George, not wanting to get on the wrong side of Lonsdale, decided to keep his knowledge of the Mortimer's Mark similarities to himself for the time being, although he thought about the big papers and how much they would appreciate a story like this one. It would only be a matter of time before the national tabloids found out the full facts, and he wanted to be ready with his rich collection of information. Not even Lonsdale or his team probably knew about Victor.

George switched on the engine and lights, disengaged the hand brake and, after taking a quick glance in his wing mirror, began to pull away. The smoke was beginning to fill the interior so he reached for the button that opened the window, and as the glass slid downwards an inch, he thought he saw movement from the upstairs window of the house he had just visited.

George braked. Was that somebody at the window, or did a draught cause the curtain to twitch? He waited.

Maybe my imagination, he told himself as his foot pressed the accelerator again and finally drove away. But I'll be back again tomorrow. This one's far too important to let go.

"Quickly, quickly come out of that blasted rain," Victor told them as he moved aside to allow his two visitors to shuffle into his hallway. "You both look wet through to the skin."

"Not that bad," Jason said after shutting the door behind him, having to push harder against the invading wind. "Looks worse than it is."

"This is just from walking to and from the car," Sophie stated before giving a short whistle. She held up the two rain spattered shopping bags for her neighbour. He took them in his slightly knurled hands and peeped inside one. "Thank you, both. How much do I owe you?"

"Let's sort that out later," she said. "Don't have to worry about it now. I have the bill in my handbag here, because I didn't want it getting wet."

Victor smiled. "You two look like good candidates for a hot drink. Please don't say no!"

"I won't say no to that," Jason quickly answered. "We've been home already but we haven't stopped for tea yet."

"Then hang your jackets up there," he said, nodding towards the coat hooks by the door, "and come into the warm."

There was a shuffling of the bags as the old man entered his living room. Classical music was seeping at low volume from his two wall-mounted speakers and, together with the dimmed lighting and warm glow from his gas fire, it created a cosy scene.

Sophie began to look about the room while Victor disappeared into his kitchen, occupied with filling the kettle and sorting through the items. She noted the neat stack of books on the floor by his coffee table and thought for a second about the one she repaired, still perched on a shelf within her dining room. For a fleeting moment, she had a vision of slipping from his house while he was busy within his kitchen, returning home to retrieve his book, creeping back in and sneaking it between the stack upon the floor, hoping he would not remember where it had originally come from. But why? He no longer appears to be the grumpy old man that day in the hospital – a day when he was obviously feeling low and more than a little sorry for himself. She decided to come back tomorrow and hand it over in person. Anyway, after all they have done to help him, how could he be angry over a neatly repaired book?

"Please make yourselves comfy," Victor's voice drifted from the next room. "Who wants what?"

His two guests shouted out their requests for tea before sitting on an old but surprisingly comfortable settee. "Would you like me to make it, Vic?" Sophie called to him. "You should be taking things easy."

"It's no problem," his voice drifted back. "I need the exercise... I've been resting too much."

When he returned a few minutes later, he carried a cluttered tray. The crockery upon it began to rattle within his lightly trembling hands and Jason stood to help guide it upon the table.

"Thanks, son," he said. "I'm sorry I don't have any biscuits: that's something I forgot to add to my list."

"Not a problem," Jason told him as he added two spoonfuls of sugar to his tea. "We're having dinner soon."

After ensuring his two guests were satisfied, Victor sank into his favourite chair and gazed across at them.

"Sorry, Vic, but we didn't come here for you to wait on us; you should be taking it easy." Jason stirred his cup. "How are you feeling now?"

The old man reached out for his own hot drink. "Like I said, it's good for me to do some light chores – it keeps my mind and body active. As long as I don't run marathons or attempt to bench press hundreds of pounds, then I should be okay."

"I bet it's good to be back in your own home," Sophie added. "I've been in hospital before from a broken arm. You never get a proper nights rest and there's never any privacy."

"That's for sure," he agreed with a smile that made his face appear ten years younger. "It's no place to be." He then looked towards the floor at the stack of books and magazines and his smile quickly dropped. "Oh, I'm so sorry about the mess. I haven't yet had the time and the energy to have a good clean-up."

"Don't be silly," Sophie said. "You've got a good enough excuse!" Her eyes scanned the many volumes rising from the floor, and she guessed most if not all had the same theme as those in the bookcase in the spare bedroom. Then, before she knew it, her words of confession were spilling from her mouth. "I have a book of yours at home... I dropped and damaged it when looking for your big, leather one. I've repaired it and you wouldn't know the difference." From the corners of her eyes, she saw her boyfriend glancing curiously at her. "I hope you don't mind."

His eyebrows rose. "Which book?"

Sophie had to think. "The one by a man called _Rothschild?_ "

Victor's eyes slowly crept up to the ceiling, seemingly towards the very bookcase it came from. It seemed to take a while before a smile crossed his face. "Thanks for doing that, my dear. That was very kind."

Sophie returned a nervous smile. "I read some of it. It was very interesting."

He nodded once. "Joseph Rothschild has an extensive knowledge on the occult and parapsychology. Yes, it is a very good book. You told me in the hospital that you are interested in the subject."

"Well, as far as ghosts, demons –"

"Horror films," Jason interrupted.

"– and witchcraft go. Only the basic stuff, I'm afraid. Nothing too in-depth or scientific."

"It's all a matter of belief and opinion," Victor said.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about," Jason said, "but I think the real monsters are out on the streets right now." He gestured at the newspaper on the table, still folded in the same position.

"The murders," Victor muttered and reached for the paper. He unfolded it and another – the local Upperhampton Herald – slipped from between its pages and onto the floor. Sophie reached forwards and scooped it up in her hands, neatly shuffling the sheets together. Just like the national tabloid that her neighbour now held, the local newspaper's headlines screamed 'Murder' across the front page.

"I can't believe it's happening here, in this small seaside town," she said. "You'd expect it in London or the big cities, but not here."

"Why not?" Jason asked as he peeped over her shoulder. "Death seems to have no qualms where it goes. There are crazy people everywhere these days."

"But didn't the killer leave markings all over those girls? Some kind of symbol?"

Victor sat silently with his cup of coffee in one hand, his eyes slowly shifting between each of his two visitors.

"Whatever it is, the police aren't releasing any more details yet," Jason said. "Maybe to stop those prank callers and copy-cat weirdo's from getting in their way."

"Or more likely to stop people from freaking out," his girlfriend added, shivering dramatically. Glancing at the murder report that dominated the first few pages, she said, "It seems to have something to do with..." Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence, the words she was speaking frozen in place upon her lips. Then her eyes narrowed and began to dart swiftly back and forth across a section on the fourth page.

"What is it?" Jason asked, although he appeared more interested in finishing his tea.

"Wasn't that?" She held the paper up to the dim light for a clearer look at a black and white picture that accompanied the text.

"Wasn't that who?"

"That man in the bed next to Vic when he was in hospital. I'm sure it's him. He was really fat." Sophie held the page up to her neighbour sitting opposite. "It says here that he was in the cardiac ward, which is where you were. Do you think that looks like him?"

He nodded, but his face was devoid of any interest or emotion. She slipped the paper back onto her lap and continued reading aloud. "Well, it says that he committed suicide in the early hours of yesterday morning – the day you were coming home. Apparently, he must have simply walked to the end of the corridor, climbed out of the window and jumped. They never knew he was gone until they found his body below. The night staff believed he was just on his way to the bathroom. My God!"

"Well, at least they didn't have to take him far to the mortuary," Jason said before grinning. "I bet he made a big crater, though."

Sophie slapped his thigh hard. "Don't joke about things like that! You don't know what may have happened in his life to want to end it that way."

"Looks as though the whole town has gone crazy," Victor said before tipping his cup towards his lips. "Must be something in the air."

Sophie shivered at the thought and turned the page again.

### Chapter 9 – Barefoot Murders

November 9th

Graeme Charmer was not in a good mood this morning for three reasons. The first reason was that he had a visitation from the police last night at his home asking questions about the attack on Louise Regan. Although the detective doing most of the talking was an extremely attractive woman with piercing blue eyes and the type of girl he could easily spend the rest of his days with in a state of severe copulation, the questions were the type one would ask if they suspected him of committing a crime. A crime against his own colleague, friend and ex-lover.

Why were they asking him things such as where were you on Halloween night? Can you tell us where you were between the hours of four and five p.m on November 4th, and your whereabouts on the following night?

Graeme may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but he knew they were the days of the murders and attack on Louise.

What has she or Emma been saying? He could just about understand why the police would question him about the attack on Louise, since he knew her, but as for the three murders, he could not understand. What was the connection? He did not know any of the other girls, even the one who lived two streets away.

Both of the nurses were away today, Louise understandably taking a few weeks away to get over her trauma of almost becoming the second victim of this new serial killer. Emma, reluctant to return to her apartment where even the police were baffled as to how this monster got inside, was currently staying at a friend's house in Brighton. She had made an appearance at work yesterday, but decided it necessary to take another day off today. During their brief greetings yesterday morning, she mentioned nothing of her suspicions of his involvement.

Graeme sighed as he opened the store cupboard. Maybe it was as the good-looking detective said: to eliminate him from their enquiries. But wasn't it odd that none of the other staff needed to be interviewed and eliminated from their enquiries?

The second reason was the feeling of gloom that still lingered following the suicide of Jimmy Bernstein. Although there had been two other suicides at the hospital within the last six years, this was the first one to happen since Graeme worked here. And, apparently, the worst. And most messy.

Liam Jones, who was working the late shift that night, said he saw the obese man stroll towards the bathroom just beyond his ward. He was whistling his usual songs as he ambled quite amicably around the corner and out of sight, not caring the least if he woke any of his fellow patients. Twenty minutes passed and Liam noticed his bed was still empty but, making a mental note that he was not yet back, he returned his eyes to the computer monitor, secure in the knowledge that the bathrooms were equipped with panic alarms.

Ten more minutes passed and Liam thought it wise to get up and ensure everything was okay. He informed Nurse Simpson seated beside him that he was going to check upon Jimmy and headed towards the bathroom. As he turned the corner, about to knock upon the door, he saw movement from the corners of his eyes. He looked across the amply lit corridor just in time to see a pair of feet disappearing out of the far window. Not believing (and not actually _wanting_ to believe) what his eyes perceived, he swiftly walked up to the open window and looked down towards the hard ground three storeys below. At first, he saw nothing but wet pavement reflecting the lights, but after a closer inspection, and on the verge of sighing with relief that it was just his eyes playing tricks, he saw a shapeless lump within the shadows. Apparently, because Jimmy rolled, bounced or did both, his body ended up a fair distance from below the window, although not before his head split open like a melon to spill its contents.

Graeme was glad he was not around to witness the removal of his body. It was not a pretty sight.

Although he had seen the man only a handful of times while assisting in the cardiac ward, he felt that Jimmy was a jolly if not self-opinionated character, and not the type who would want to end his life. Even his wife could not believe he would have done such a thing. It proves you never can tell what may be going through somebody's mind.

The last and most important issue of the day for Graeme was how in hell could he get inside Natalie Parker's panties if she continues to act cold towards him? He has phoned her many times now to ensure her of his keenness and that he admired many things about her, including her sexy butt. He also did the wise thing and said he did not only fancy her for her mind. After all, she did give him her number, so she obviously yearned for his calls.

After finding what he was looking for, he shut the store cupboard door and locked it again with one of the many keys that dangled from his belt loop. He sighed again as he dwelled on why she started to ignore his calls and continued to give him the cold shoulder. Women. He would never understand them. They all want what was between his legs, so why don't they just cut the crap and admit it?

Continuing along the corridor, he saw a door swing open and a female nurse step into view. When he realised she was the actual girl he was thinking about only seconds before, he felt his face burn bright red as though she could read his mind. Natalie Parker turned, spotted Graeme approaching and, to his surprise, gave him a wide grin.

The porter did not falter, although her sudden change in character could have knocked him sideways. His return smile was more reserved, a little cautious.

"Hi, there," she greeted, dropping her grin. Her face instantly returned to its usual glum look.

"Hi, Nat. How's your day going?" He stopped about a foot away from her, as though she was prone to violent reactions. This time, he promised himself to be a bit more tactful when he spoke to her: he needed to ease his way back into her affections.

"Just feeling a bit stressed...as usual."

"I know a good remedy for releasing stress!" Oops, there he goes again with the innuendoes. He attempted to neutralize his slip of the tongue with a sheepish grin. Fortunately for him, she either did not notice or care.

"Too many long hours, too many late nights and not enough sleep," she complained. "I don't seem to have a life outside this place, that is, if you call this a life!"

Graeme simply shrugged his shoulders, unusually lost for words.

"Emma's replacement is fucking useless, like all agency workers," she continued as she focused her disgruntled glare at the floor. "I seem to be doing half of her work and she's getting more fucking money for it!"

"You need a break –"

"I'm tired, you know?"

Graeme nodded politely and attempted to look concerned. "Sure... sure you are. You've been working very hard."

Natalie finally looked up at him and she appeared to relax. "Sorry. It's just that I'm a little stressed, that's all."

Graeme was about to repeat his previous quip but managed to bite his tongue in time. "You must be due a day or two's break," he said instead. "Or even a holiday you could take?"

The little grin she gave him earlier returned, and he wished she would smile more often because, even though she was naturally a good looking girl, it made her face appear almost angelic if not downright sexy.

"Yeah, I've got four days off starting this coming Friday," Natalie said. "I'm going out with some friends to Brighton that night, so do you fancy coming along?" The second her words were out of her mouth, it appeared that she either regretted saying them or felt extremely awkward at her sudden proposal. Her little grin dropped and a second later, her eyes followed. Graeme, quickly managing the situation before she shied away, clasped a gentle hand upon her shoulder. She looked up at him again.

"Thanks for that, Nat," he began whilst making sure his big, boyish smile was expertly put into action. "I've been thinking you didn't like me no more and couldn't stand my company."

She slowly shook her head. "No... I was angry at you before because you pushed me and –"

"I didn't push you, remember me saying?" he cut in swiftly yet softly.

"Look, let's forget all about that," Natalie said. This time she spoke more boldly. "Come out Friday night. I know you're working the morning shift and have Saturday off, so there's no excuse, right?"

Graeme's mouth dropped open comically. "You've been checking up on my hours? Girl, you must be serious!"

"Just to find out if you can make it. I want to introduce you to some good friends of mine, that's all."

"Oh. That's all?"

She turned away but not before he caught the teasing look on her face. As she slowly continued along the corridor towards her destination, softly humming some tune, she purposely accentuated the movement of her hips, knowing it was a guaranteed way of getting his attention.

Graeme, with his wide eyes ravenously eating the sight before him, stood and watched until she was out of sight. The day had started out bad, but now he felt on top of the world.

Victor Gwynne's fingers lightly tapped a tune upon the book that rested on his lap, a smile of content spread across his face. Sitting opposite with a freshly brewed cup of tea in one hand was the person who recently returned it to his possession.

Outside, the sun was shining with full glory, the heavy rain from yesterday now only fading stains on the ground, or at most an inferior, glimmering puddle that occasionally littered the pavement and road surface.

"After my National Service just after the war, I joined my father at his bookstore in Edgware, London. After his death I took over the business." Victor's eyes stared dead ahead as though he was actually witnessing his earlier years as a vision televised before him. "I worked in that little shop 'till nineteen fifty-three, when I moved up North for a while." He finally turned his head back round to look at his guest, the smile still on his lips. "That's just before I married Beryl. We had a new, bigger shop together after we swiftly married and ran the business for about four or five years until deciding to move down South. We found a cosy little shop in Brighton where we both worked until our retirement." Victor's eyes dropped to the floor and he became silent for a while. Sophie sipped her tea and patiently waited until her host returned his attention to her again, not wanting to break the fond memories that were flowing freely through his mind. "Not long after we retired, she developed bowel cancer and quickly deteriorated before my very eyes."

"Oh, that's sad... what a shame," Sophie told him, remembering her mother's untimely death due to cancer. "You deserved a happy retirement together – gone places and seen things."

The old man only nodded and looked away. It was only a brief turn of the head, but Sophie caught the hurt within his eyes before they diverted to the far side of the room. When he looked back, the cheeriness had returned to his face. "That's the reason, my dear, why I have so many books. You see, although we stocked all types of topics, we mostly concentrated on the occult and the paranormal. You'd be surprised how popular the subject is. In Brighton, especially, we had many customers every day visiting our shop to have a good nose around, if not to buy."

"So you've always been interested in the occult?" Sophie asked.

Victor nodded. "My father sparked my interest with the books he had on the occult, although he only stocked a few on the subject. His main interests were with travel and history."

"That book you have there: was it from one of your shops or did you buy it later?" Sophie leant across the coffee table between them. "It looks a few years old."

Her neighbour began to tap against the hardback again. "Oh, this one I got from my shop in Brighton a few years down the line. I have read a lot of Rothschild's work and findings. He's a well travelled man, it seems, and has extensive knowledge of the paranormal."

"And that big leather-bound book? Did you get that from your shop?"

Victor's eyes narrowed.

"The one I took to the hospital for you," she reminded. "The one –"

"I know the one," he cut in. His eyes drifted away from hers. "No. That one I got many, many years ago from somebody I knew. Somebody..."

When his words died away, only the ticking of his wall clock broke the uneasy silence. Eventually his voice returned, but it was now low and somewhat dispassionate.

"I suppose you've had a good look inside. You may have noticed that it's handwritten and illustrated by many people." He paused for another moment. Sophie waited for him to continue, watching as his eyes became fixated as before.

"I've added a few things of my own over the years, too. Nothing of great interest to anybody else I imagine, but it is a book about _experiences,_ you see?"

Now his eyes were suddenly alive again, bright and sprightly. "I imagine it may well be worth something to somebody one day – who knows? It may be a load of nonsense to most people, but books like this... there is only one of its kind!"

"So what's it all about, if you don't mind me asking?" Sophie, although her curiosity for this mysterious book had now faded, wanted to appear interested. The old man's eyes travelled yet again towards his spare bedroom with the large bookcase. The object of their discussion was obviously back in its rightful place.

"To most people it is just an account of somebody's experiences and findings; of their beliefs and understandings. To me, it is a chronicle of learned accomplishments; of knowledge of the world beyond our own." He appeared satisfied with his description of the big, mysterious leather-bound book and released a long sigh of content.

Now feeling awkward, Sophie reached out for her cup and drained its contents. She never intended to return to the matter of that strange book he appeared obsessed with, but somehow the talk of the occult and the paranormal always seemed to worm its way back into their conversation. She began to think of ways to divert from the subject, and suddenly spied a framed black and white photograph upon the large cabinet at the far end of the room. She placed the cup back onto its saucer, stood up and shuffled around the neat clutter within the room.

"Oh, is this your wife, Vic?" she asked with her voice high and clear. "Is this you two together?" She noticed that the aged wooden frame was broken: there was a corner chipped away and the glass had a crack extending across the middle of the picture. With extra care, she lifted it from its place upon the cabinet's shelf mostly occupied by souvenirs and memorabilia. A clean spot within a fine film of dust upon its surface indicated the exact spot where it rested. "What was her name again?"

Victor turned to see what she was referring to, craning his neck in an attempt to look over her shoulder. When he saw what she was holding in her hand, he relaxed back in his chair again, smiled and nodded. "Her name was Beryl, and that was taken on our honeymoon in Cyprus. A local chap took that picture for us after we just returned from a boat trip. You can probably see by the weary look on our faces that we were rather hot and tired, although happy."

Not wanting to stand with her back to him, Sophie turned round and took two steps forwards. The photograph showed two smiling, well-dressed people – Victor in a white suit and Fedora hat; his new wife wearing a long flowery dress with her shoulders and arms exposed. She also wore a hat, although this one was of the floppy, wide brimmed variety.

"That was our first full day on the island," he continued, "and she so wanted to go on this boat trip. We didn't realize that it took us almost to Turkey." He chuckled and Sophie could not help but grin warmly back at him. When talking about his past, Victor appeared to be actually reliving his experiences by the way his eyes became almost completely vacant. "We were a bit hot and a little sea-sick by the time we came back."

"Yes, you both look very happy. And you look so handsome, Vic. You could pass for Frank Sinatra with your white hat and suit."

He raised his brow and his eyes seemed to return to the present. "Really?"

"Really, really. Like a movie star."

Victor laughed. "Now you're just trying to flatter me."

She studied the picture for a moment longer before returning it to its rightful place, using the clean spot to place it back into its exact position. "You told me at the hospital that you didn't have any children to visit you. Did you mean you never had children or they are too far away to come and see you?" Sophie hoped she did not sound as though she was prying. The continuous soft smile on the old man's lips assured her that he took no offence by her question. She sat down again and waited for his answer, noticing how his eyes returned to that far-away glazed expression.

"We never found out why we had no kids," he began to tell her as he finally moved the book from his lap to the coffee table between them. "We tried but no babies came. Back in those days, there were no high-tech fertility treatments like today. We just accepted it and got on with our lives."

Sophie gave him a sorrowful look. "That's a shame. You would have made a great dad, I think."

Victor shrugged his shoulders and drank what remained of his cocoa. "What about you and Jason, then? Have you any plans for kids?" His eyes were now bright again, his voice cheerful.

"Not yet, but we wish to sometime in the near future."

"You are not married yet?"

Sophie gave him a sheepish grin, knowing that some of the older generation frowned upon unmarried couples living together – 'Living in sin' her grandmother used to say. "No, not yet. We're saving up for a special wedding. I want to do it sooner than later, but you know how reluctant most men are about getting married." She gave a little chuckle and Victor chuckled back.

"Don't worry about what I feel," he assured. "I'm no prude. Me and Beryl only got married quickly because we wanted to live together, and just in case she did fall pregnant. Back in the fifties, there was no sex before marriage, or so they preached."

Sophie felt her cheeks glow red. It was as if her own, sweet grandfather had mentioned the word 'sex'.

"You look barely above twenty," he continued. "You still have plenty of time to have kids. Don't rush into anything too soon."

"Now it's your turn to flatter me. I'm thirty next year."

"Really?"

"Really, really," she returned. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"This time next week, I'll have just turned eighty-four."

"Really? Next Saturday?"

"Really, really," he said and laughed.

Sophie suddenly stood. "We should make a special day of it! We can have a little get-together... I can invite my sister and her kids to my house for your birthday party and you can come round for –" She stopped when she caught the concerned look on her neighbour's face, realizing her over-enthusiasm may have put him in an awkward situation. "That is if you've not already made plans," she quickly added.

It took Victor a long moment to give his answer. She patiently stood and waited while he sat in his armchair, his eyes yet again appearing distant as he contemplated her offer.

"You know, I think life's too short to sit here on my own thinking about the past when I could be in good company." The old man grinned. His dentures, although slightly yellowed, glimmered in the sunlight that blessed the room. "I would love to have a birthday party at your house. It would be an honour. After all, I don't know how many more I have left."

Sophie suddenly had the desire to kiss his forehead but refrained. Instead, she simply grinned back at him. "I'm sure you have many years left in you, Vic."

He nodded. "Well, however long I have, I'm going to make double sure I make the most of it." He gave her a wink as she sat down again, settling back into the pre-warmed, pre-shaped moulding of her body within the soft material of the settee. "Yes, my dear. I'm going to have lots and lots of fun."

At ten minutes past two that same afternoon, Victor heard a knock at his door for the second time that day and believed it was the same person returning to give confirmation of his intended birthday party. His face suddenly dropped when he saw the man whom he managed to avoid yesterday, and silently cursed himself for not noticing the plump figure beyond the glass of his front door before opening it.

What crossed the local journalist's lips looked more like a sly smirk than a greeting smile as he held out his hand. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm George Fields from the Upperhampton Herald." When Victor refused to shake it, he slipped it back into the pocket of his long coat, appearing completely untouched by his rejection. "Do you have a spare few moments to help me out about an article I'm covering? It won't take long, I assure you." His sly-looking grin returned to his plump face.

Victor, after looking the man up and down, shook his head. "I don't have the time, I'm sorry. I'm recovering from a heart attack, you see, and need to be left in peace."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that Mr. Gwynne," he said, although his face showed no sign of compassion. "Or shall I call you Mr. Godwin?"

The old man's face dropped even further on hearing the second name. His eyes glared back at the reporter before him and a red glow enlivened the once pallid skin of his cheeks. "I don't know what you're going on about. You've got the wrong door mister. Now if you'll excuse me –"

"Have you ever heard of Mortimer's Mark, sir?" The man's hands were suddenly out of his pockets and holding open the door Victor was attempting to close. "Have you ever heard of the Richmond Cult?"

"Fuck off!"

"You were a member of the Richmond Cult back in nineteen fifty-two, weren't you Mr. Gwynne? You were a member of the same cult that Felix Mortimer –"

"I told you to fuck off, didn't I?" Victor, although much older than the man before him, managed to prise the door from his grasp and pull it back towards him. The gap between them narrowed until only a sliver of the reporter's face remained as he leant forwards in his attempt to communicate with the old man.

"Listen, I'm not trying to harass you," he told him, his voice now raised but showing no sign of aggression. "I'm only trying to get the facts about Felix Mortimer to try and stop the murders that are continuing to –"

The words that George Fields near shouted from the other side of the door became a nonsensical murmur within Victor's ears after the catch slipped home within its lock. He rested against the surface of his front door until his heavy breathing subsided enough for him to walk the short distance to his living room. Instead of opening his bottles of medication and swallowing the pills prescribed for his heart condition, he bypassed these and moved towards his drinks cabinet on two unsteady feet. After three full glasses of Cognac, he slouched within his armchair, his face awash with sweat.

November 10th

Lonsdale was at least grateful that somebody discovered the body of Denise Sedgwick before the general mass of the public was up and about, although on a Sunday morning there were normally few people other than the usual dog-walkers or early joggers. Apart from the relentless intrusion of the media, there was only a small collection of onlookers with either their mouths gossiping or their heads craning for a possible view of the serial killer's latest victim. Four uniformed police officers were keeping order and lengths of police tape kept them at a reasonable distance.

Because the murdered woman was so well known in the area as the number one fitness fanatic who appeared to attend any and every public sporting event Upperhampton and many of its surrounding towns had to offer, it did not take long to identify her face.

Although this time her mouth was not agape with the accustomed expressions of exertion, exhaustion, fulfilment or triumph that everyone who knew or regularly saw her was used to seeing. This time her mouth was agape with terror, agony and panic.

Denise was thirty-five years old, slender but sturdy, feminine yet muscular, petite yet athletic. She ran across the Downs or along the seafront at first light every morning, come rain, wind or shine. She was an amateur boxing champion. She was a triathlon champion. She lifted weights. She had done Judo, Karate and Thai Boxing since the age of six.

She was not the type of person who could be easily overpowered.

D.S Alex Bromfield followed his superior out of the freshly erected tent that covered not only the body but also the words written in blood upon the tarmac walkway of Upperhampton promenade. They both removed their rubber gloves and overshoes and placed them in a special waste bag before gladly stepping away from the crime scene, heading towards their car parked amongst five squad cars.

"Same bastard, eh?" Bromfield asked, never turning his head. They both slowed to a stop halfway to their destination and faced the calm English Channel to take in the tranquil scene and the morning's fresh, southerly breeze. From what they had been studying only minutes before, a garbage dump would be therapy to their eyes.

"Without a doubt," he said as he scanned the horizon. "The number he cut into her is in the right sequence, as well as the symbol. Yes, without a doubt it's the same one."

"But the message," Bromfield asked, and he finally turned his head to face Lonsdale as he stood by his side. "It's the first time he's left a message. Even the original killer never left any messages."

"That criminologist said he'd likely try to contact the media or police some way or the other. It looks like the attention from the murders alone is not enough to satisfy him."

"It's a good job it never rained this morning, or the blood would've washed away for sure."

Lonsdale said nothing for a while. When he finally turned his head and spoke, his voice was low and somewhat gruff. "Two hours at the most, Alex. About two hours ago that fucker was here raping and ripping her apart." He turned away again to face the sea.

"Looks like it'll get into the papers now – about the markings," Bromfield continued, now facing the same scene as his superior. "I heard that dog walker caused quite a commotion when he found her body."

Lonsdale huffed at his last remark.

"Although I don't blame him," he quickly added. "I'm surprised the whole damn town's population's not here with that lot!" He gestured at the small crowd of onlookers with a nod of his head. Lonsdale never noticed or answered. Instead, his mind kept playing back the vision of the words clearly written in Denise Sedgwick's blood: GOT ANY IDEAS YET?

And what ideas did they have from this particular grisly murder scene so far? They had one solitary bare-footed imprint within the mud next to the body. The same size as those found at the previous murder scenes, of course.

The Barefoot Murderer strikes again.

### Chapter 10 – Dark secrets

November 11th

Judith Mortimer took a bite from her toast and drew the national newspaper closer in an attempt to read the headlines across the front page. She had not yet donned her spectacles, and even the large, bold print was just a blur.

Young Barry Jones from the local newsagent had only moments ago posted it through her letterbox, and she normally waited until at least noon before beginning to read it, since there was so much rubbish on TV in the afternoons and evenings these days.

Although her eyesight was rapidly deteriorating along with the rest of her aged and long abused body, Judith could read enough for her to suck in a gasp so suddenly it almost caused a piece of toast to lodge within her throat. She coughed, spluttered and spat most of the contents of her mouth back onto the plate she held before her.

Was she imagining it? Was she still in a state of semi-sleep, or was it because she read it wrong? Yes, that was it – her eyes were hopeless now, how could she forget?

She turned and looked for her glasses. Where were her damned glasses? She was forever losing her damned, stupid glasses!

Eventually she found them in the place she normally kept them, neatly tucked beside the TV remote control on the coffee table within the small lounge. Was she going senile too? Judith sighed at her absent-mindedness as her vision returned to near normal after slipping her wire-rimmed spectacles over her nose. She then looked about the room, slowly turning her head from side to side as if inspecting her own housework. It was a poky council flat, but she kept it as neat as she could over the years she has lived here, which was longer than she could now remember. Although she never lived anywhere else but in London, she had resided in many different dwellings over her turbulent life, some of them hostels, hospitals, prisons and even the streets. If it were not for her elder sister, Liz, she would never have seen her fortieth birthday, let alone her seventy-first last month.

She continued to look about the room, gazing upon the same items, the same ornaments, the same pictures and photographs, but knowing it was just a feeble excuse to not return to the kitchen and see for sure if she had read the headlines correctly.

But it was just a combination of her poor eyesight and imagination that caused the misunderstanding – surely it was – and all she had to do was go back, read what was actually printed and continue with her morning chores. It was as simple as that.

Her worn slippers barely lifted from the equally worn carpet as she strolled the short distance to the kitchen table where the newspaper waited. She approached it as one would approach something that bites, and after standing above it, her right hand reluctantly reaching out to turn the paper the correct way up, she began to read.

At first, her eyes swept so quickly across the words that her brain never had time to perceive the entire sentence and put sense to it. Nevertheless, the first three words managed to register within her mind.

Those words were 'Mortimer's Mark' and 'Murders'.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, suddenly feeling faint, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. Eventually the unwelcome sensation passed and, after another moment of hesitation, opened her eyes again. This time she forced herself to read the headlines slowly and properly, mainly because she still believed her mind was playing a cruel trick. Now she will prove that her eyes were simply picking out certain letters within the text and rearranging them into words she recognised – something like an anagram.

The headline read, MORTIMER'S MARK MURDERS ARE BACK AGAIN!

She read it again. And again. And again. Somehow, those words were always the same every time she read it. Somehow, those first three words that haunted her for almost her entire life were now screaming back at her from her daily newspaper.

MORTIMER'S MARK MURDERS ARE BACK AGAIN!

Judith Mortimer did not know whether to laugh, puke or cry. She did all three in that sequence, right there at her kitchen table.

This time the Barefoot Killer used a broken bottle to do most if not all of the butchery on Denise Sedgwick. The Forensic team found the bloody neck of a beer bottle within a public waste bin along the promenade, twenty yards from her corpse. As per usual, the victim had extensive lacerations to her vagina and anus, and it was obvious that the assailant forced the bottle, after being broken to produce jagged edges, into both orifices before the major mutilation began. They found the remainder of the bottle by a brick wall on the opposite side of the road to where Denise was murdered.

They have yet to determine whether she was raped because of the degree of internal and external damage, just like the previous victims. Again, there seemed to be no trace of her attacker on or around the body other than three partial footprints – the later two prints discovered indented within a nearby muddy flowerbed that separated the roadside and the promenade. The assailant must have made these whilst stalking his prey after crossing the road, the freshly broken bottle held at the ready. Yet again, the killer sliced his customary symbol of an eye and the next number in his sequence – number eight – into the skin of Denise's right breast.

Since the national and local papers released the facts about the bare footprints, the incident room had yet again had a number of calls about anyone and everyone that has been unfortunate enough to be seen without their socks and shoes on, no matter where they were. It seems the whole town has become paranoid, with neighbours, work colleagues and even family and lovers shopping each other to the police.

Now the full facts of the Mortimer's Mark copycat killings are out to the general public thanks to the elderly man who found Denise's body lying within the bushes just beyond the promenade walkway. With so many media vans parked about the small town of Upperhampton, it only took a tiny whiff for them to be at the murder scene like a pack of hungry wolves within minutes, some of them appearing at the scene of the crime seconds after the police could get there.

D.C.I Lonsdale yet again turned away in disgust and frustration from the photographs pinned to the board of the incident room. It seems as the days go by, the grisly pictures keep accumulating with no hope of finding this monster. Not only is the increasing number of the media personnel harassing him for answers, his superiors were constantly on his case.

But what was bothering him the most was the message the twisted killer left behind in Denise's blood: GOT ANY IDEAS YET? It was as though he was personally mocking him.

He desperately wants to contact us, he told himself as he began his slow stroll towards his office with his head lowered to the floor. It is normally at this stage where an egocentric, bragging maniac makes a vital mistake – an unintentional gift of vital evidence, and inadvertent giveaway clue or a slip of the tongue. At any moment, he was expecting a call from the killer himself.

When D.C Perry suddenly made a hasty appearance before him, his face flushed with urgency, Ben Lonsdale believed his prediction had gratefully come true.

"Sir, you have somebody on the phone who needs to speak to you in person." The chief inspector only raised his eyebrows as he eagerly awaited the rest of the message. D.C Perry then pointed in the direction of the double doors of the incident room. "In your office... he said he's from the Upperhampton Herald."

With those last words, Lonsdale's heart sank. "Okay, thanks, Joe," he said, but made no effort to hurry. Instead, he continued to amble towards the stairs that led to his office.

"He said he has some extremely interesting information about one of Upperhampton's residents. Something to do with the original Mortimer's Mark case," Joe Perry called after him.

Without turning round, Lonsdale thanked him and continued towards his destination, now at a much hastier pace.

Victor Gwynne read the headlines again for the seventh time that morning as he sat in his usual place within his living room. Yet again, he noticed his eyes creeping towards his drink cabinet and consciously had to distract his attention away from the contents that waited within, knowing that he had to keep away from the hard stuff for the time being, especially while he was on medication – and especially at ten O'clock in the morning.

He sighed deeply as his eyes returned to the text, now only picking out certain words rather than actually reading it. Emotions were funny things, he mused as he peeled back the front page to study yet again the continuation of the murder case that had gripped not only this small town, but also the entire country and even beyond. One second you are up, the next second you are down. One moment you are angry, the next you are overjoyed. One minute you are reminiscing of times gone by, the next you are planning for the future. You are just like a rollercoaster that dips and rises at unpredictable moments. Some parts of the ride may be enjoyable, exciting, invigorating, but at other times, they could be nerve-racking, frightening or alarming.

At this moment in time, he felt no discernible emotion as his eyes finally turned away. Throughout the last few days, since his heart attack, Victor believed he has experienced every emotion man could possible perceive... or possibly endure.

Now he had enough of these reports and he slammed the paper closed with a loud slap and threw it across the coffee table. The pages ruffled on their short journey but remained intact, landing in the same folded position. When he next took a passing glance at the paper, the bold, printed letters continued to announce the latest headlines: Mortimer's Mark murders are back again!

Victor eased slowly from his chair and straightened. Although he has been feeling much better lately, even though recovering from a heart attack, he currently felt both mentally and physical exhausted due to lack of sleep and anxiety sparked by the reporter's sudden appearance on his doorstep. His first reaction was disbelief followed by anger, and then, after the first wave of rage subsided, he felt panic – a panic that not even half a bottle of Cognac could subdue.

How did he find out about his past so easily? How did he get to connect him to the previous, original Mortimer's Mark case? Victor knew that people, especially snooping professional people like the police and journalists, could find out one way or the other, but how can they believe an almost eighty-four year old, sick man could have anything to do with the current murders?

Victor let off a series of curses after he stumbled forwards, barely managing to keep his balance as he made his way to the kitchen for a much-needed hot drink. Although he preferred another few glasses of liquor, he knew he had to keep away from the demon drink if he was to see his own, upcoming birthday party. His lips wanted to turn upwards at the though of his first birthday party in years, but the misery and stress that lingered like a heavy black cloud quickly extinguished the desire.

So what if he was caught-up in the original court case? So what if he was a suspect before they convicted and hanged Felix Mortimer? They probably got his details from some archive about the people involved, even if he did change his identity.

He reached the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, standing motionlessly before it while his mind ran circles within his skull.

But maybe they are just curious about the original murders, he continued to muse. Maybe, because of the new deaths, the country is now suddenly hungry for information – any information – about the bloodthirsty details of Mortimer's Mark. Maybe I can even make a bit of money from my knowledge and experience...

This time a smile successfully managed to pass across the old man's face as he continued to stand before the kettle like a somnambulist, failing to notice when it began to boil.

Maybe I can become some kind of celebrity, even if for a short time. Maybe in some way the public can finally –

Then hard rapping at his door thundered across the hallway and Victor almost had another heart attack right there within his kitchen. "Who the fuck?" he screamed and whirled around, confused in his sudden arousal. The banging stopped. Victor relaxed. The banging came again with the same urgency.

The reporter had returned, the old man believed as he shuffled forwards towards his hallway. It has to be him, coming back to poke his nose into my bloody business! Victor reached the door and stopped when he saw the figure of a man roughly the same height as the journalist beyond the frosted glass. The rapping had stopped and it gave him a moment to think of what to do. Should he speak to him? Should he spill the beans about his past involvement in the original murder case over sixty years ago?

His hand touched the handle but hesitated. The figure beyond the glass shifted but remained upon his doorstep.

What shall I do?

Only when the hazy image of an arm reached up to knock again did he finally open the door.

Standing before him were two smartly dressed men, the second man to one side of the pathway close to his living room window as though he had just been spying inside. The old man's eyes widened and continuously shifted between them, suspicion and uncertainty clearly showing upon his face.

"Mr. Gwynne?" the man on the doorstep asked. "Mr. _Victor_ Gwynne?"

When Victor settled his stare upon the shorter man before him, he failed to notice the identification he was holding up for his acknowledgment.

"Yes... yes, that's me." His eyes slowly crept towards the other stranger now standing at his partner's side and searched him up and down with distrust. "What do you want?"

"I am Detective Chief Inspector Lonsdale, and this is Detective Sergeant Bromfield. Can we have a few words with you, sir? There's nothing to be concerned about, just a few things we need to ask."

The bewildered, mistrustful look within Victor's eyes faded to be replaced by one of acceptance – almost submission. He simply nodded once, stepped back and opened the door wide for his two visitors.

"Then you had better both come inside," he said.

"It's the same what they say about all plumber's houses having leaky pipes," Sophie said as she slipped her silk negligee over her head and let it drop over her upper body. Jason, sitting upright in their bed with his back supported by his pillow, quickly glanced at her shapely buttocks before the material concealed her nakedness after a quick shake of her hips. She turned round to face him just as his eyes dropped back to the magazine on his lap.

"I'll fix it," he mumbled.

Sophie sighed and put both hands on her hips for added effect, but she knew her efforts were wasted. "You've been saying that since your friend came to do the plumbing and wrecked the bloody floorboards. Now Victor is coming here this weekend I think you should do something about it in case he falls down the bloody stairs and breaks his bloody neck." She sighed again. "Fine fucking birthday that'll be!"

Jason looked up at her again. "Stop your swearing, will you. I said I'll fix it, and I will."

"Yes, like you've been saying for the last six months..." Her voice trailed away as she made her way over to her side of the bed, slipping beneath the sheets and propping herself upright as Jason had. After switching off the main light and switching on the reading lamp above the bed via the bedside switch, she simply sat with her arms folded, her mind in deep thought.

A short while later, Jason glanced up and noticed her staring ahead with an inquisitive expression seemingly frozen on her face. "What's up with you now?" When she did not answer, he sighed and folded his own arms. "I said I'll fix it this week. I promise, okay?"

Her eyes suddenly flickered as though returning from a dream. When she looked round at him, he was relieved to see a smile break out on her face. "Oh, I was just thinking about that party for Vic," she said. "I want to know who to invite, or just have only us three."

Jason frowned. "It won't be much of a party with only us there. It'll be no different from our normal visits, 'cept it'll be at our house." He paused for a moment. "It _will_ be at our house, won't it?"

"Of course. I'm thinking of just inviting Maxine and the girls round... maybe Vicky will come as well."

"Huh!" Jason slapped the pages of his magazine shut. "I suppose Vic will love that: two brats asking him all sorts of personal questions and making fun at him."

"No they won't!" she protested, although she could not help smiling inwardly, knowing the truth in his words. "They've improved since they've gotten older."

"And you believe Maxine will stay when she has the opportunity to pop out to some bar while you entertain her kids?"

This earned him a scornful look, but he never dropped his eyes.

"His party is not going to be some kind of midnight rave, you know," she told him in a higher tone – her take no bullshit voice. "It'll start about midday and end early evening, I gather by his age and condition." She dropped her voice at the last few words as if her neighbour could hear her through the dividing walls.

Jason chuckled and opened his magazine again. "All right, all right, I get your point. But I don't quite see Vic having a jelly and ice-cream party, somehow. I was thinking of something more... how should I put it... more _formal?"_

Sophie considered what he said before turning back to him. "No. I think he needs a good cheering-up. By what I learnt from our little chats, he seems to be a very down-to-earth person and would appreciate a livelier, more family-orientated type of party."

Jason, after a short moment's contemplation, shrugged his shoulders. "Suppose you're right." He turned a page. "What about a cake?"

"Already got one," she said with a cheeky grin. Her boyfriend looked round at her and slowly shook his head.

"Any excuse for a party," he said and could not help but grin back. "You just can't resist buying cakes and junk-food crap for the kids to eat... for your _sister's_ kids to eat."

Sophie slapped his arm lightly. "Excuse me, mister, but who was the one who ate most of the cakes I bought for their Halloween party?"

Jason did not answer her question in the way she expected. He simply leant to one side, switched off the overhead reading light and drew her towards him. "You've always got something that I want to eat," he whispered into her ear, "and right now, I'm feeling very, very hungry."

Within the darkness, there was a mergence of giggles before their bodies slipped between the sheets.

While they made love, they were both unaware that somebody else was standing next to them within the blackness of their bedroom.

### Chapter 11 – Invisible killer

November 16th

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I'm pissed-up," Graeme slurred as he and Natalie staggered more than walked towards her apartment. "It must've been something I drank."

"As long as you forgive me for being drunk, then I'll forgive you," she replied, her sentence punctuated by a quick but loud belch. They both found this extremely funny and burst out into fits of laughter in the middle of the silent street.

"Shush, or you'll wake everyone up," Natalie told him as they turned onto the road that led to her one-bedroom flat. St Botolph's Road was awash with amber street lamps, but the shadows were long and menacing, like tall, lurking figures.

"You still want me to accom...accompany you to your place?" he managed to ask. "You still want me to guide you?"

"Guide me?" Natalie burst into laughter again. "Who's guiding who?"

"I'm only asking because I need to protect you," he continued as he barely managed to walk in a straight line. "It's just that I need to protect you from that murderer, you know? It's just that I need to..."

"Protect me," she finished for him. She reached down and held his hand, more for guidance than for companionship. Being more sober, she led him the short distance to the three storey high block where she lived on the top floor, briefly crossing the darkness of the car park towards the communal entranceway. "Here, this way."

"It could be him out there," he slurred. "It could be the hockey-mask killer who comes out to kill fornica... fornication... people who have sex."

They reached the door and Natalie fumbled within her handbag for the key. "Then we'd better not do any such things ourselves, then."

Graeme stopped and looked at her, his face now showing concern. "But I said I'll protect you, remember?"

"Oh," she said as she unlocked the door. "I almost forgot about you saying that."

As planned, they both spent the evening in numerous Brighton bars with three of Natalie's friends. They all instantly took to his quick-witted humour and harmless, almost comical over-confidence. Natalie, at first only wanting to know him better, swiftly fell under his spell and gave into his charms, although alcohol was definitely a beneficial factor in his womanizing talent. Towards the end of that night's drinking session they were both within each other's arms with their tongues exploring each other's mouths, shrugging off the teasing taunts and playful jeers of her friends.

As all but one lived in Upperhampton, they each shared a cab back to the small town, dropping both Natalie and Graeme off first at the corner of her street before continuing onwards. It was now almost one a.m. on Saturday morning and the rain had just started to fall in cold, hard droplets.

"Kiss me, Hardy," he said and puckered his lips. Natalie looked at the comical, almost obscene face he was pulling and burst yet again into fits of laughter. She ushered him inside before guiding him towards the elevator.

"Later, Charming Charmer, when we're inside my place." Once they reached the top floor, she was delving into her handbag yet again for the keys before the elevator door had opened, unable to restrain the sexual excitement she now suddenly felt – the anticipation of holding another's warm, naked body against her own. She took one of Graeme's hands in her own and pulled rather than led him onwards towards her apartment across the short, dimly lit corridor. "This way."

A few seconds later, Natalie was swinging open her door and reaching for the light switch. She yanked his arm and he staggered inside her brightly lit hallway. "Come-on, then: what you waiting for?" She giggled and reached up with both hands to pull his face forwards into hers, opening her mouth to his before he had a chance to realize her intentions. Graeme reached out behind him and tried pushing the door shut, but on each attempt, it kept bouncing back as though something was blocking its path.

"Wait a second," he mumbled as her over-eager tongue missed its intended target and slipped across his right cheek. "Lemme shut the door..." Finally, after closing and locking it, they slowly progressed towards her bedroom, Natalie managing to shed the odd item of clothing on the way.

"Got anything to drink?" he asked during bouts of kissing. "Got any of the hard stuff?"

Natalie reached down with one hand and grabbed his groin, giving it a light squeeze. "You're supposed to supply _me_ with the hard stuff," she near panted. "Besides, I don't want you getting any more pissed... I need you to perform, you know?" She giggled at her own words and pushed him gently through the bedroom entranceway, although Graeme stumbled and almost fell inside.

"Yeah: I'm a performer," he said with a grin after steadying himself. "I'm here to entertain you!" He then attempted to dance across the room after Natalie switched on the overhead lamp, his arms stretched out at his sides, his fingers clicking.

"Look...I'm a performer!" When he glanced back at the doorway again, he stopped his dancing and gaped rather than looked at the figure standing just outside of the bedroom.

Except for the watch, the earrings and the ring on her right index finger, Natalie was as naked as the day she was born.

"Wow," Graeme could only whisper as he swayed on his feet. "Wow!"

"Let me have a quick shower, lover boy," she softly said, running a hand slowly and provocatively across her breasts. "And when I come back, I want every piece of your clothing on the floor and you on the bed with the biggest hard-on I have ever seen in my entire life. Got that?"

Graeme nodded, his eyes still wide as they searched her up and down, his body still swaying from side to side.

"Don't disappoint me, now." She licked her lips slowly and teasingly for his attention before turning round and strolling away towards the bathroom, ensuring that his eyes could linger upon her buttocks before she vanished from his view.

When Graeme heard the click of the door shutting, he stumbled across the room, struggling to remove his shoes at the same time. After he collapsed rather than sat upon the double bed, he unbuckled his trousers and tugged them down to his ankles. His underpants came next, but when he tried removing these items of clothing all at the same time, they became entangled over the heels of his feet.

"Fuck it!" he snapped as he rocked backwards onto the soft surface of the duvet. How was he supposed to 'perform' in his current condition? He cursed himself for getting so drunk after he knew what was going to happen – after he knew Natalie was putty in his hands.

His vision swam when he glanced down at his alcohol-shrivelled penis lying limply below his navel. He cursed again, and after the back of his head slumped onto the bed, he let off a long, deep sigh.

It looked as though he was going to play his 'I wanted to be the perfect gentlemen and wait for another night' trick again. Sometimes it worked, but he had the dreadful feeling that it would not go down so well with the girl who was soaping her naked flesh right this very moment. Before he knew it, she would be back standing in the bedroom doorway again, letting the towel slip from her body onto the floor. Slowly and sexily, she would step into the room and move with feline grace towards where he was lying. Then she would stop at the foot of the bed and look down upon his supine form, allowing her eyes to scan his body slowly, starting at his head and working towards his groin. And when she would see his legs knotted within his trousers and underpants and his drooping penis attempting to retreat into its balls like some frightened little animal...

Graeme shut his eyes. The world spun around him. He opened them again and the sensation subsided but never ceased. "How am I going to play this?" he mumbled to himself as he lay upon the soft duvet with his arms stretched out at different angles. "What should I do?"

He was still debating on what action he should take when his eyelids flickered shut and he fell into a light sleep.

When the showerhead began to spray water onto Natalie's body, she hoped the sound would be enough to entice Graeme to join her within the warm, steamy cubicle. Making love in the shower was one of her favourites, and tonight she somehow felt the strong urge for sex – any style of sex – to fill the empty void within her life since her husband ran away with some slut he was having an affair with behind her back. She felt like she wanted to do anything and everything, just to prove to herself alone that she could have unrestrained fun with whoever she pleased, and not have to feel guilty or ashamed – as her ex-husband should.

There was a sound within the small bathroom and she twisted round to peek through the growing steam upon the surrounding glass, expecting to see the naked form of her work colleague in a state of sexual arousal. Disappointed to see nothing but the usual, everyday view through the shower-screen, the nurse returned her head to the spraying droplets, relishing the sobering, cleansing and comforting sensation, not caring that her hair was also getting a thorough soaking. (Through experience, she knew that long, wet hair always seemed to turn men on).

But in the back of her mind, she knew that Graeme would more than likely be asleep when she returned to her bedroom, which would be a far better alternative than have him struggle to perform with 'brewer's droop', causing embarrassment to them both. Worse still, she may have to attend to his needs while he vomited in her toilet – which was a common occurrence in her pre-married years with various drunken one-night stands.

Natalie sighed at her negative predictions and reached for the shower gel, trying not to care if her lover had most likely collapsed in a heap on her bedroom floor. If she played it cool and made light of the situation, then there would be another opportunity for them to get together on another night, hopefully with less alcohol to spoil the event.

' _Good things_ _come to those who wait'_ was another of her father's favourite sayings, and one she certainly agreed on. She was sure she would actually find it more sensual to simply cuddle up to Graeme and hold him throughout the chilly November night than to engage in a passionate, sexual fling that may have embarrassing consequences for the following morning.

She was aware of another movement outside of the cubicle, and this time she called out her lover's name, positive he was now within the bathroom, if only to use her toilet – hopefully just to urinate. Natalie turned off the shower and waited for a few seconds before pushing open the steamy glass door.

"Graeme?" Through the narrow gap in the cubicle's doorway, she could still only see an empty room before her so she opened it further, allowing the watery vapour to waft into the bathroom. "Graeme, are you okay, babe?"

'Babe', she reflected with an inward cringe as she placed one foot onto the mat immediately outside of the shower. What would he make of that? It was a corny and clumsy word at its best, and she now hoped she had only imagined his presence. The bathroom was indeed empty, but the room's door was ajar, whereas she knew she had closed it behind her before taking her shower. He must have been in here at some point – that was when she detected movement – and obviously left without wanting to disturb her.

Knowing that males habitually left the lavatory seat in the upright position, Natalie looked towards the toilet in the right-hand corner, sure this would give her a sure indication that he truly was here. Her eyes suddenly stopped on their short journey when they spotted something odd upon the soft-carpeted floor, something that had certainly not been there moments before. She stepped fully from the cubicle and reached blindly for the towel hanging upon its rail on the tiled wall, her eyes never leaving the object that glimmered under the bathroom spotlights.

It was a knife. In fact, it was the knife she often used for cutting fillets of chicken or fish. The last time she saw it was in her kitchen drawer, where she always kept it with her cutlery. So why was it now lying upon her bathroom floor between the sink and the toilet?

"Graeme?" Her voice was no longer inquisitive but demanding – almost accusing. "Graeme, are you playing around again?"

As soon as she tore her eyes away to wrap the towel around her body, a flash of light caught her attention and she looked back at the floor where the knife had been lying only a second ago. But now it was gone.

Was she dreaming it? Was she more intoxicated than she actually realized – enough to be hallucinating? Natalie released a small gasp of surprise, but this gasp rapidly transformed into a larger, longer cry of shock and confusion when she felt two hands grasp each side of her head and lift her entire body from the bath mat where she stood, her towel dropping to the floor.

While she found herself suspended in mid-air, her feet kicking freely, her bladder evacuating due to the sudden terror, she could only focus on one thing.

And that was her reflected image within the mirror: the image of her body floating in the air with nothing visible holding her.

The feeling of nausea drew Graeme from his light doze, and when his eyelids flicked open, it took him a while to remember where he was. Eventually, through his swimming vision and somewhere within his foggy mind, he managed to identify his whereabouts and finally recall accompanying Natalie to her apartment, his last memory being his attempt at removing his clothing.

He tried three times before he could sit upright on the bed, and he cursed himself again for drinking too much. Where was she? He looked around the room – a room that did not want to stay still – and could see that Natalie was not here. How long had he been asleep? It could not have been long if she is still in the shower, assuming that was where she was. Graeme looked down and saw the way his trousers and underpants had collected uncouthly around his ankles and sighed at his own stupidity. He then believed it was more likely that she returned from her shower, saw the way he had collapsed on her bed with his pants by his feet and his shrunken genitals exposed and decided it wise to sleep alone in the living room.

Eventually, after a few minutes' struggle to stand vertical and hitch his trousers back over his hips, he ventured from the bedroom into the brightly lit, small hallway where he was confronted by four closed doors. One he already knew was the main door to the communal corridor, but the other three he could only guess as the entrances to the living room, bathroom, and kitchen.

"Nat?" His voice was hoarse and far too loud within the dead silence of the small apartment and he inwardly winced at the harsh sound. He repeated her name with less volume as he began to push open a door to his far right. He froze in mid-action when he felt his stomach churn and believed it would void its contents right there on the carpeted floor. The feeling gradually subsided, and after swallowing hard, tasting bile in his throat, he continued to open the door enough to peep inside the room beyond.

It was completely dark. Graeme fumbled clumsily about the inner wall for a switch before eventually managing to turn on the overhead light and twin wall lights.

"Nat... Natalie?" Through his blurred vision, he searched around a meticulously neat living room containing a low back sofa that matched the beige high pile carpet, a smoked glass coffee table, a globe-shaped mini bar and a large LCD television. Just one stray magazine upon the sofa was the only item not neatly within its particular niche. He did not need to call her name again, as he could make out enough to see that the sofa was empty of human occupation and that there was nowhere within this tidy room where she could be hidden from his view.

Forgetting to switch off the light, he backed into the hallway to try another door.

"Nat... where are you?" This time there was light within the next room he entered and he quickly pulled the door back until there was only a slight opening to look through, realizing that this must be the bathroom. "You in there... are you still in the shower?" he near whispered through the gap, slowly inching it further open until he could firstly see the sink pedestal, then the toilet, and then what appeared to be two feet lying upon the bathroom carpet.

"Nat?" Graeme swung the door fully open and it collided with a crash against the adjacent wall. At first, seeing her lying on her back with her head resting upon the edge of the shower tray so that she faced her own supine, naked body, he believed she had tripped or collapsed in her drunken state. The next thing he noticed before his dazed mind reluctantly registered the blood was the way her wide-opened eyes stared dead ahead as if in terror.

"Natalie!" He stepped into the room but stopped mid-stride when he saw the bloody markings upon both of her breasts, blood leaking from wounds that appeared to have a particular shape and form. His eyes squinted as he attempted to take in more of the scene, knowing he should be helping but somehow unwilling to move any closer.

Then Natalie suddenly gasped and rolled her head to look at him standing just within the doorway. Her eyes, previously glazy and frozen in a dead-stare, changed into one of recognition when she looked back at him, her mouth twitching as she struggled to form words.

"Natalie, what happened?" He took one more eager step towards her but suddenly stopped again when he noticed the knife just beyond her outstretched right arm, its blade lightly reddened, its deadly point embedded within the bathroom floorboard just below the surface of the soft carpet.

"Help me," she managed to croak as she stretched her legs wide apart, although, to Graeme, it appeared as if her legs were _pulled_ apart. "Help me."

Then, to his utter astonishment, he witnessed the knife twisting within its speared position as though invisible hands were prising it from the floorboard.

"What the fuck?" He wanted to move towards Natalie – wanted desperately to lift her from the floor and save her from whatever bad had come to her, but instead he took an instinctive, recoiling stagger backwards towards the hallway. "What the fuck's going on? Tell me...?"

He had to close his eyes for a second or two, just so he could try clearing his mind from what he saw or _thought_ he saw. Of course, he was badly drunk and extremely tired, and the shock of seeing Natalie injured on the bathroom floor with cuts to her body was enough to make him imagine things that were not there or were not actually happening. Surely he did not see the knife rise into the air, turn and float as if completely weightless towards her open legs. Surely he did not see the moving, deadly blade glimmering within the bathroom lighting as though a phantom's hand was grasping its handle, ready to use it on the helpless girl before him. .

"Graeme?" Natalie's voice again – low and weak but demanding. He snapped open his eyes and looked ahead to see that the hovering knife was now poised in mid-air between her outstretched legs, the point aimed at her exposed vagina. "Help me."

Now, with an effort, she raised the back of her head from the shower tray. Her eyes, containing no fear but a mere trace of sorrow, were still looking directly back at him. "Help me Graeme..."

Then the knife sped forwards into the exposed flesh of her genitalia, and Natalie drew in a sudden breath as though she had simply suffered a punch to the stomach. Her head flinched back onto the hard surface of the shower cubicle's base, creating a dull, sickening thud, and her tongue protruded vertically from her mouth – unnaturally long and rigid. At this point, Graeme stumbled backwards with both hands outstretched protectively before him, seemingly to repel the incredulous vision he had just witnessed rather than to parry an attack. In the hallway, he tripped over his own feet, attempted unsuccessfully to grab hold of something solid and near-somersaulted back into the bedroom.

He must have blacked-out for a few seconds, because when he awoke he noticed, even through his confusion, that the door to the bedroom was now firmly shut, blocking his view of the hallway. Desperately, he searched about the room as he heaved his body into a crouching position, his fear-induced adrenalin beginning to override the debilitating effects of the alcohol he consumed. Other than himself, the room appeared to be unoccupied and he released a sigh of relief. Then the vivid image of Natalie's contorting face as the knife penetrated her returned like a flashback dream, and he jumped to his feet as though somebody jabbed his ass with a cattle prod.

"Nat!" he screamed as he reached for the door, aware that someone or _something_ may be waiting for him just beyond the other side. Tears were now in his eyes – tears of fear and frustration – as he cried out at the top of his voice. "Nat, I'm coming for you now... I won't leave you there, I promise!" He reached for the handle and pulled, not caring about the possibility of attack, not caring about the absurdness of what he believed he witnessed only moments before. "Natalie!"

Then something moved within the bedroom behind him, creating a soft yet audible sound followed immediately by the unmistakable creaking of a floorboard. Graeme froze in mid-action, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. He had just enough time to turn his head before he felt what could only be a hard fist punch him in the area of his kidneys, sending a paralyzing jolt throughout his body. More through shock than pain, his knees buckled, propelling him forwards into the narrow hallway where he landed onto his front, cracking his skull upon the opposite wall when his hands came up too slowly to protect himself. "Aw, you fucker, he moaned upon the floor.

Now his assailant was kicking him squarely in the buttocks, and the new pain drove Graeme to retaliate, fear giving-way to anger. He managed to roll onto his back and kick out with both legs, and although he did not see his feet make contact with his attacker, he definitely felt the impact. This seemed to give him enough time to leap away and he sprung blindly towards the door before him, not noticing in his panic that he was roaring a continuous war cry.

When he first collapsed inside the brightly lit room beyond, he believed he was back inside the bedroom until he saw the large LCD television screen sitting neatly in one corner upon a wooden cabinet. Graeme swiftly sat bolt upright and searched around the room for something – anything – to use as a weapon, seeing only furniture and neatly stored magazines. The only free object that was within his grasp was the television's remote control upon the coffee table, which was unlikely to inflict any damage upon his attacker. But he plucked it from its resting place anyway when he heard more floorboards creak as invisible feet approached the area where he sat upon the carpet, a slim stream of blood trickling freely from his left nostril.

"I'm gonna bust you up!" Graeme warned as he raised the feeble makeshift weapon above his head. "Come and get it!"

Just as he was in the act of standing, facing the direction of the open doorway where the muffled footfalls had appeared from, something solid struck one side of his head hard enough to send him tumbling sideways, the remote flying from his grip. He let off a yelp of surprise that cut short when his face made contact with the floor, the softness of the deep pile carpet not enough to prevent more blood from exploding from his nose. "Oh, shi –" was all he managed before two of his lower incisors bent inwards towards his tongue.

Now dazed and disorientated, he barely managed to roll onto his back, looking somewhat like a dying fly as his limbs kicked and punched desperately in the air. Although it was mere seconds, it felt as though hours passed before Graeme's stunned senses and foggy vision cleared enough for him to survey his surroundings. Still refusing to believe that some invisible being attacked him, his eyes darted about in an effort to identify the intruder.

"Where the fuck are you?" he cried out, tasting blood from his wrecked teeth and nose. "What the fuck are you...?"

Suddenly he saw nothing but stars when another solid yet unseen object crashed into his cheekbone, driving his head abruptly and painfully to one side, overstretching the muscles of his neck. He had just enough time to emit a high shriek before the blow returned numerously in the same area, although this time with much weaker force as though his assailant was now merely playing with him, taunting him.

Then a sudden banging against the dividing wall came, accompanied by muffled yet unmistakable words of complaint from a furious male neighbour. The tormenting kicking sensation abruptly stopped and Graeme was left alone long enough to struggle into a crouching position, both of his hands clasped to each side of his cheeks in a vain attempt to stem the pain. "Lemme alone," he could only murmur as blood, snot, tears and saliva dripped from his face. "Leave me –"

Whoever or whatever was attacking Graeme grasped his left ear and yanked so hard he actually heard a tearing sound within his skull. His neck, already painfully strained from when his head snapped to one side, was now stretching in the opposite direction at an unnatural angle. All he could now do was swing his arms frantically about in his desperation to be free of his tormentor, succeeding in grasping something solid before being beaten away again. Only after pushing hard with both of his legs, driving his body upwards into the antagonistic strength of the intruder, did he manage to knock the invisible force aside enough to free himself and leap towards the television.

"Bastard!" he screamed as the large LCD screen collapsed backwards with a crash, landing upside-down upon the floor, its large, plastic base now facing the ceiling. "I'll fucking kill you for that!"

More knocking and swearing erupted from the next apartment – this time louder, clearer and more urgent. Graeme grabbed the TV cabinet's only drawer and yanked hard, pulling it completely from its runners and spilling its contents – a collection of mostly CD's and DVD's – onto the floor. He then grasped its handle and swung the drawer blindly around his body as if he was trying to swat a very large fly.

"Come on, you bastard," he screamed as he thrashed about wildly. "Come on, you chicken-shit –" The wooden tray hit something solid within the seemingly empty space before him, slipped from his grip and spun-off to his far right to collide with the wall. The neighbour's knocking intensified, and then another voice, this one female, joined the protestations.

While Graeme was looking dumbly at the drawer lying upturned upon the carpet, still trying to determine if all that was happening was just a wild nightmare or some drug-induced hallucination, something as transparent as the air around him grasped his neck like a vice and hauled him from his feet. From just below the ceiling, he viewed the room through two swollen, unbelieving eyes as he dangled in mid-air, kicking and punching at something solid that did not _appear_ to have any solidity – no image.

Before he could struggle free, pass out or go insane with fear, Graeme was flying across empty space towards the opposite end of the room where he crash-landed into Natalie's highly treasured globe-shaped mini bar. Although it was a large and sturdily supported piece of furniture, the force of the young man's impact caused it to tip onto two of its four wooden legs, creating an almighty crash when the momentum finally toppled the entire unit onto the floor. Bottles, glasses and bar equipment spilled from its interior, the contents from some of the opened bottles escaping onto the carpet.

Although Graeme felt stunned and in desperate pain, his energy rapidly depleting along with his sanity, he managed to gain his feet quickly albeit precariously, reach down and pluck a vodka bottle from the floor. Taking no chances, he began to swing the glass container about his head as he did with the drawer in the hope of hitting his invisible target.

"You better not come close," he bellowed with a voice that was now hoarse and strained. "I'll smash this thing across your stupid ghost's, stupid fuckin' head. Did you hear me right?" He swung it left, right, upwards and downwards in a wide arc like a club. He ceased shouting for a moment and listened for any hint of movement – any telltale sign that his attacker was approaching again – but all he could hear was the relentless banging upon the dividing wall and a new rapping and shouting at the main door. "Did you hear what I fucking said...?" he continued.

Another stray bottle, one that contained an expensive twenty-year-old port, suddenly floated in the air above where it had rolled against the sofa. Because it was rising behind Graeme's left shoulder, just outside of his periphery vision, he failed to notice the glass weapon before it was too late. Luckily for him at the time, his hand came up to dampen the blow that could have cracked his skull open like an egg, but even the lessened impact was enough to knock him to the ground once again. Fragments of glass and port rained over the young man as he lay quivering with shock more than fear, and as the world threatened to black out, leaving him totally at the mercy of this unnatural and unholy intruder, he managed to scream the word 'help' with such force that the knocking at the door abruptly stopped.

Now Graeme knew that his one and only chance of survival was to make it to the main door and he began to claw at the carpet, dragging his beaten body across the living room, not noticing or maybe not caring that broken shards of glass were slicing into the exposed skin of his belly. Now a man's voice was calling through the letterbox and he homed-in on the sound, heading towards the living room entrance, the flowing blood and swollen tissue around his eyes severely hindering his vision to the point of blindness.

"Help me." But now his plea was nothing but a weak moan, and when he reached the hallway, leaving a red stain of port and blood behind him upon the beige carpet like a crimson slug trail, his words were nothing but a mere whisper. "Help... me..."

The letterbox flap opened again. Graeme could not see the pair of eyes peeping through the tiny opening, but he could hear the man's voice calling to him, asking him what was wrong and that police were on their way. And as the beaten man shuffled across the short space of the hallway and reached for the door handle, neither he nor his concerned neighbour saw the jagged shard of glass from a broken bottle hover in the air above the vulnerable, tender flesh of his body.

Only minutes later, the police arrived, having been informed earlier by Barry and Kathy Evans, the middle-aged couple from one of the sandwiching apartments. After Mr. Benson, the man who witnessed Graeme crawling across the hallway, told the police what he had seen, they smashed down the door with a battering ram to find two bloodied bodies, one of them barely alive. An ambulance rushed the young man to hospital minutes later and the police officers at the scene reported to Upperhampton Police Station that they found the dead body of another young girl, this one with the now familiar fatal wounds and the number nine neatly cut into her right breast.

The ambulance crew took Graeme Charmer to the accident and emergency room where the medical team on duty swiftly assessed and stabilized him before rushing him to the operating theatre. The surgeons tried desperately to stem the bleeding from multiple deep lacerations to his throat, abdomen, face and genitals. After twenty-two minutes on the operating table, Graeme Charmer finally died of his injuries in the same building where he was working only hours before.

### Chapter 12 – Happy birthday, Victor Gwynne

November 16th

"Remember to say a wish before you blow out the candles," Sophie told the guest of honour as he leant forwards across the dining room table, sucking an inadequate amount of air into his narrow chest. Victor held his breath for a short moment as he made a wish, his eyes closing tightly before exhaling a feeble gust across the colourfully iced sponge cake, failing to extinguish any of its numerous candles. He then swiftly turned his head away, put a fisted hand to his mouth and attempted to stifle a deep, heaving cough.

"You okay, Vic?" Jason asked by his side. Both Jodie and Katy were laughing at the old man's weak effort, pointing at the cake with customary, childish mockery.

"Look, Auntie, he hasn't blown any of them out!" Jodie proclaimed in her traditionally high, screeching voice.

"Don't be rude," Sophie said whilst trying to keep a stern face, although she desperately wanted to join in with their laughter. She reached down and adjusted her black cocktail dress, which was beginning to ride too high up her legs. "Victor has not been well, remember?"

Before she could have a chance to react, Jodie's younger sister, Katy, leaned across the table and blew the candles out in one puff, spraying a generous portion of spittle across the cake for good measure.

"Katy!"

"It's a good job we never put the same amount of candles as your age, eh, Vic?" Jason said with a grin. His neighbour's chesty cough eased enough for him to sit upright again, and he looked back at him as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. His eyes were watering, although there was a large, humorous smile across his own lips. "You would need a bucket of water to put that one out, I'd say," he replied.

Vicky Evans was in the kitchen, helping-out by placing the empty or near empty dishes onto the worktop, scraping the uneaten remnants into the trash bin. Both Yin and Yang were twisting around her feet, attracted by the lingering smell of the gammon steak and the children's fish fingers they each ate with chips, peas or baked beans. "Did you decorate it, Soph?" she asked.

Shaking her head slowly, Sophie turned to look at her friend and employee with a look of mild amusement on her face. Vicky was a clever girl, she thought to herself, but sometimes she could be so dumb...

"I bought it in a shop, silly," she told her. "Do you really think I could decorate a cake like this?"

Vicky shrugged her shoulders. "You've done plenty of arty-farty things before, so I just assumed –"

"Oh, Vicky said fart, Vicky said fart!" Jodie broadcasted to all in the room. Her sister clasped a hand to her mouth in her own expression of exaggerated shock.

"Quiet, will you!" Sophie snapped. "This is Victor's birthday party, so I want you to show him some respect, okay? Unless you don't want any cake, I suggest you sit down properly and keep your voice down."

The young girl immediately became quiet and sat straight in her chair, although a large smirk remained on her reddened face. Six year-old Katy mimicked her sister's orderly behaviour, fearful of missing out on some delicious sponge cake.

Now Sophie was leaning over the table brandishing more than holding a knife. She further warned the two girls to keep still before digging the sharp point into the thick icing and gently slicing through into the sponge. Until she divided the cake into eight equal portions, everyone around the table became dead quiet as though she was performing some sacred ritual.

"I can't wait to get my teeth around that," Victor said and licked his lips theatrically.

"Have you got teeth?" Jodie asked without a hint of offence in her voice, although this earned her more words of discipline from her auntie. The girl shook her head in protest. "No, because all old people have gums instead of teeth."

Victor simply laughed, amused at the typical innocent forwardness of children when asking and answering questions – no hidden meanings or cautious and tactful wording: just the naked truth.

"I have teeth, yes," he told her, pausing long enough to lift both lips with his fingers. "But they are false."

"If you keep asking rude questions like that," Jason said as he playfully glared across the table at Jodie, "then you won't have any teeth, either!"

"Jason!" Sophie exclaimed. "Don't say things like that!"

"Only joking," he replied.

"You won't get any cake either if you don't behave."

"Naughty uncle, naughty uncle," Katy kept repeating until her older sister lightly slapped her across the top of her head, ruffling her shoulder-length mousy hair.

"Ow!"

"So, are you now up for a small glass of wine, or is it strictly no-alcohol for you at the moment?" Jason asked Victor.

"I will maybe have a small glass later, but I have such a cocktail of pills to take I dare not drink much," he replied with his thoughts secretly recalling the recent night he drank almost half a bottle of Cognac.

"Oh, I'm sorry to put temptation in your way," Sophie said as she handed her elderly guest a plate of his birthday cake. "I just wasn't thinking."

"Not at all, my dear." He eagerly took the plate from her hand and placed it down before him, looking admiringly at the jam-filled sponge. "It doesn't mean that anybody else can't have a tipple."

Footsteps approached and heads turned to see Maxine returning from the bathroom. Victor thought yet again how unalike she and Sophie were as she sat back into her seat beside her children. Taking into account that Maxine was five years her senior, he noted that she had neither the shape nor the soft, attractive features of her sister, and he inwardly congratulated Jason for his choice of women. He had recently learnt that both Sophie and Maxine were divorcees, although the elder sister had separated not long after her youngest child was born.

"You missed out on singing happy birthday," Sophie told her as she took her share of the cake. "I already lit the candles and couldn't wait."

"Sorry, but I needed to shi –" With guilty eyes, she glanced across at Victor sitting opposite. "Needed to go," she corrected. Jodie looked up at her mother expectantly, but dropped her eyes away with disappointment when she could not reprimand her for using a swear word. Maxine then focused her attention on Jason. "What's all those tools doing up there? You've got screws and nails and chisels and –"

"Oh, I was mending that broken floorboard before anyone tripped and fell down the stairs," he cut in.

"Well, I almost fell down because of all those tools!"

"Jason, why didn't you put them away?" Sophie asked. Having dished out the birthday cake to all of the guests, she sat back down to eat her own slice.

"You called me down to dinner before I had a chance to put it away. I intended to clear up afterwards."

"Can you please put them away soon before somebody does trip over them," she continued. "What if Victor went up there and fell over?"

"You might have to go to hospital again," Jodie piped up. "And you would have a really bad birthday party!"

Victor smiled. "Oh, don't worry about me. There may be a lot of things wrong with me, but my eyesight is still good enough to see where I'm going."

"All the same..." Sophie mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

Jason rolled his eyes and began eating.

"It's delicious," Victor said with another piece on the end of his spoon poised before his lips. "I can't thank you all enough, especially you, Sophie, for taking the trouble for me."

"You are more than welcome, Vic," she replied, and raised her wine glass to him. "Happy birthday and we all hope you get well very soon."

The old man's other party guests, including the children, also raised their glasses to him and bid him a happy birthday.

"How old are you?" Jodie suddenly asked.

"Jodie," her mother warned, although there was no sternness to her voice as though it was merely a reflex action to her relentless prying questions.

"Have a guess," Victor said. "How old do I look?"

The young girl suddenly became shy – an unusual emotion for her – and looked towards her mother with a sheepish grin.

"Go on, then," she prompted.

Jodie looked back at him and eyed him up and down before giving her answer, the same grin remaining upon her face. "About... a hundred and seven."

There were mild chuckles from the adults, although Victor burst out into hearty laughter. "Well, I have had a hard time lately! But to a little girl, I suppose I do look about that." He smiled warmly back at her and she did the same. "I'm not too far from that age, I suppose. I'm now eighty-four years old. How old are you, sweetie?"

"Seven and a half," she proudly announced. "Katy is only five."

"Is she really?" He looked over to her sister and also gave her a smile. "Then you both have your whole lives ahead of you." He then focused on Vicky as she spooned the last of her dessert into her mouth and sat back straight. Even though she was maybe a little overweight, he believed she had a very attractive face, and that her lengthy smooth, blonde hair that draped over her shoulders was more than just beautiful. He took a fleeting glance at her ample but pert breasts squeezed elegantly within her red dress. As she raised her wine to her lips, she caught him staring and voiced a silent "cheers." Victor acknowledged this with a nod of his head.

Jason leant across the table, and with his cream and jam stained fingers he picked the knife up and began to cut into the remaining slice of cake. "Shall we share this out?"

"No!" Sophie snapped. "I'm saving it for later." She nodded discreetly towards their neighbour. Understanding what she meant, he put the knife back down and returned to his seat.

"Has everybody finished?" She looked at each plate, realizing they were all empty before her guests had a chance to reply. She then quickly marched into the living room and returned only seconds later carrying a small parcel in her hand. "This is just a little something from me and Jason," she told her neighbour as she stood by his side. "I hope you like it."

When Sophie offered him the neatly wrapped package, decorated with colourful drawings of cocktail glasses, champagne bottles and stars, he slowly reached up to grasp it, hesitating as though it was potentially dangerous. After finally placing his gift before him, he could only stare at it with a growing feeling of sentiment washing over him.

"I didn't get you any more flowers, because I know it's not really a man's thing," she added. Victor looked up and realized that all eyes were upon him, including the cats from their perched position on the windowsill. He began to fumble open the parcel.

"You shouldn't have..." he began to say, but when he noticed what was inside, he drew in a sudden breath. Within his hands, he held a silver photo frame that reflected the overhead lights on its smooth, faultless surface. Even the glass front glimmered like a jewel.

"I hope you don't mind, but when I saw the broken one with you and your wife's picture, I thought it was a great shame. I think you'll be able to see it much clearer in there."

The old man continued to stare at his gift, his words of gratitude lodged in his throat, a tear beginning to well in each eye.

"Happy birthday, Vic," she whispered, and the others echoed her greetings once again. Then, to everyone's surprise, and to Jodie's childish amusement, Victor began to weep.

Low music emitted from the living room speakers as the small crowd began to fill the seats, the two children happy to sit upon the floor eating cookies provided by their auntie. Victor, having just rejoined them after using the bathroom, eased onto a small but comfortable wooden chair beneath the window.

"Jason?" Sophie had squeezed herself between her sister and Vicky on the settee, a fresh glass of Chardonnay in one hand. Her boyfriend, attending to the alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages stacked on a small table by the television, twisted his head enough to look at her. "What's up, my love?"

"Did you do as I asked and put your tools away?" Before he even had a chance to answer, Sophie was raising her voice only enough to indicate her annoyance. "Victor has just come back from the bathroom and he could have tripped over them. I told you to –"

"Okay, okay," he cut in and made for the doorway. "I'll do it now, I'll do it now."

Sophie slowly shook her head and watched him until he turned into the dining room, en route to the landing hallway.

"Men, eh?" Maxine chuckled.

"There was no mess up there," Victor assured as he sipped at the orange juice that Jason had just provided. "His tools were not in the middle of the hallway or staircase but were neatly to one side."

"Stop sticking up for him," Sophie said. "I've been on at him for weeks now to mend that floorboard and he leaves it to the last minute, as usual."

"I hope you weren't doing it for just my benefit."

"Yes and no. The amount of bloody times I've almost gone flying when my foot sank into the carpet –"

"Auntie, can I watch one of your horror films?" Jodie yelled from her place upon the floor.

"No!" her mother swiftly returned.

The young girl voiced her disapproval by emitting a long, rising moan. As if in defiance, she shuffled over to the stack of DVD's by the television cabinet, examined the numerous titles and plucked a case from the rack. After scrutinizing the picture on the front cover, she turned towards Victor and held it up to his face. "Do you like ghost films?"

The old man leant forward with squinted eyes as he struggled to read the title. "The Shining? Yes, I believe I've seen that one. And I do like ghost stories, yes."

"They're scary, but I like them, too. This one my mum won't let me watch."

"Maybe when you're a little older, you can."

Jodie continuously turned the DVD box around in her small hands as her mind pondering on the next question. When she looked back up at the old man, her brow was creased and her eyes serious – an expression that made her appear much older than she was. "Have you seen a ghost... a real one I mean? It's because lots of people say they've actually seen one."

Victor fell silent and his warm smile drooped. The young girl noticed how his glazy eyes began to drift slowly across the opposite wall as though he was either wallowing in his deep thoughts or watching his own phantoms.

"Vic?" she prompted impatiently. Unhurriedly, he returned his attention back to the girl sitting before him, although his face was now sombre and more pallid.

"I suppose one could say that I have," he eventually replied. "Ghosts can be in many different forms: sometimes physical, sometimes immaterial; some of them dead, some of them still alive." He punctuated his last comment with a weak smile.

Jodie stared up at him with her face puzzled. "Does that mean you _have_ seen a ghost, or what?"

Before he could give an answer, the girl's mother called to her from her place on the crowded settee. "Jodie? You're not annoying Victor, are you? Asking him prying questions again?"

"No, I'm not!" she blurted out in defence and looked to the old man for support of her claim. He simply raised his hand to Maxine and managed a firmer smile. "I'm okay," he assured.

"I'm back," Jason announced as he re-entered the living room. "I've been a good boy and tidied every tool away."

Both Maxine and Vicky cheered and clapped. Sophie held up her empty wine glass to him and said, "Now you can pour me another drink. Be a good boy again!"

Moments later, Victor stood up, straightened and turned to his two hosts. "If you don't mind, I'll just pop back home for a few minutes." He waved the silver picture frame in his hand. "I would also like to put this in a safe place, just in case I drop it. I would never forgive myself otherwise."

"Certainly, Vic," Jason told him. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, no. I'm only next door, remember? There's just something I need to check on." He moved towards the doorway to the dining room. "There's no need to stop what you're doing; I'll see my own way out."

On leaving the room, the old man pulled the door shut behind him, his sweet smile dropping as his eyes began to wander.

Later that evening, after Maxine said her farewells despite the protestations from both of her children, she drove back home in the rain, leaving a more serene atmosphere for the remaining party members. The soft lighting from the four wall lamps added to the cosy effect as Victor relaxed next to Vicky on the settee after Sophie's persistent recommendation to sit in a more comfortable seat. His two neighbours sat side by side opposite him: Jason on Victor's vacated wooden seat and Sophie reclining in their computer desk's swivel chair.

They each made light conversation, Vicky telling them humorous stories about the many strange customers she has dealt with during her years working in the florist, making the two men laugh while Sophie simply nodded with affirmation. Apart from Victor, they were all drinking generous portions of red or white wine, steadily surpassing the tipsy stage and delving into drunken territory. Their conversation became a little more risqué and Vicky began to giggle uncontrollably, almost spilling her wine over the elderly guest.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Vic," she said and managed to place her glass safely on the coffee table before her. "I didn't drop any on you, did I?"

Victor laughed and brushed at his dry trousers. "Not a drop, my dear, don't you worry."

"I had better get going anyway." She glanced at her watch and had to squint, her vision now impaired by the alcohol. "It's gone midnight. I'll call a cab and go home, if you don't mind."

"Thanks for coming round," Sophie said. "It's been a good evening."

"And it was a pleasure to meet you, my dear," Victor said and lightly patted her shoulder. "Thank you for making an old man happy."

"It was a pleasure, too," she said and smiled before plucking her phone from her pocket to call a taxi.

"And make sure the driver sees you safely to your door," Sophie added. "Remember there's a sick-minded maniac on the loose after young women."

"How can I forget," she said.

After Vicky left the house, Sophie stood at the door like a worried mother until she was safely inside the cab. She returned to the now music-free living room to see Jason and Victor each sipping a glass of single malt Scotch whisky that they kept for special occasions.

"One for the road," the old man told her as she returned to her seat. "I thought that I would wait until the end before I had my one and only tipple of the day."

"One shouldn't harm, should it?" she asked. "With all the pills you must be taking?"

He lifted his glass tumbler for her to see. "Only a dash I wanted. I've had such a good time, I feel on a high anyway."

"So you'll need that whisky to calm down, then," Jason said, already pouring himself another generous helping.

"I'll sleep like a baby," he said, "although I'm definitely far from being one now."

"Eighty-four: that's quite an age, if you don't mind me saying," she said.

He emptied his glass in one final gulp and settled it back onto the coffee table. "I suppose it is, but when you look back, some of the things you've done a long time ago only seems like it happened yesterday."

"Sophie told me you used to run book shops with your wife. That would explain why your house looks like one, too."

Victor laughed. "That's right. Before we retired, we had one in the Brighton Lanes."

"It specialized mostly in ghosts and the occult, didn't it?"

Victor nodded. "Mostly. It is such a widely popular subject and one that never seems to go out of fashion. We stocked such a variety on the occult. You'll be surprised on the many variations ranging from religion to superstitions to psychic abilities... the list is too long to mention them all." He glanced at Sophie sitting relaxed on the computer chair, sipping more of her wine. Although she focused her eyes on the table before her, it was obvious she was listening with interest.

When he looked back at Jason, he could see that he was struggling with the words for his next question, the amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the evening allowing his face to express his conflicting thoughts freely and with less conscientious burden. Finally, he looked back up at his guest.

"Have you ever dabbled in black magic or devil worship yourself, Vic? Being that you're so interested in the subject, I wondered if you may have... you know, done a little experimentation in contacting the dead or a little witchcraft or voodoo... something like that?"

Sophie looked sharply up at her boyfriend, her mouth dropping as if to say something to him – maybe to voice her disapproval of his question. Instead, she sat as silently as the other two in the room, the sudden stillness almost suffocating, almost tangible.

Jason himself realized he might have worded his question a little too tactless when he noticed the cold – almost hostile – look in the old man's eyes. Victor sat stiffly upright upon the settee, his hands relaxed limply across his knees, his face fixed in his direction. It seemed as though hours had passed before his face melted into a soft smile and he gave his reply, although in reality, it was only mere seconds.

"I suppose I can say I have 'dabbled' a little bit when I was much younger." He sighed and his body seemed to relax back into the softness of the leather seat. "I believe that everybody must have experimented in some way: there are so many ways in which to."

From the corners of his eyes, Jason noticed his girlfriend relax, taking a larger gulp from her wine as if relieved that her elderly guest found no offence in his question.

"Who hasn't done a little dabbling – as you finely put it – during their life?" he continued. "Even if you don't believe in such things, you most likely do a little dabbling somehow. Just reading your horoscope in the newspapers is a form of the occult. Having your palm read, refusing to walk beneath a ladder... even having religious beliefs is a manner of believing in the spiritual world or in the supernatural."

"And what about that book we took to the hospital for you? Is that something from your bookshop or from somewhere more... more...?"

"More sinister?" His smile widened, but it had a knowing look to it, as though he was expecting this very question. "I acquired it from a great man who knew so much about the world about us – not just the spiritual world but the one we exist in now. It is basically a book of certain people's experiences in their achievements and learning in what the average person only imagines or dreams about." Victor shook his head. "But that great man is long gone now. Long gone."

He became silent again. Sophie, having turned her head away at the mere mention of the 'mysterious' book, took the opportunity to intervene before the conversation became deeper.

"Hey, does anybody want to watch a movie, or something?" She wanted to sit up and watch a movie as much as she wanted to run a marathon naked in the pouring rain, but she needed to say something – anything – in the hope of preventing Jason from asking more awkward questions into that weird book she felt had negative vibes about it. "How about a game of cards?"

"No thanks, my dear," Victor said and began to rise from his seat. "Being an old man, I'm finding it difficult to stay awake, which has absolutely nothing to do with your company, I assure you."

"Do you want another drink of any sort?" Jason asked as he also stood.

"Nothing for me, thanks. I will just trot back to my house and hit the hay if you don't mind. You have made me such a happy man today, and I cannot thank you both enough."

Sophie suddenly rushed from the living room and disappeared into the semi-darkness of the kitchen. "Before you go, Vic, we've kept this for you," she called whilst delving into the refrigerator, rattling bottles and disturbing the many stored items. When she returned, she offered him a plate containing the last remaining slice of his birthday cake. "I know how much you liked it, and because it's your birthday, we thought you should be the one to take this home with you for later."

Victor slowly reached out and took the plate, his eyes gazing almost lovingly at the jam-filled sponge cake with its white and blue icing drooping over the edges. "You've both been so very kind to me, and I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Vic," Sophie said softly as they strolled from the living room towards the hallway. "It's been fun for all of us, even for Jodie and Katy."

"They were two little gems," he told her as Jason opened the door for him. "It was a pleasure to meet them, too."

"It's raining hard out there, Vic. Did you bring a jacket?" Jason began looking at the coat hangers behind the door. "If not, then you can borrow mine."

"No. There's no need. I'll be back home in a flash. I can still move pretty fast when I need to." He was on the verge of stepping out into the wet night when he felt something brushing against his leg. He looked down to see one of their cats weaving between his ankles. "Oh, you surprised me, little kitty!"

"That's Yin," Sophie said. "She kind of likes you, I see."

He reached down to brush a hand gently over the cat's black fur. Yin looked up at him; her tail stood straight in the air and she emitted a single meow.

"She normally runs away from strangers."

"Well, it seems I have made many friends today," Victor said before finally stepping out onto the pathway. He turned his face back towards them, managing to keep his head clear of the rain beneath the small overhang above the doorway. "And thank you both for that wonderful picture frame. I will treasure it for as long as I have left on this earth."

"You are welcome," Jason said and gave him a quick salute.

Sophie smiled warmly back at him from her boyfriend's side. "See you soon, Vic."

Without a further word, Victor Gwynne hurried the short distance to his house beneath the heavy downpour, unlocked his door and disappeared inside.

"Why did you have to go and mention that book again?" Sophie was now perched on Jason's knee upon the settee, each holding yet another glass of wine. There was not a single trace of anger or irritation in her voice: only a specific mocking intonation she reserved for any blunder or misdemeanour he dared to make. "I told you how creepy he seems to get when talking about that damn book."

"He seemed okay about it," he returned in his defence. "I thought what he said was pretty interesting."

She gave a brief but shrill laugh. "All that talk about spirits and fortune telling... and I thought it was _you_ who was never interested in that type of thing."

Jason shrugged his shoulders, brought the wine up to his lips. "I never said I wasn't interested in that subject." He drained his glass. "Anyway, I wanted to sound interested in his bookshop business, you know? Not that I wasn't."

Sophie put her now empty glass down onto the coffee table and planted a kiss on his lips. "I know. I'm only taking the piss." She kissed him again, this time for longer, adding more passion. "And I'm feeling rather drunk and tired and..." She drew back and slipped a hand down between his legs.

"And horny?"

"And horny," she confirmed. "Coming to bed?"

He nodded.

"I'll be there, naked and waiting." She slid from his knee, adjusted her dress and strolled from the room, pausing just outside the doorway. "Don't keep me waiting for too long." With a raunchy smile and a wink, she disappeared from his view.

Jason leaned back with a wide grin on his face but became surprised at how dizzy his head suddenly felt. God, he hoped he would be able to perform properly tonight – the added whisky mixed with the wine was beginning to take its toll. As he began to sit up, intending to walk to the kitchen for a glass or two of water, Sophie's voice drifted down from the landing above.

"And don't forget the cats. They're still outside in the rain."

Jason grinned before yelling back. "More wet pussies?"

There was no return answer.

She quickly showered, relishing in the sobering effects of the steamy water before entering the bedroom wrapped in a towel, leaving her clothing neatly upon the bathroom floor. She switched off the main ceiling light but kept one single bedside lamp on to spread its soft, comforting glow across the double bed.

After draping her damp towel over the back of a chair, she slipped naked between the sheets and spread her arms out on either side, feeling the coolness of the material below her skin begin to warm with her body heat. Her eyelids, heavy with the day's efforts as well as alcohol, fluttered shut, and with a smile of content frozen on her lips, she fell into a light doze...

And woke again when she felt cool hands caressing her breasts, tenderly kneading the flesh around her nipples, arousing her from a shallow sleep and arousing her sexual excitement. She groaned and opened her eyes to see the room was now completely in darkness – only a sliver of light from the edges of the bedroom door seeping from the hallway beyond.

"Jason," she softly spoke, but when she attempted to wrap her outstretched arms around his back, the hands ceased caressing and pinned her wrists to the bed. She never resisted but instead submitted to his masculine strength, her participation in his domination beginning to excite her even more. "Oh, Jason."

When he entered her, his hardness slipping through her heated flesh, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut for a brief moment until she completely relaxed against him, moving beneath his gentle thrusts, gradually following his steady rhythm – fusing together as one single body. She attempted once more to move her arms, needing this time to hold him tightly and feel the comforting warmth of his body, but his hands persisted on pressing her wrists softly yet firmly against the bed sheets. Again, she resigned to his playful restraint and began to enjoy his control, allowing him to fill her and dominate her, this new, animalistic behaviour feeding her lustful appetite.

Only moments later, with a growing heat that began to radiate from her abdomen and spread throughout her entire body, seemingly igniting every nerve ending, Sophie emitted a low howl as she reached orgasm. Her body stiffened briefly beneath the weight of the other, sensing his body quicken pace just before his own climax gave temporary paralysis as heightened pleasure also washed through his system. They both relaxed – Sophie panting and perspiring lightly while her partner simply lay unmoving upon her, his cool bodyweight pressing against her hot, soft flesh.

"My love," she whispered and turned her head upon the pillow to look blindly up at his face within the blackness. Although his head could only be inches from her own, she neither felt nor heard his breath. "Jason..."

Then the fingers around her wrists suddenly released its grip and the weight upon her shifted, lifting completely from her body. She took the opportunity to reach a free hand in his direction and touch his flesh, but after running her fingers over the contours of his back, she recoiled as if his very skin had burnt her.

The body in the darkness did not feel like Jason. Even in her intoxicated state, she knew that the flesh she touched did not have the same dimensions, the same contours and characteristics of her boyfriend's body – a body she had explored, caressed and kissed more times than she can possibly recall. Somehow, it felt harder yet thinner and the flesh unnaturally cool – as though she was touching a statue rather than a living human.

"Jason?" The bed was now free from the other figure's weight and she heard a light thump as feet touched the carpeted floor. Sophie swiftly sat up in bed, her mind spinning not only through alcohol but also with confusion, disorientation and a growing sense of fear. "Jason, is that you?"

Then light from the hallway was spilling into the room as the door swung inwards, lightly crashing against the inner wall. Sophie drew her legs protectively towards her as she cowered more than sat with her back against the headboard, her chin resting on her knees, her eyes darting about rapidly, searching desperately within the new light.

"Oops," a voice uttered as a silhouetted shape advanced into the bedroom.

"Jason!" she cried.

"Yeah, that's me," the voice returned. Suddenly, bright light from the ceiling lamp washed through the room, dazzling Sophie enough to raise a shading hand to her eyes. "Who else would it be?"

Fearfully, she forced herself to look back at the new visitor, blinking wildly. Standing before her with a towel wrapped around his waist was the familiar sight of her boyfriend. He closed the door behind him before moving towards the bed, scratching absently at his groin beneath the material. "I'm ready for you, babes," he said with a weary grin. "I hope you're feeling horny."

Sophie, still sitting in her huddled position, continued to inspect the bedroom, scrutinizing every shadowy corner, every nook and cranny – any possible place where a man could hide. If she could summon the courage to move, she would also investigate beneath the bed.

Jason, oblivious to her strange actions due to his own inebriation, dropped his towel upon the floor to reveal his nakedness, his skin still wet in places from the shower. "Lay back, babes, and let daddy take over!"

"I... I..." Sophie stuttered, unfolding her arms to free her legs, although she remained tightly against the headboard.

Jason looked down at her, his brow furrowing. "What is it?"

"I think I had a bad dream," she finally managed to utter before vomiting a stomach-full of wine upon the sheets.

### Chapter 13 – The Richmond Cult

November 18th

D.C.I Lonsdale was riding back to the incident room after another press conference, sitting beside D.C Purvis in the back of a squad car. It was a bright, fresh and cloud-free afternoon, but a heavy gloom appeared to fester within his head, which was foggy and weary from sleepless nights and hopeless chasing of shadows. The young, female detective was speaking into her phone to one of her colleagues, so Lonsdale turned his head to gaze beyond the window, wanting only to relax his mind but finding it impossible for his thoughts to stray beyond the murder case.

Yes, the murder case: how could he forget? He sighed deeply and shook his head, noticing Purvis giving him a sly glance before swiftly turning away. She knew how stressed he now was.

It was in the early hours of this morning – only forty-eight hours after the double murders – when Upperhampton police force believed they had their man. A call came in reporting a young man seemingly covered in blood sneaking about the shadows of the town wearing only a black top and nothing else. As the description fitted a possible sighting of the Barefoot Murderer, they dispatched five cars and a dog unit to search the entire area. Within twenty minutes, one had spotted this very person wandering the cold, empty streets naked except for his T-shirt, staggering in and out of the many shadows cast by the street lamps, occasionally shouting out obscenities. As soon as the car approached, he suddenly darted into a park and disappeared into the blackness. Calling for backup, two police officers jumped from the car and hurtled after him, barely managing to find him within the dark before tackling him to the wet ground. They arrested the suspect, read him his rights and swiftly drove him to the station.

Over the proceeding hours, they learnt that twenty-one year old Nigel Saunders was highly intoxicated with hallucinogenic drugs, that the blood smeared across his body was his own, and that his boyfriend had attacked him only an hour before his arrest because he dared to speak ill of his mother whilst in the throes of passion. The majority of this information came from thirty-two year old Brian Perry who, after punching and physically throwing Nigel from his apartment, became worried about him when he never returned and decided, in his panic, to call the police.

D.S Bromfield was still questioning him as he left for the conference, but after his own initial interrogation of the two men, he believed he had nothing to do with the Barefoot Murderer. Although they are still detaining Nigel Saunders within Upperhampton Police Station, Lonsdale reckoned they would soon release him under the possible charges for numerous public order offences and resisting arrest. It would be up to him to press charges of assault and battery on his boyfriend.

Now, as the car eased through the early afternoon traffic, Lonsdale wondered whether the whole damn town had gone crazy.

"How's the chief been lately? Has he been his usual helpful self?" Diane Purvis was now slipping her phone into her trouser pocket, her sarcastic comment about his superior drawing him from his engrossed ponderings.

"Don't ask," he merely mumbled, "although he's getting it in the neck as much as you and I." He sighed and looked over at her. She was now facing the opposite window, gazing idly at the streets beyond. "All that we've seemed to achieve so far is putting us on the map. We were just a sleepy little seaside town until this shit happened. Now this place has become a playground for the bloody media circus..." His last words trailed off as though he was an old gramophone unwinding. D.C Purvis turned her head to face him.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," she said. "How many murder cases take months or even years to solve – if they solve them at all?"

Even the thought of this murderer on the loose for years brought a shiver to his spine. "Yes, I know, but..."

"But he's the type of killer that will eventually make a huge mistake. As you said, his desire to be famous... or _infamous_ will be his downfall. He's already started to write messages –"

"Yes, but he's doing a fine job so far!" he snapped. "If he carries on at this rate, they'll be nobody left alive in this town!" Lonsdale made sure his next words were softer and more controlled. "You saw the flat where he killed his latest victims. There was no way he could have gotten out without those people seeing him. Christ, there was only one door surrounded by half the neighbourhood and all the windows were closed and locked."

"Like that flat where the nurse was attacked," she added.

He glanced at the profile of her face, now staring through the windscreen. "Yes. Very much like that." He paused for a moment, thinking. "And we've got to find the connection with that hospital. So far, we have one dead nurse, one dead porter, a nurse that narrowly escaped death by this maniac and... and..."

"And the murder on Halloween was only a few streets away from the hospital," Purvis completed for him when he struggled for the final point.

"Yes... yes, that's right." He sighed yet again and turned back to the side window.

"But there is another connection, isn't there?" she said after a moments silence, as though she was merely waiting for him to remember.

Lonsdale looked back at her, his brow raised. "Go on."

"That old man who lives on Queen Street. Not only was he involved in the original murder case, but he was also staying at the hospital when the murders began, recovering from a heart attack."

"Hmmm, yes I know," he mumbled, but his eyes became more alive yet distant, as if her words triggered a new line of thoughts within his head.

"It just seems odd that he was connected with the Mortimer's Mark case and this maniac has been slaying members of the hospital staff that possibly treated him."

"And you were the one who questioned this porter from the hospital, weren't you?" the D.C.I asked, snapping from his cogitations. "He was one of the people on our list of possible suspects – this we've already taken into account as soon as they identified his body. But this old man..."

There was another long sigh released as he rubbed at his temples, and Diane Purvis believed he looked as if he was trying to coerce the thoughts from his mind. "This man, this _Victor Gwynne_ , may have influenced or triggered ideas in a deranged mind, which we've considered already," he continued. "But we've not yet, other than that porter, made anymore connections with the hospital. Maybe, just maybe, somebody there recognized the old man. He may not even work there: could be just a visitor."

"Like I told you the other day, when I interviewed Graeme Charmer, I didn't have no reason to suspect anyone else was involved, so I never –"

"I know, I know and understand," he assured with a weak smile. "But we've got to focus our attention on the hospital again. There's definitely some connection there... it's as obvious as the big nose on my face."

Diane Purvis smiled and turned her face to the side window. Their car then began to slow as it approached the parking bay outside of the police station. After it had stopped, the D.C swung her door open, stepped out and waited for her superior. When he failed to alight, she bent forwards into the back of the car to see Lonsdale still gazing out of his window. "You okay?" she asked. "We're here, in case you didn't realize."

When he looked round at her, a large smile was clearly across his lips. She stared back at him, puzzled. "What's up?"

"Do you know what the last words that porter spoke before he died?"

Purvis shook her head.

"According to the officers at the scene, he said: there was nobody there." He gave a brief chuckle and opened his door. "You know, I'm beginning to believe him, too."

Sophie buried her head in her hands and emitted a deep, quivering sigh. When she resurfaced, she was surprised to see water within her eyes, for she did not recall crying or doing anything that would irritate them enough to leak as they did. Perhaps she was due for another headache, although when she awoke this morning, her head felt almost crystal-clear – physically, at least – and her body relaxed.

Maybe it was still from the after-effects from yesterday's hangover, she told herself, rising from the living room settee. Maybe her eyes were only clearing away the muck that comes from sleeping too long, recovering from too much wine and a late night.

And bad dreams, something deep within her mind told her. And bad _wet_ dreams.

Sophie dropped that thought immediately and resumed her housework. Today she was feigning sickness, but when you are the boss of your own business, you are entitled to do such things and not feel guilty about it. Maxine will help Vicky out a little later, and she was happy in the knowledge that she can cope well in any situation. Today, Sophie needed a little time on her own to catch up on a few things at home and have a little rest.

That was right. She needed time to relax a little and finish some chores. It had nothing whatsoever to do with being raped by a... by a...

"By a dream," she muttered as she headed towards the kitchen worktop stacked with dirty dishes left behind from Jason's attempt at cooking the Sunday dinner, although she never even noticed she had spoken aloud. For just a fleeting moment, she reached a hand towards the back pocket of her jeans where she had tightly squeezed her phone, touching the tip of its case before donning rubber gloves and filling the sink with warm, soapy water. She knew she should not call Jason again. It was only midday and she had already called him six times at work just to see how he was.

You were raped by a ghost.

"Yin!" She dropped the first dish into the hot water, splashing her face and cardigan with foam. "Yang!" God, where were those cats? It must have been the vacuum cleaner frightening them again. Where are those damn...

Sophie began to sob. Her hands were now both forearm deep in water and she felt ridiculous standing at a sink full of bubbles with tears beginning to spill from her eyes. She removed her hands, pulled off her washing gloves and quickly wiped them away.

And all for what? For a dream, for Gods sake! _A dream that felt too real._

Now she began to chuckle at the absurdity of her outlandish thoughts, and those chuckles rapidly developed into chest-heaving laughter. Although there was an underlying concern that this laughter could be borderline hysteria, she felt much relief, as if a burdensome weight had been lifted from her back.

It was just a dream. In fact, it was a drunken, overtired, overexcited, hallucinatory dream that many other people must have experienced sometime in their life. Maybe she was even coming down with some bug: she was feeling rather drained of energy – mentally as well as physically.

Of course, she never told Jason any details of her dream or hallucination, only that she had some kind of nightmare. She also declined to tell him the real reason for wanting to sleep off Sunday's hangover on the living room settee rather than the bed, explaining that she just wanted a little company.

The sound of raised voices from the street came to her ears and she looked over towards the lounge doorway, although she could not see the window from where she was standing. Yin, having the courage to surface now the big, bag vacuum cleaner was safely in the closet, suddenly began to rub against her feet as Sophie moved for a better view. "There you are," she said, momentarily stopping to give her cat a swift pat. "Where's your brother gone, eh?"

There were more raised voices, the sound of hurrying feet followed by a slamming of a door. Was that Vic's door she heard? She rushed into the living room and lifted the net curtains, Yin following closely at her heels.

There appeared to be three men loitering beyond the low stone wall of Victor's front garden, one of them leaning over his gate. At first, she believed they were a group of door-to-door bible bashers or salesmen until she spotted the cameras. Sophie, expressing pure puzzlement upon her face, pulled the curtain back a little so that she could continue watching unnoticed.

One of the men, who now leaned over his wall, held a professional-looking camera in both hands, aiming its zoom lens at Victor's front door, while the second cameraman stood back a little in the street to snap a series of shots at the entire house. Eventually the men began to draw away from her neighbour's house and linger as a group upon the pavement as if reluctant to leave. When they finally departed, mumbling together as they gradually strolled away, Sophie watched as they crossed the road and climbed into a white van waiting at the kerbside. Because of the obscuring parked cars and the angle where she stood, she could not read the logo on the side of their vehicle, even after it pulled away after a further wait to roll at the same unhurried pace along the road.

Sophie watched until its broad back end disappeared beyond the parked vehicles before dropping the curtain. Yin was now sleeping on the settee with one paw wrapped across her eyes, any disturbance beyond the four walls of the house of no concern.

"What was all that about?" she asked aloud. Although expecting no answer, she still stood waiting in the centre of the living room with her hands upon her hips, staring into empty space. They looked like press reporters, she continued inside her head. Why was the press harassing Victor?

Still wearing the same perplexed expression, she marched into the hallway, snatched her keys from its hook and opened the door.

"I'm not going to lie to you," Victor said as he handed his visitor a steaming mug of coffee. "I know you well enough now to tell you about a little incident that happened to me many years ago, although it will probably be splashed all over the papers before long." Holding his own mug of hot cocoa, he settled himself back into his favourite chair, which had now moulded into the shape of his scrawny butt. She eagerly listened with wide, attentive eyes, and he could see via her body language that she was excited – almost tense – at the anticipation of hearing some secret story from his life. "But I would rather it came from me first before you read a load of distorted lies. That's why I told those reporters to sling their hook before I called the police. I was returning from the newsagents when they suddenly pounced on me."

"Yeah, I heard the commotion."

There was a long ensuing silence broken only by the eternal ticking of the wall clock while the old man sank further back in his chair, his eyes firstly closing in concentration then opening to creep slowly across the top edges of the room. His visitor patiently sat sipping her hot drink while he collected his thoughts, discreetly watching as his mouth narrowly opened and closed as if he were silently talking to himself.

"Have you heard of Felix Mortimer?" he eventually asked. Sophie lightly shook her head. "Have you heard of Mortimer's Mark?"

With this, she nodded and told him that she read about it in the papers.

"Then you will know that the person doing the murders around this town is copying the same style as the murders done in the early fifties, cutting numbers and symbols of an eye into his victim's flesh." He smiled thinly as he stared more than looked back at her. "The so-called 'Mortimer's Mark'." Another natural silence filled the living room as though Victor was giving time for the information to settle into her mind.

"What all this is about – why the press and the police came to my door – is because of this original murder case that ended when Felix Mortimer was hanged in nineteen fifty-two."

"The police came?" Sophie gasped more than spoke.

"Yes, dear, they did. It was nothing serious. They only wanted to ask me a bunch of questions, believing it was more than a mere coincidence that they have a resident in town who was involved in the original Mortimer's Mark case. They thought that maybe I knew somebody who may have gotten ideas from my past – perhaps becoming obsessed – and decided it a good idea to re-enact the murders."

"My God! How were you involved?"

"Because I knew him, although not for too long. You see, he was a member of the same gentlemen's club I used to attend in Hendon, North London. He only joined us a few months before the first murders started. He was a bit of a drunkard, although it was because of the premature death of his wife. He had a fair stash of money, which was why he was accepted into the club, I suppose, and even though he could be more than depressed at times, he seemed to fit in well with most members.

"And yes, before you ask, we did a bit of 'dabbling' in the occult ever so often for a bit of fun. I had been a member for about two years by this time, attending mostly at weekends but occasionally meeting-up on a weekday. We done the type of things that men usually do when together in a group such as play cards, drink fine wines and cognacs, smoked expensive cigars, swap business ideas and lend each other money... even the odd erotic dance from some young lady from time to time." He grinned and Sophie grinned back.

"Remember, I was a young bachelor then, and because my father was doing surprisingly well in his humble little book business where I worked, I had a good bit of money in my back pocket to indulge a little now and then in the finer things in life."

He sighed deeply and his eyes began to wander the room again. When they returned their attention back to Sophie, they appeared to contain a hardened, almost haunted look. "The first girl's body was discovered in an alleyway in Camden. The number one was cut into her naked breasts and she also had two eye shapes cut into each. They are not sure if she was raped because of the mutilation to her... well, to her private areas." He watched as Sophie winced.

"Just like the murders that are happening here," she said.

"Yes, that's right. Just like them. A total of four girls were killed in the same way, and the number he cut into their breasts always denoted in which order he killed them." He swallowed what remained of his cocoa, placed the mug onto the low table and simply stared vacantly out of the window behind where Sophie sat.

Over the ensuing minutes (or was it hours? It felt like hours) she waited patiently for the old man to resume his story. Fearing he may have prematurely concluded his tale, she purposely banged her mug down beside his own, drawing his attention back again. "So, other than knowing him, why were you involved?"

"Because of the eyes," Victor said. "You know, like the 'All-Seeing Eye' of the Freemasons? The symbol that Mortimer used on his victims was basically identical to the one we used for our gentlemen's club. Only our members knew about the secret identifying symbol we used, but one of the detectives involved in the case learnt of this and we were all extensively questioned, including yours truly." He grinned yet again at this, now making his face appear almost devilish. "No one at that time was arrested, although the keen All-Seeing Eye of the law was constantly upon us."

"It seems he was giving himself away," she said. "He must have known it would eventually lead to his doorstep." Victor only shrugged his shoulders at her comment before continuing.

"The last murder he committed was almost on his doorstep. He killed a girl called Sarah Jackson in a park close to his home in Edgware, North London. He managed somehow or for some reason to leave behind the knife he used to kill and mutilate her. When police found the knife, they also found fingerprints that matched a set they already had on record. Those fingerprints happened to belong to one Felix Mortimer, who they previously arrested for burglary within the same area some time before. They swiftly visited his home and put him under arrest for suspicion of murder. After hours of painstaking searching of his house, they found a bloodstained hammer tucked away within his work shed in the garden. Although they never had DNA technology in those days, they still identified blood from the girl he killed before Sarah: Josephine Barrymore."

"My God," Sophie whispered and dropped her gaze to the carpet. "To think you actually socialized with this monster... to think that all the time you were drinking and laughing together, you never knew what he really was."

Victor was nodding in agreement. "I was involved in his trial, of course. I tried to defend him in a way, not actually wanting to believe that he done those things, but I had to disclose the fact that he was a heavy drinker, and that he regularly dropped into strange, depressed moods. He also enjoyed his so-called 'dabbling' in the occult."

"Really?" she asked, her voice low and solemn, although she retained that spark of curious excitement within her eyes.

Victor nodded again. "The jury finally found him guilty and the judge sentenced him to be hanged, which they carried out in the summer of the same year. After his imprisonment and death, the murders ceased."

"Until now," Sophie said, and her own words sent a shiver up her spine.

Victor looked away, across the room towards his drinks cabinet as though he needed a stiff drink to settle his previously locked-away memories. "Yes... until now, that is."

Sophie held back for a while, waiting to see whether the old man would continue into his visitation from the police and the press. When he remained silent, she probed further, eager to hear the entire story to its bitter end.

"And what do you think of these recent murders, Vic? Why do you think some nut is copying Mortimer's style of killing rather than somebody like Jack the Ripper? Do you think there's someone who knows your involvement in the original case?" Her eyes suddenly widened at her next thought. "My God! Some of those people he killed worked at the same hospital you were staying at. In fact, didn't they start not long after you were admitted?"

Again, Victor nodded his head before returning his eyes to her. "Those were the things the police were asking me about. They wanted to know if I knew of anyone who could have learnt of my past involvement and anyone I know who's been acting strangely before or since the murders."

"And?" she prompted before his attention had a chance to wander again. "And what did you say?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I said that it was probably the internet to blame. That type of technology is way beyond me – I'm not ashamed to admit that – but what I do know is that you can get almost any information you want from it if you look hard enough. I reckon that's how the press got hold of my details, because I don't believe the police gave them that information."

Yet again he looked towards his drinks cabinet, but Sophie wanted to continue probing him about this new and interesting – no, this new and _exciting_ – piece of information that she never knew about her elderly neighbour. However, the weary, haggard look on his face told her to leave him be for now, so she snapped her jaw shut, stopping her next question from being voiced. Instead, she followed his gaze and noticed he was probably staring at the old black and white photograph of himself as he proudly stood next to his new wife in Cyprus, still within its old, broken picture frame.

"Oh, Victor, you haven't changed the photograph yet." She was already standing and making her way over to the cabinet when a thought suddenly struck her. What if he doesn't want to change it? What if the actual frame holds as many memories as the picture itself? What if...

"I was hoping you would notice that," he told her softly and held his two hands into the air. "You see, my hands are not too badly arthritic, but those little tags at the back of the frame were too tiny and awkward for my fingers."

Sophie's face melted into an expression of pity. "Oh, Vic, you only had to say. I'll be more than happy to do it for you." She spotted the new silver frame lying horizontally beside his picture and proceeded to rehouse the photograph.

"Jason's a very lucky man to have a fine young lady like you," the old man said, prompting her to glance back. He was now standing beside his chair with his arms folded tightly against his chest. Upon his lips was an appreciative smile, but his bright eyes were seemingly looking her up and down with keen interest. "Yes, indeed; a fine, fine young lady."

Sophie returned to her task, the cheeks of her face now glowing rosy red.

When Jason returned home from work that evening, his first thoughts were that Sophie was still feeling under the weather because there was not the usual, customary smells of his evening dinner baking in the oven or frying on a pan. Instead, he was greeted by a semi-darkened house, where even the sound of the television with its early evening trash could not be heard. Only when he called out her name did he realize she was home, awake and attentive.

"I'm in here, in the lounge," she answered chirpily. Jason peeped around the door to see her sitting on her swivel chair before the computer in the near darkness. The light from the monitor made her face appear ghost-like within its glare.

"There you are." He switched on the main ceiling lamp. "You'll strain your eyes staring at that thing in the dark." He then walked to her side and planted a kiss on her right cheek. "How you been today?"

"Fine," she said with a brief smile. "But you'll never guess what I found out today."

Jason folded his arms and moved behind her for a better view of the computer screen. He noticed from the numerous small illustrations that it had something to do with the occult. "Go on."

"I was in Victor's house today. He had press photographers and reporters outside his home."

"Oh? Why's that?"

She swivelled her seat to one side so she could look at him without craning her neck. "Well, when I went next door to see if he was okay, he told me he was involved in the original murder case way back in the fifties."

"What murder case?"

"The Mortimer's Mark case: the one that the Barefoot Murderer is apparently copying. He said he actually knew Mortimer and was once interrogated by the police because he was a member of the same gentlemen's club that happens to be a cult."

"Was he? What gentlemen's club? What cult?"

Sophie sighed with impatience and spent the next ten minutes repeating her neighbour's confessions while Jason stood leaning against the computer desk, his eyes fixed with a look of astonishment. She then turned back to the monitor and proceeded to tell him of what other great discoveries she made that day.

"I started doing a little research on the Mortimer's Mark case when I got back home. I've found quite a few websites that go into detail. The more I read the more I realize that Victor's so-called gentlemen's club had a more sinister side to it. But not long before you came home, I happened to stumble upon this site."

She began to scroll down the page. Words and images flashed before their eyes. "This is far the best one I've visited, and the funny thing is, not only does it explain more about the actual cult itself, but the author of this site is the same author of that book I mended for Vic. I recognised his name: Joseph Rothschild."

Jason shrugged his shoulders. "Well, that's probably because Vic would naturally be interested in the case if he was involved in it."

"Yes, but the actual murders take second place on this site because it concentrates on this so-called Richmond Cult Mortimer belonged to."

"Richmond Cult?"

"Richmond was the name of the man who led the cult, but there was a separate and even more secret section to this cult which only a handful of the members were invited to join. It could have something to do with black magic, maybe even devil worship."

"And did Victor belong to this special cult?" Jason was now leaning over her shoulder, his hunger for enlightenment clearly showing in his voice and on his face.

"Well," she continued as she quickly scrolled further down the page, searching for a particular point, "I want you to look at this."

She stopped when a black and white photograph came into view. Jason studied the image of five people, taken just outside the Old Bailey during Felix Mortimer's trial. One of the smartly dressed men had managed to hold a hand up to his face in an attempt to conceal his identity from the cameras, while a second man's features were obscured behind another's black, bowler hat.

"Who are they?" he asked. "Were they the special members?"

"That's right," Sophie continued, pointing at the text below the picture. "It says here that these were the men testifying at Mortimer's trial, and were the other five members of this special group – the one that used the emblem of the eye. It also gives their names."

Jason stood back while she read aloud the five names of the people in the photograph. "Henry Richmond, Alfred Burrows, Victor Godwin, Jeremy Meyers and Henry Schmitt."

"Victor who?" he asked when she finished.

"It says Victor Godwin."

"That can't be him, then. I thought his name was Gwynne."

"That's what I thought at first, but when I looked closely at the photo, I realized that it's definitely him."

Jason leaned closer again and restudied the picture. "Look closely at this person," Sophie said as she pointed at one of the five men standing in the foreground – the one wearing a black bowler hat. "I recognized him only because I've seen the photograph of Vic and his wife on their honeymoon, the one we bought that frame for. If you look closely, you can see that it _is_ him, only a lot younger."

He nodded but never took his eyes away. "Yes, I can now see the resemblance. But why the different name? Do you think it's an error?"

Sophie shook her head.

"Wait a minute..." Jason stood back again, his eyes now turned away towards the shadowy floor while his mind became deep in thought.

"What is it?"

He continued to ponder in silence for a little longer. "Richmond. I'm sure I've heard of that name somewhere... somewhere..." His face all but lit-up in his eureka moment. "That big, old book of his! I'm positive that book had the name Richmond on the front page."

"I can't remember," she said, "but it fits in with the puzzle."

Together, as if the computer itself had given the order, they both turned back to the black and white photograph of the five cult members. Just above this picture, a drawing of the All-seeing Eye symbol stared back at them.

"My God... so he _was_ deeply into black magic," Jason near whispered. "Our sweet, harmless elderly neighbour could have been a secret devil worshipper!"

### Chapter 14 – Paranormal visitations

November 20th

Two things happened that week to convince Jason Mathews and Sophie Skinner of the existence of the paranormal, which ultimately led to a confrontation with Victor Gwynne.

The first incident happened on Wednesday, ten minutes before Vicky Evans was due to flip the sign over the door of Flower Power from open to closed. Sophie was visiting the supermarket two shops down from her own, picking up some items for that evening's planned dinner – chicken korma with rice, poppadoms and another bottle of Chardonnay. Maxine had worked in the morning but was now at home with her two girls, who were at this moment squabbling over which TV channel to watch.

The florist shop was now quiet and empty of customers, although it had been that way since just after midday. Vicky had only the one delivery in the morning, which was an arrangement created by Sophie including lilies, chrysanthemums and carnations for a lady's sixtieth birthday – a surprise from her son. Now she sat behind the till reading another spy thriller novel, her chair resting only upon its two back legs as she leant back against the wall – a habit she had found hard to break since her school days.

With the radio playing soft music at low volume, the warmth from the two-bar heater by her feet creating a cosy, warm glow and the slow pace of the chapter she was now reading, Vicky's eyes began to droop. At one point, she even succeeded in drifting off to sleep, but the sudden chime of the bell above the door startled her awake, causing the chair to crash back down upon its front two feet.

"Hello?" She reached down to pick her book up from the worn, dusty carpeted floor, cursing that she had lost her place. When she looked up beyond the desktop, she noticed that the door was open but the shop still empty of customers. "Hello? Sophie, is that you?"

Vicky sighed, stood and straightened. Looks like she's had another of those rude customers who wander into the shop, decide to buy nothing and leave with the door wide-open on a cold winter's evening. Or maybe...

She looked around quickly as she headed for the door, checking the small ornamental gifts that could easily be stolen, cursing herself for drifting off to sleep yet again. But she was sure that nothing was taken or disturbed, for she knew every item of stock, every leaf and every flower, every nook and every cranny within this little shop. Her watch told her it was five minutes before closing, so she returned to her desk and began to tidy the day's accumulations and misplacements before she would prepare the till. Knowing there was no chance of any more customers this day, Vicky cranked the volume of the radio up, filling the too-quiet, lonely room with a lively pop song.

That was better. She even began to swing her hips from side to side to the rhythm as she shoved items away into the drawer below the desk, emitting what could be passed as singing from her lips. With that done, she had time to empty the trash bin at her feet before it would be time to shut shop.

Still singing in tuneless snippets, Vicky picked up the overflowing waste bin and held it before her as she made her way towards the private back room. Then, just as she was reaching for the door handle, a series of movements amongst the flower displays caught her eye and she stopped dead in mid-step.

"What's that?" Spooked, she whirled round with her eyes searching the shadow infested display area before the window, positive she had seen movement. Their little exhibition area, made mostly of potted plants, vases and hanging basket displays, remained seemingly undisturbed. "Who's there?"

_Who's there,_ she ridiculed herself. If somebody is there, then they are either extremely short or invisible. Maybe that's who my mysterious last customers were – a midget and the Invisible Man!

However, as if for protection or comfort, she held the trash basket tightly to her chest, spilling paper, sandwich wrappers and flower stem offcuts onto the floor. "My imagination again..."

Just as she was turning back round, one of the tall earthenware vases toppled over onto the next, creating a mini domino effect. Vicky let off a short but shrill scream, dropped the trash onto the floor and spun back round, almost unbalancing and falling onto the display shelving behind. Vases and pots were now rocking to and fro upon the floor, and on her initial glance she noticed that at least two of the pots were broken, spilling their contents of plants, earth and water like some exotic, giant egg.

"Who is it?" Or more likely _what_ is it, because she was looking around for some kind of animal – more likely a dog that somehow got away from its owner and was now scavenging amongst the flowerpots. In her mind's eye, she could picture some old lady's sausage dog sniffing amongst the earthenware with its tail thrashing enthusiastically against the flower displays, maybe for a suitable place to cock its leg.

She eased forward, crushing the garbage below her feet with an audible crunch. "Come out of there!" On the radio, the local news and weather report had replaced the music, informing her that more rain was on its way.

"Who...?" A noise like shuffling feet came from somewhere behind her, and she snapped her head round in time to see the door handle to the staff room begin to turn slowly downwards, as though invisible hands were attempting to open the door. Vicky drew in a sudden breath and held it, not wanting to believe what she was witnessing. Now unable to move, she could only stand and stare wide-eyed as the latch slipped from its lock and the door slowly began to ease open. Sweat began to break out upon her forehead, back and neck, and she could feel her heart beginning to beat faster and faster...

"My God, Vicks, the amount I've just spent for a chicken korma for two... I should have just gone and ordered a take away!"

The familiar sound of Sophie's voice and the sudden chiming of the bell above the door gave both relief and additional shock. Her colleague was just turning the sign upon the door to CLOSED when Vicky managed to tear her eyes from the mysteriously moving staff door, which had suddenly stopped on Sophie's entrance.

"And I wouldn't have to cook it, _and_ I wouldn't have to wash up as well!" She stood and gazed back at her employee, standing with a bag of shopping in each gloved hand. Her scarf was wrapped tightly around her chin, and her woollen hat stretched over her hair, ears and most of her eyes so that only the top of her lips and her nose were clearly visible. "Are you all right, Vicks? You look like you've seen a ghost?"

"I... I..." Vicky stuttered, pointing in the direction of the staff door.

Sophie suddenly caught sight of the fallen vases and took a single step backwards. "My, God! What in hell happened here? You had some kind of an accident, Vicks? Has somebody come in here and trashed the place?"

"I... I..."

After placing her shopping by the door, she then removed her hat and scarf before stepping to the window display. "What happened...?"

There was a sudden crash as the door to the staff area slammed shut with enough force to knock a framed photograph of Maxine and her two girls onto the floor. Both of the women screamed out and took an instinctive step backwards.

"Was that the wind?" Sophie had time to say just before the chair where Vicky was sitting moments ago was seemingly kicked across the floor. Sophie screamed again before slapping a hand to her mouth.

"I knew there was something in here," Vicky bellowed. "I knew I saw something weird happening!"

A second later, she was on the floor. She emitted a brief 'ooff' sound as something invisible crashed into her, knocking her from her sturdy feet. Mainly due to surprise and confusion, her balance and coordination thrown into turmoil, she found herself flying more than falling through the air.

"Vicky!"

She landed on her back, hitting the base of her skull as well as knocking the wind from her chest. As she rolled onto her side, she saw the shop door suddenly swing inwards, rattling the little traditional brass bell above in excited frenzy. A strong and icy gust of wind billowed inside like another unwelcome, destructive intruder, toppling floral displays, disarranging paperwork, disturbing gift cards, hanging ornaments and plants. The contents of the trash basket Vicky had dropped blew across the shop floor in different directions, as if each item was attempting to flee to freedom.

"Did you see anything?" she gasped as Sophie crouched down to her level upon the floor. "Something pushed me, I swear... Did you see anyone?"

"I didn't see anyone," she replied, alarm showing in her voice. Sweeping her ruffled hair from her eyes, she studied her friend's pallid, shocked face, which mirrored her own. "I saw no one... absolutely no one! Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," Vicky mumbled as she sat upright. She was blinking wildly as if something was irritating her eyes. "I didn't see anything either; nothing at all. Should we call the police?"

Sophie slowly shook her head. "What can we tell them?" They remained silent for a moment as they hugged each other upon the floor. The violent gust of wind had died away, but a chilly draught seeping in from the open door lingered behind.

When Vicky's voice returned, her words chilled Sophie far more than the cold, November wind. "Then it can only be some kind of ghost... some kind of poltergeist. How could that be?"

Sophie looked away from her friend and focused upon the open door that swayed gently in the icy breeze. Beyond, held back only by the feeble streetlights, the evening's darkness appeared to be waiting like a cold, suffocating cloud eager to devour. And within that darkness, she felt those invisible hands caressing her skin once again before they pinned her to her bed, before the unseen entity began to violate her body...

Now Vicky suddenly had to support her friend, as the darkness Sophie had been staring at now appeared to be fogging her vision, clouding her mind and senses until the whole world faded into blackness...

November 21st

Victor Gwynne replaced the trilby hat upon his head and tucked the newly bought newspaper beneath his upper arm as he stepped back onto the street. He considered popping into the supermarket on the way back home for two pints of milk, but he knew he had enough to see him through this day and tomorrow morning's first cup of coffee before he would journey out to the local shops once again. Making these daily trips were doing him good, as a little exercise each day does wonders for an old man's damaged heart, no matter what the weather.

But today was a fine day if ever he saw one. It was funny how the weather could chop and change so easily. Being English he should be used to it by now, but he never had been able to adjust to the seasons as some people could, knowing that one day may be wet and windy, another dry but cold, another sunny and fair...

This morning was cold but the sun was almost blinding, its heat strong when walking within its light. A few remaining autumn leaves were blowing gently across his path, creating little scurrying sounds as it moved against the concrete like tiny animals. Victor took many deep breaths of the fresh morning air and smiled, glad – _actually glad_ – to be alive and walking. He never really prayed to God before, but this fine morning he genuinely thanked Him for his speedy recovery and his feeling of wellbeing, a feeling he would never have experienced again if he had not awakened from his heart attack. He tipped his head up to the cloudless blue sky to think once again where he might be now if the medical team failed to revive his heart, or if Sophie never discovered him lying in his back garden.

As if for a stark reminder, the traffic suddenly cleared on his right and he looked behind to see a hearse ambling along the road towards him, followed by a small convoy of mourners. Victor stopped, turned and stood at the kerb side, watching as the black vehicle slowly approached. Just beyond the side windows that reflected the strong light of the sun, he could clearly see the wreaths that adorned the back area containing the coffin. The words DAD and JIMMY, created entirely from flowers, pressed against the glass.

Victor removed his hat and bowed in respect until the hearse and at least three of the following cars passed by. After returning his hat to his head and straightening his back, he continued the short distance to the subway that would take him to Queen Street on the opposite side of the road. Before turning a corner and descending the steps, Victor took one last glance at the hearse as it made its slow journey towards the crematorium, not realizing that within the coffin was the man who had once occupied the neighbouring bed within his cardiac ward.

As he walked towards his house, he began to whistle an old tune he and his wife used to sing together many years ago, and he could even remember the first time they heard it on their little radio they bought when first married – an old, bulky, wooden wireless with two brass dials below a single speaker. Then, as he neared his house, his cheerful whistles abruptly ceased.

"You bastards..."

What appeared to be more reporters were loitering outside his garden wall again, one a few paces beyond acting as a lookout. Again, there were three men, two with cameras, although they were now hanging loosely from shoulder straps while they patiently waited for any sign of Victor – circling like vultures, as he fancifully observed. One of the men suddenly looked over in his direction on the opposite side of the road, his head peering above the roof of a van the only visible part of his body. Fortunately, he either did not recognize or see him, as he simply turned his attention back to his house.

Victor turned away and let off a long sigh. "Bastards," he hissed under his breath. "I'll have you for harassment. Or..." With his final comment, he retreated along the pathway towards the shops again. All of a sudden, buying the extra two pints of milk seemed like a very good idea.

November 22nd

The next paranormal visitation happened on Friday evening, not long after Jason returned home early from work (P.O.E.T.S day). Sophie was reading yet another return e-mail from Joseph Rothschild as she sat in the living room sipping more white wine while the chips began to burn in the oven and the vegetables upon the hob boiled over the top of the saucepan. So far, she has received eight messages since her first contact with him only forty-five hours ago, and now he has sent her his personal telephone number.

Her first letter to him firstly explained that she was living in the town gripped by the copycat killer of Felix Mortimer, then the fact that she was living next door to one of the members of the Richmond Cult. She held back on the belief that she was being subjected to paranormal attacks until she received his first return e-mail, which arrived only an hour after she hit the button that sent her message on its way. What she read told her without doubt that his enthusiasm for her little bit of information was very high. After she had told him the rest of her experiences with the invisible intruder (she had omitted the part where she believed she was raped by this entity until later), his e-mails kept flowing into her mailbox throughout the last three evenings.

Jason, at first dubious about contacting some obscure occultist writer they had no real knowledge of, began to find some comfort in his interest and understanding, especially after seeing Sophie begin to relax and brighten again after her ordeal at the florist shop. That evening two days ago, after Jason had returned home later than normal from work, he had found her slumped over the computer desk with an empty bottle of wine lying on the floor, her eyes wide open but failing to focus upon the rows of text from Rothschild's third return e-mail. She had woken with a start when he placed a hand on her shoulder and immediately began to ramble continuously about what had happened to her and Vicky in the shop that evening. Finally, speaking in a badly disguised slurred voice, she confessed all about the night she believed this same spirit had entered their bedroom and sexually assaulted her. Jason, perplexed, shocked and more than a little worried about his girlfriend's sanity, decided it best if he should firstly call Sophie's sister when she was out of the room. Maxine had no idea what he was talking about and told him to contact Vicky instead. With Vicky, he got a more positive reaction, but his hopes of getting a rational, plausible explanation fell flat on its face when she started to recall the facts of their presumed paranormal visitation with almost the same manic excitement as Sophie.

Their discussion the next evening was to be a more reasonable, calmer and constructive one, being that both Jason and Sophie had found a level in their understanding where they could talk and exchange views on a subject that was more than a little controversial. Later in the evening, they invited Vicky so that Jason could hear her side of the story in more detail, also spoken with more composure than the previous day's telephone conversation. Sophie had sent a further three e-mails to Joseph Rothschild about their debate on the entire affair – from the Mortimer's Mark murders past and present to the paranormal attacks – and this time she spilled the beans about her assumed sexual assault. His replies had given them information and theories that had both conflicted and concurred with their opinions, feeding the fire of their little dispute. Victor Gwynne, aka Victor Godwin, played a regular factor in their conversation, and at one point Jason, with more than a little alcohol in his veins, was going to wake the old man up to join in with the discussion.

It was just past one in the morning when Vicky finally drove home, each of their opinions, theories and conclusions so exhausted that they could not think any more on the matter until the following evening.

Now, with Jason finding Sophie yet again transfixed to the computer monitor with another opened bottle of wine, he was now beginning to feel that this whole absurd affair was twisting her mind and clouding her logical judgment. It was things like this that turned people towards religion for comfort and guidance, which would not be a problem in his opinion, but where would it lead from there? His initial hard-line scepticism, which had managed to whittle down to one of mild conviction, was beginning to return to its former glory now he was standing here in the cold light of day, sober and more than a little worried about Sophie's state of mind.

"Honey, are you drinking again?" This was his first words when she finally noticed he was standing behind her, and she suddenly leapt from her chair as though an electric charge had passed through her butt.

"Oh, my God," she screeched, "the dinner... it must be burning by now!" She managed to give him a quick peck on the cheek as she rushed towards the kitchen, seemingly unaffected by his comment. There was a clatter of utensils followed by a crash, which in turn provoked a string of obscenities to flow freely from Sophie's mouth.

"You okay?" Jason strolled into the dining room. "Do you want me to help?"

Sophie, standing at the gas hob with a hand wrapped in a tea towel, lifted a saucepan of vegetables towards the sink. The hob and the pan were both caked in an opaque skin where the water had boiled over the edges like thick foam. "I'm all right," she replied as she carefully tipped the remainder of the steaming water into the sink. "Just forgot what the time was... damn it!"

"I think you're spending too much time on this ghost busting stuff," he said cautiously. "Letting it get to you too much. If you don't give it a rest, it'll drive you crazy."

She glanced up at him before returning to the hob, and Jason believed the look she gave him was close to a fierce glare. "I just didn't realize the time," she insisted after an awkward moment of silence. "I don't usually put the dinner on this early." She then crouched down and opened the oven door. Another string of obscenities followed when dark smoke spilled into the air.

"Is that something burning?"

"That's the chips, but it looks like I can save most of 'em," she told him after removing the oven tray and placing it on top of the hob to inspect. "The chicken legs are all okay; no need to call a takeaway yet." She managed a brief smile, but Jason could see in her eyes that he had managed to hurt her feelings with his few comments.

"Are you sure you don't need me to help you with this?" he offered again, but Sophie just waved a hand at him as she continued fussing about the kitchen. "No, you go and quickly get cleaned up and changed. It'll be all ready time you come back down."

Jason nodded, smiled and turned away, but just as he was heading up the stairs towards the bathroom, he heard her voice, low but firm, call after him. "And I'm not drunk and I'm not crazy, either."

When Jason returned to the dining room after his quick shower, he found the table laid and his dinner waiting. Also, there was a large glass of white wine ready at his place, and when he noticed that Sophie had opted for just orange juice he hoped that his comment on her drinking was not the reason for her abstinence. He found Sophie attending to the two cats, standing above their bowls by the kitchen door with a can of cat food in one hand and a spoon in the other. She turned when she heard him enter, and the broad, genuine smile she gave him lightened his guilt a little.

"Smells good," he said and moved around the work units to plant a kiss on her lips. "And not just the cat food, either."

"If I left it cooking any longer, that's probably what we would've been eating. Sorry about that."

"Don't worry," he told her as he slipped into his chair at the table. "It looks fine to me."

"Well, if it's not, then at least we have a gateau for dessert to make up for it." She had now opened the can and was digging a spoon into the cat chow, breaking the contents apart ready for delivery into their two separate bowls. Yin and Yang were rubbing crazily around her legs, releasing a chorus of strangled-sounding meows as their patience (if cats were known to have patience) dropped to breaking point.

"Has it got plenty of chocolate and cream?" he asked just before taking a large sip of the Chardonnay, feeling the guilt return when he saw the glass of orange juice at his side. "What's the celebration for?"

Sophie shook her head, poised at the ready with a spoonful of cat food. "No reason other than to cheer me up. I wanted to cut it into slices but couldn't find that damn knife I use. The last time I saw it was on Victor's birthday..." Her voice faded away when she finally leant forwards to give the cats their food, and what she saw made her freeze in mid-action. Jason was speaking to her between mouthfuls of his dinner, but his words became meaningless murmurs as her stunned mind attempted to put some sense into what she believed she was seeing.

Yin and Yang were no longer twisting between her legs but had seemingly found something else to rub against. Strangely, there appeared to be nothing there, although their fur, whiskers and ears flattened on each movement, just as though they were physically touching something solid. At one point, Yin stood briefly on her two back legs and appeared to lean against this invisible object while she rubbed her head back and forth, just as if there was somebody standing between her and the kitchen door.

"Darling? Did you get what I was saying?" Jason asked, craning his neck to see her as she bent below the worktop. Sophie, snapping from her transfixed state, straightened but never took her eyes from the two cats.

"There's something wrong," she whispered. Her grip around the can tightened until her knuckles turned white. The hairs on the back of her neck were now standing on end. "There's someone in here..."

"What's that you said, honey?"

"There's something in here!" Sophie, reacting on impulse, suddenly threw her arm back and hurled the open can of cat food before her, sending it hurtling across the short distance towards the kitchen door. Jason watched in stunned horror as the can, seeming to move in slow motion, sped on a collision course with the glass panels. But to his amazement, instead of hearing the inevitable smash as the door's window exploded with the force, he witnessed the can hit what appeared to be thin air and rebound in the opposite direction, sending the two cats running with alarm. Next, as he sat at the table with his mouth now agape, he stared with wide-eyed astonishment as Sophie leapt like a wild woman into the air and seized something seemingly solid within her open arms. And that was where she stayed for a few heart-stopping seconds: suspended in mid-air and wrestling an invisible object that was solid enough to hang upon and beat with her fists. Jason, now convinced he had simply fallen asleep somewhere and was having the most bizarre dream of his life, slowly got to his feet, although his knees threatened to buckle and drop him back onto his butt again.

"Darling? What is –?"

Sophie was now flying across the kitchen as though a thousand volts had struck her, and if there had not been a wall to separate the lounge, Jason was sure she would have continued across the room and through the front window. On impact, she let off a wheezing gasp as the air was knocked from her lungs and she collapsed in a heap upon the tiled floor, the framed picture of her deceased mother following her down to land upon her already dazed head.

If that would have been the end of this sudden, absurd extravaganza, then Jason would either have sat back down to wait for this weird hallucination to end or morph into something else – like a badly edited movie – or go along with the dream and rush to Sophie's aid. Instead, he found that his nightmare had not yet finished with this surreal scene, as whatever had launched his girlfriend across the room like a rag doll was now grasping him by the throat and lifting him from his feet.

As he dangled in free space, grappling and kicking an invisible object that felt too much like a human body, Jason began to consider the possibility that this was happening for real. Unless it was a bad dream and he will wake up within the next few seconds, he could possibly choke to death. Then, when he found himself flying backwards through the air like Sophie, relieved to be able to draw a gasping breath, he had just enough time before he hit the far wall to reconsider his views on the existence of the paranormal.

There was another crash when he collapsed onto the dining room floor. Although stunned, battered and more than a little terrified, he managed to gain enough composure to scramble on hands and knees over to Sophie's side. "Honey... babes? Are you all right?" His voice was trembling and weak due to his traumatized throat, but she stirred from her place upon the kitchen floor and looked up at him with disorientated eyes.

"Did you see that?" She grasped his left shoulder for support. "Do you believe me now?"

Glancing nervously behind to where the entity had been only seconds before, he rubbed at his neck where a large bruise was beginning to form. "Yeah, hon. I think I believe you now."

Sophie got to her feet first and she tugged hard on Jason's arm, prompting him to follow. "We've got to get out of here now!" They entered the hallway and opened the front door within seconds, and the cold rain that greeted them from the blackened sky restored a little reality to their bewildered and terror-stricken minds.

"But what are we going to do now?" she gasped, hesitating halfway between the gate and the open doorway. Reflected light jittered upon the many tiny puddles within the pathway's dips and crevices as she looked back towards their house, the silence within now making it almost impossible to believe there was some kind of supernatural assailant within its walls. "Where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here," Jason returned as he stood just beyond the gate, desperately searching his pockets for the van keys he did not have.

"But we can't just leave... what about the cats?"

"They'll be fine. It's you it seems to want!" He continued to dig into his pockets, the frustration and confusion he felt clearly visible on his face. "I've got to get you away from here."

"If you want our keys," she said, inching back towards the front door, "they're hanging up inside –"

"Don't go back in there," he ordered, but it was too late. She reached just beyond the door towards the row of small hooks and grabbed the set of keys for her Nissan, the shop and their house. "Sophie... I'm telling you to get away from there!"

Despite Jason's protests, she took a step further into the hallway and called for her cats in her special high voice. "Yin? Yang? Come on, you two!" She waited, but there was no sound or movement from within. The temptation to return to the kitchen and peep inside was drawing her onwards into the house, but Jason's strong grip halted her in mid-step.

"You got the keys?" he asked as he spun her round to face him. She stared dumbly back at him for a moment before nodding. "Let's go, then." He took her hand and led her back outside without stopping for their jackets, slammed the door behind them and marched her to the end of the path. The rain was beginning to fall harder now, the icy water dripping from their hair and soaking their clothes almost to the skin.

"Whose keys have you got?"

"Mine," she said, attempting to shield herself from the rain with only her hands as she followed him along the pavement. "I've only got my keys."

Jason headed towards her car. "Give them to me. I'll drive."

"Drive to where?" Her voice was rising with both anger and frustration. "Where are we supposed to go?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know yet... we'll think of that in a minute." His own irritation was also showing in his words. "Just get inside and out of this fucking rain!"

Sophie looked back over her shoulder at their house again, the lights within the hallway and living room continuing to glow, giving the impression of a cosy, warm and welcoming home. What happened only minutes ago now seemed like a ridiculous dream – a wild hallucination – although the throbbing pain in her back and head told her otherwise. She then turned her eyes to her neighbour's house, standing dark and silent like a colossal sentinel.

"Sophie... honey? Just get in the car, okay? We'll talk about it inside. Let's get out of the rain –"

But she was already turning away and heading towards Victor's gate, drawn to his house as though hypnotized. "Not yet," she mumbled in a voice that only she could hear. "There's somebody I want to talk to first."

"Where are you going now?" he whined, watching with disbelief as she slipped into the shadows, her body becoming just a dim shape as she headed along Victor's front pathway. He ceased shouting his objections and stood by the car for a moment longer, listening to her hammer upon the old man's door.

"His door's already open," her voice drifted from the darkness. "Shall I go in?"

It was not long before a light came on in the upstairs bedroom followed by the twitching of drawn curtains as Victor's weary face briefly appeared from behind.

With his spirits now in pieces, his body succumbed to the heedless rain, Jason swore under his breath before reluctantly following. When he arrived at Sophie's side, the old man was already swinging his door open wide, the light from his hallway illuminating both of his visitors' pallid, troubled faces.

"Sorry I didn't hear you at first," he muttered as he stepped forwards to greet them. He was wearing slippers, pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown. "I was having a little nap... was feeling a bit tired. I should have realized I left my door open before..." His eyes narrowed when he noticed their haunted expressions. "Are you two okay?"

"We're sorry to have woken you up," Jason began, but Sophie cut him short, her voice clearly reflecting her distress.

"Vic, do you know anything about any strange stuff going on around here... have noticed any weird things happening... _paranormal_ things?" She lowered her head in an effort to hide the tears that began to flow across her cheeks, merging with the wetness from the rain. "Oh, God, I know this sounds stupid, but I think I'm being haunted by something."

The old man's eyes drifted beyond the two wet and dejected figures before him and stared vacantly into the empty night. A moment later, his expression changed to one of knowing and he gently began to nod, as though he had been expecting this very visitation. Just before Jason could speak again to apologize for their intrusion, he took a step backwards and stood aside.

"I was afraid this was going to happen," he told them as he beckoned them into his home. "You two had better come inside, out of the rain."

### Chapter 15 – Confessions

Both Sophie and Jason's mugs were trembling in their hands more with shock than from the cold, threatening to spill the coffee onto their laps as they sat upon the settee facing Victor. There was a blanket draped around each of their shoulders and a towel tightly wrapped around the top of Sophie's head like a turban, the worst of the rain's dampness upon their clothing slowly drying before a portable electric heater facing them on the coffee table. Each one had avoided the mere mention of any paranormal manifestations until they had all settled within the warm living room, their passing, perfunctory conversations mainly focused upon the problem of getting their clothes and hair dry.

After an awkward moment of silence while they sat facing each other, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock, Victor leant forward in his chair and stared at each of his two visitors with his faded yet piercing blue eyes.

"I know it started when I almost died that day in hospital," he began. His voice was low and gruff, yet his words were firm and penetrating. "Somehow he found me when I was neither in this world nor the next; found me while they were trying to resuscitate me."

"Who found you?" Jason asked. He had to wait for what seemed an eternity while the old man pondered on his answer, his face forming numerous expressions that betrayed the conflict of his thoughts.

"Mortimer," he finally told them before relaxing back in his chair. "Felix Mortimer."

Jason's eyes widened with a mixture of shock and disbelief, but Sophie never gave the slightest indication of surprise – it was the answer she expected from the start.

"Felix Mortimer?" he blurted incredulously. "You mean the murderer?"

Victor nodded his head. "Yes, son. Not in the flesh, of course, but his spirit has returned."

Jason dropped his eyes. His head was now slowly shaking from side to side as his mind struggled to get to grips with his neighbour's absurd belief that they were being physically attacked by some deranged killer executed over sixty years ago. "And I suppose you're going to tell us that his spirit is the same one who's murdered those people in this town."

Victor gave him a humourless smile. "Did you read about how the police could find no trace of evidence other than bare footprints? There was no DNA evidence left behind; no clothing fibre, semen, fingerprints... any hair. Did you read that in two of the victims' homes the windows and doors were locked on the inside, and that there was no way the killer could have gotten out without opening one of them?"

"That doesn't instantly mean it was some kind of... of _poltergeist_ that killed them," Jason said. "It just means that the killer is clever as well as psychotic."

The smile dropped from the old man's lips and he leant forward again, continuing to hold his two visitors in his cold stare. "And what about the little incident that happened in your house just now? What about the assault in the florist shop? Did you not stop to think what could have happened if this entity – this _physical_ entity – decided to pick up a knife?" He relaxed back in his seat and fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his next words were barely above a whisper. "He found me: there's no denying it. Felix Mortimer, my fellow member of the club I belonged to and who was hanged for murdering four women, somehow found me while my soul was away from my body – exposed and vulnerable. Have you noticed anything strange about some of the victims?"

Jason began to mutter a reply, but Sophie answered Victor's question.

"Some of them worked at the hospital where you were staying."

"That's right," he said and nodded. "One nurse and a porter were killed, and another nurse narrowly escaped death."

"That's because her dog bit the attacker, I believe," Jason said. "That's what the papers say, anyway."

Victor gave a short grunt and shrugged his shoulders. "What about the man who fell from the window?"

"That man on your ward, the one in the next bed?" Sophie said. "But that was suicide, wasn't it?"

The old man raised his eyebrows. "Maybe so, maybe so, but doesn't it seem strange that people associated with me are murdered or attacked, like yourselves?"

"But what about the others?" Sophie asked. "Surely you didn't know all of the victims."

There was another short interval of silence before he answered. "It seems he doesn't just limit himself to people I know. Those girls he butchered were obviously easy prey and he simply took the opportunity. He's an evil abomination who's returned from hell, that's all I know."

"But what _do_ you know?" Jason's tone was beginning to reflect the frustration and disbelief he was trying desperately to suppress. "How can you sit there and say you knew all along that this Mortimer's spirit had returned to murder the people of this town? If this is true, then how did he come back as a physical being when he found you? How... how can he return from the grave and walk about like a real person, cutting people up with knives like something out of a horror movie –"

Jason was beginning to rise from the settee and Sophie had to put an arm on his shoulder to stop him. "Calm down," she told him soothingly. "He's trying to help, remember?"

Victor buried his face in his hands and sighed deeply. When he looked up at his visitors again, tears were beginning to well within in his eyes. "If only you knew of the things we dabbled in back then as members of the gentlemen's club I belonged to. If I had an entire day to tell you of the ungodly, _dangerous_ things we messed with, I would still have told you only half of it. We were young and very foolish, and what we did still haunts me to this day."

"But it wasn't just a gentlemen's club, wasn't it Vic?" Sophie's voice was low and flat – almost listless. "It was called the Richmond Cult, which concentrated on black magic."

He looked directly into Sophie's eyes and held her within his stare like a snake. "So you done a little research, I see." The smile that followed appeared more like a smirk. "Yes, you are completely correct. I know I told you before that we only fooled around with things like fortune telling and séances, but I must confess that we done far more than that and I apologize for not telling you the whole truth. We played around heavily with the occult, and somehow we managed to find a portal into the afterlife."

"My God," Sophie whispered. "Is that how Mortimer found you, through his previous knowledge of this?"

Victor, with an apologetic look upon his face, slowly nodded. "It appears so. I don't quite know if he had the tendency to kill before or because of our strange dabbling, but I now know for sure he was waiting on the other side for the opportunity to return to this earth to kill again."

"So why kill people you know?" Jason asked, his voice now calm. "Why attack us two but not you?"

"Because he wants to torment me. He wants to make me suffer."

"Why?"

"Because he blamed me and the other members for not helping him during his trial, that's why. If he had a grudge against somebody, then I would be a good candidate for his wrath."

He slowly eased himself from his chair and shuffled over to his drinks cabinet. "Anyone want something a little stronger? I know I shouldn't really, but I could do with a glass of Scotch." Sophie held up her empty coffee mug and he nodded his acknowledgement. "I'll get you a glass, my dear. How about you, Jason?"

"Just a small one, please," he replied. "I think I need one, too."

They each fell into a natural silence while he prepared the drinks. When he shuffled back over to his two visitors, he was holding three whiskey tumblers, each containing generous servings of Scotch. "No ice I'm afraid," he said as he handed them their drinks. He waited until he had settled back into his chair before continuing.

"So that's why I was afraid he'd find you both. When you told me tonight about your attack, I immediately knew Mortimer was tormenting you. That's why I wanted to keep my distance from you two, but you became so friendly towards me that I couldn't help..." His words trailed away when he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe away fresh tears. "I'm sorry."

"What was Mortimer really like, Vic?" Jason asked. The blanket over his shoulders had slipped away and he now stretched his arms across the back of the settee. "How long did you know him, and did you suspect anything bad about him?"

It took another period of silence before he answered his question, but when his words began to flow he could not seem to stop, the deep memories within his mind rising to pour from his lips.

"I must have been not yet twenty-one when I first joined the Richmond Cult. Yes, it was in the spring of nineteen fifty, and my father's book business where I started work was going well, so well I had a fair amount of money to spend. Don't get me wrong: I was far from being rich, but being a young bachelor with a bit of money in my pockets was a ticket to some fun and entertainment. My father stocked a large variety of books, and of these were a collection on the occult and paranormal, which I became an avid reader.

"I found out about the Richmond Cult from a friend of mine, who happened to have been a member for about six or seven months, and by then I was hungry for more knowledge on the subject. The books I read gave me plenty of information, but I wanted to be _involved_ somehow and this gave me the opportunity. So I joined what I believed was just an occultist's club, but I soon realized that the leader, Henry Richmond, was deeply involved in black magic.

"Henry Richmond was by then in his late sixties, and he had started his original club in about nineteen twenty-eight, if my memory serves me correct. Way before he even opened its doors he was deeply involved in the black arts, and it were he who owned that big book you kindly brought to me at the hospital.

"It was about a year later when this broad, middle-aged man practically turned up on the club's doorstep, wanting to become a member. He stank of booze and looked rather unkempt, and although we members were not keen to let him join our numbers, Henry Richmond, for whatever reason at the time, made the decision to let him in. He was, of course, Felix Mortimer, and I found him hard to communicate with at the beginning – a little aloof, you could say – which questioned the reason why he wanted to join the club in the first place. But after a few weeks, he seemed to warm and open up to us. He eventually told a few of the members, including myself, that his wife died a few months before from septicaemia caused by a ruptured appendix, leaving him to take care of his two young daughters. He confided to Henry and me the fact that sometimes, when his drinking got bad, his sister in-law had to take care of both Judith and Elizabeth until he got back on the wagon again.

"I wouldn't say I suspected him of being violent and definitely not deranged, but there was something about him that made me feel as though he was capable of wrongdoing or harm – a ticking time bomb, if you like. My feelings were justified when he also told me in secret that he'd done time for burglary, which he claimed to have been duped into doing for some old school friend. He was an excellent carpenter, it seemed, but he was not the sharpest tool in his box."

"But this Richmond Cult had another part to it," Sophie said. She had now removed the towel from her head and was attempting to straighten out her hair, which began to crinkle. "There was a special section to it... a secret group."

Victor took a large swig of whisky and smiled at her. "You certainly have been doing your homework, my dear. Yes, that's correct. There was a special order for members who were interested in delving deeper into the occult practices, but one must prove they were serious enough to join. It was heavy stuff, and something I now look back on with unease. I was already a member when Mortimer first joined the cult, but it didn't take him long before he was also initiated into this 'special section', as you named it. It was shortly after this when the murders started, so who really knows what happened to his mind. I have asked myself many times during sleepless nights about whether something he experienced during our sessions triggered his murderous acts."

"You mean he could have been possessed," Jason said.

Victor shrugged his shoulders. "Depending on how far your beliefs stretch, that could have been one possibility, yes. Whatever the reason was, he went on to kill a further three women, leaving behind a symbol of our brotherhood upon his victim's breasts, courtesy of a sharp knife."

"What did the symbol mean?" Jason asked, his interest now aroused.

"The eye was supposed to represent our sight into the world beyond our own, or what we believed we were seeing. After the second murder, the six members, including myself, Mortimer and Henry Richmond, were hauled-up for questioning by the police. We were all interrogated, but they had no evidence to pin the murders on any of us. Anyway, you both probably know the rest of the story. Mortimer was finally arrested when he happened to leave a knife with his fingerprints behind at the final murder scene, and the other weapon found in his garage concluded the fact that he was the killer of those four women."

The room fell silent again as each one sipped at their drinks, their minds deep within their own thoughts. It was Sophie's voice, low yet firm, that eventually cut through the stillness. "You changed your name from Godwin to Gwynne. Was that because of your connection with the murder case?"

"Partly," he replied. He held her yet again with his piercing eyes. "Where have you been getting all of this information from? It seems you know as much as I can tell you."

"From an author of one of your books," she told him. "Joseph Rothschild."

Victor diverted his fixed stare towards the ceiling. "Oh," he whispered and nodded. "Him."

"I found a website of his," she continued. "It had a lot of information about the Richmond Cult and the murders."

"You shouldn't take everything these writers say as gospel. Some of their information is hearsay or second-hand knowledge – stuff from the tabloids."

"But you did change your name," Sophie persisted. "If you don't mind me asking, what were the reasons?"

"The reasons? One of the reasons, my dear, was because Mortimer's youngest daughter attacked my wife and me outside our home. Judith must have been about sixteen or seventeen at the time, and I remember it was on a Saturday morning when she seemingly appeared from nowhere with a wooden cosh in her hand. I was unlocking the car on the roadside while Beryl locked the house up. Because it was such a fine day, we were about to go for a drive out in the country lanes and most likely end up in one of the pubs out there for a meal. I never believed I would hear such obscenities coming from such a young girl, but she came at me with this thing in her hand held high, screaming and swearing... spitting like a wild animal. I froze on the spot, not knowing who she was or what she was accusing me of. It must have been about five years after her father's trial, and I had only glimpsed her once outside the Old Bailey, when she was just a child. Before I knew it, she swung that wooden stick at my legs and knocked my feet from under me. She hit me again while I was down, right across my head."

Victor turned his face to one side and pointed at a barely visible scar across his left temple, just below his thin grey hair. "You see that? If I hadn't have put my hand up to protect myself, I may not be here talking to you now. Even though I managed to deflect some of the blow, she still knocked me out cold. I had a broken wrist due to the impact and about eight stitches on my head.

"Maybe thinking I was dead or meaning to finish me off later, she gave my car a good pounding before turning on my wife, who was frozen in terror, and began screaming about how her father had been betrayed and that he was innocent of murder. Luckily for Beryl our next door neighbour, Mr. Childs, came to her rescue and managed to wrestle Judith to the ground, although he had a fair few bruises the following day, including bite marks."

Victor managed a grin for his audience, although it did nothing to brighten his haggard features. "It seems she was as crazy as her father was: a real chip off the old block. Apparently, while she was struggling like a wild thing on the ground, she said that she would never leave us alone until we – the members of the cult, and especially Henry Richmond – confessed to setting him up."

"Wasn't he dead by then?" Sophie asked.

"That's right. He died of a brain tumour about a year after Mortimer was hanged. That also spelled the end of the cult, although it had basically died after our exposure to the public, which didn't take kindly to our 'dabbling' in black magic. Judith believed he was to blame for her father's sudden madness and that he put some kind of spell on him to commit the crimes, like hypnotism, and we fellow members were a part of it."

"So what happened to her," Jason asked.

"Judith was put away somewhere for a while – she damn-well almost killed me. It seemed absurd that only a few years after Felix Mortimer's trial, I had to face his daughter in the dock.

But that wasn't the end of it. The press hounded my wife and me after that for weeks, stirring up bad memories. It was not only about the Mortimer family but also about the Richmond Cult. They even printed things about my wife being a witch, even though she had nothing to do with it. This, along with the attack, caused her to have a breakdown.

"I knew we were always going to be a target for the press and the wrath of the unstable-minded Judith, so we both decided to move away down south and change our name from Godwin to Gwynne by deed poll for good measure. We found a cosy little shop in Brighton to sell our books, living in a little flat above until we retired. If Judith still wanted her so-called revenge, then she never found us. And I was never harassed by the press again until now."

"What do you think Judith would do if she found your name mentioned in the papers?" Sophie asked.

Victor shrugged his narrow shoulders again. "I've been keeping a keen look out for any articles about me, being that I had the press outside my door on numerous occasions. I've been mentioned twice in two papers – local and national – but there wasn't a lot they could print about me other than I was involved in the original murder trial. The national paper's article was very brief with a not-so-flattering photo of my house. Anyway, I doubt if that crazy woman would start up again now, if she's still alive that is. By now, I hope she's finally accepted her father's guilt and moved on. I can only feel pity for her for losing both parents at such a young age and for her father's tainted name."

Jason leant forward to ask his important question. "So how do we stop this thing... this spirit of Mortimer? Do you think there's a way?"

Victor's face appeared to sag physically as he fell yet again into deep thought. As Jason sat patiently for an answer, he imagined the rhythmic ticking of the clock as the old man's cerebrations turning about his head like mechanical cogs and levers.

"I've been thinking about that since the first murder," he began. "Although I have never felt Mortimer's malevolent presence personally, I still knew he had somehow returned. That was why I asked for that big, old book while I was in hospital. You see, within that book I believe there is the answer to your question about stopping this evil spirit, and I have been studying it every day since. And I think I'm close to finding it."

"You mean, like a spell?" Jason asked.

Victor hit the armrests of his chair with both fists in frustration, sending puffs of dust into the air. "Oh, I know how you feel about witchcraft and spells and curses, but you have got to believe that there must be a way to reverse Mortimer's power."

"I think I'm willing to believe in anything now," Jason said, although while the old man's head was turned, he glanced over at Sophie and they both exchanged a look of uncertainty.

"So how are you going to do it?" Sophie asked. "Are you saying that your special book has spells and incantations to fight Mortimer like a... like a –"

"Like a wizard," Jason blurted out with undertones of mockery. "Like in one of those fantasy films!"

"Maybe we can draw a pentagram on your floor to fight off his spirit," Sophie added with an almost childish grin. "Would that work?"

There was a passing look of contempt within Victor's eyes as he sat silently in his chair. He waited until his visitors had both become quiet before answering their questions, ensuring that his tone of voice was just below the point of being supercilious.

"Actually, I was thinking it to be more like an exorcism, without the religious mumbo jumbo." He watched with some satisfaction as his two guests' insouciant smiles slowly dropped with their understanding. "It is not spells and incantations I'll be using, as you so put it, but more like a series of commands and counteractions to purify and expel Mortimer's rogue spirit. Don't you forget that it was through our special practices with the Richmond Cult when Mortimer must have become the way he is. Through my own knowledge of the occult and the abundance of information within that book, I believe I could neutralize his power. As I've already explained, I am now close to finding the way to do this. The original part of that book was written by a man called Francis Locard, who had a vast knowledge on what we were attempting to achieve."

"But how can you do this?" Sophie asked him, the concern returning to her voice. "You claim you haven't even felt his presence yet, so how do you confront him in order to destroy him?"

Before he could answer, Jason let off a long groan and slipped to the edge of the settee. "You want to use Sophie as bait, don't you, Vic? You want to entice him to attack her within your presence so that you can perform you exorcism –"

Victor held up his hand to silence him and gave a softening smile. "No, no, my friend. It would be one way to do it, yes, but it will be far too dangerous, as you know. I don't wish to endanger your lives any more, and therefore no longer want you two to be involved... although..."

"Although what?" Sophie prompted.

"Although I may need Jason's assistance during my séance to bring him to me, but I promise he will not be put in any danger." He looked dubiously over at him but he returned a reassuring nod.

"I'll do it if it will end this thing for good," Sophie said. "I want to do whatever it takes."

"Thank you for your brave offer, my dear, but that will not be necessary. If you were present, then I fear you would definitely be in danger. Therefore I wish for you to be as far away from this town as possible until this ordeal is over."

"Move away?" she said. "I can't do that."

"Just for a few days, maybe a week. Can you stay somewhere? A friend or relative's house, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "But my shop... I can't just get up and leave. I have responsibilities!"

"You also have a responsibility to keep yourself alive and keep others around you from danger. All the time you remain within this town, you will attract Mortimer's malevolence."

"But what about Jason?" she continued. "I'm not going to leave him in that house after what happened." She turned to her boyfriend. "You must come with me, if only for a few days."

"He's in no danger," Victor assured her, looking from one to the other. "Female victims are what Mortimer desires, not males. The men who were killed were merely in the way of his intended prey – collateral damage, if you like – and without your presence, Jason will not be attacked. Besides, I may need his help." He gave Sophie a reassuring smile. "But don't worry; I won't put him in harms way."

She looked doubtfully at her boyfriend. "I don't know... I'm not so sure about all this."

"I think he's right," Jason told her. "Anyway, weren't we about to drive away from here after our attack?"

Deep concern was showing on her face. "But I'm scared for you. I can't leave you in that house all alone knowing that... that _thing_ could come back again!"

"Remember what Vic just told us? It's _you_ he wants. That's why he attacked you before. And the only reason why I was attacked today was because I was with you at the time. It all makes sense now."

"Oh, I don't know..."

"Sophie?" He placed two fingers under her chin and gently lifted her head to his. "Trust me. I will feel much better with you staying at your aunt's house for a few days." He turned to Victor. "Her Auntie Lynne lives in London, so she'll be far enough away from this town."

Sophie lowered her head. "I can't believe this is all happening. I'll think about it and see if I can break away from the shop for a few days."

"A few days are all you should need," Victor said. "And I should warn you both not to tell anyone else of what has been happening, however tempting. People, no matter how close, will find it hard to believe and understand, making your life that much harder. I can only ask you to lay low for a while and let me sort this problem out – the problem that I have helped to create."

Sophie suddenly looked alarmed. "But that thing attacked Vicky, too. Isn't she in danger?"

Victor shook his head. "I think Mortimer was actually looking for you in the shop. The fact that you've witnessed his presence three times now tells me he has focused his attention on you, not your friend. You have survived three of his attacks, but I fear you will not be so lucky after a fourth. For our safety as well as your own, keep away from this town until I have succeeded in my task."

Jason grasped Sophie's hand. "I think it's best you leave tonight. It will only take about two hours, maybe less, depending on the weather and traffic."

"I'm not leaving you," she protested. "I'm scared for _you_ , not for myself."

Jason planted a gentle kiss on her lips. "I want to help Vic end this thing. Mortimer attacked the one I love, so it's personal now."

"How can you help?" she asked, despair now showing in her voice. She then turned to her neighbour, her eyes pleading. "How can he help?"

"I may need another person present within the room when I attempt to make contact," he told her. "I said maybe, because I will try to find a way to conduct this 'exorcism' on my own." He then smiled warmly. "Don't worry; it may be over sooner than you think."

Sophie released a deep sigh. "And when are you thinking of doing this?"

"Tomorrow I will prepare what is needed for the confrontation, so I hope to start Sunday night." He then stood and headed for the whisky bottle again, and they both noticed that the old man's hands were trembling. "Yes, I will attempt it this coming Sunday night."

Jason leaned his head in through the open window of Sophie's Nissan and kissed her tenderly on the lips. "You sure you're not over the limit? You've had wine and whisky tonight, so I'm scared you've drunk too much."

Sophie started the engine and the dashboard burst into life, emitting a striking display of lights and sounds. She reached over to turn the volume of the radio down. "Don't worry about me. I've had strong coffee and enough scares to sober me up."

"Yes, I know, but –" he continued, but she stopped any further protestations with a return kiss, this one with more passion.

"Come away with me," she said.

"What about work?"

"It should be all over by Sunday night. You can phone in sick if not."

"What about the cats?"

"My sister will feed them. She has a spare key."

"What about Victor?"

"He will sort it out himself, if he can."

"But I promised him."

Sophie sighed and released the handbrake. "Up to you, then."

"Don't be like that," he said before removing his head from the car. Light drizzle coated his face. "We both agreed at Vic's, remember?"

"I know, I know," she said and nodded. "But I just can't believe we're going through with all this nonsense. We must both be completely mad."

"You need a break anyway," he told her. "Use this as a good excuse to see your aunt. When was the last time you paid her a visit?"

"Ages. But what reason can I give her for turning up on her doorstep late at night on my own?"

"I thought you've just phoned her to say you're coming."

"I did, but I gave no explanation because I couldn't think of one!"

Jason shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you have about two hours to think of something. Have you got everything you want from the house?"

Sophie turned her face towards the road ahead and her skin glowed ghostly blue within the lights of the dashboard. "I have three nights' worth of my things, because that's how long I'm staying away for. If Vic's ending this thing on Sunday, then I have no need to keep away for any longer." She turned to face him again. "Don't let him involve you in any of his weird shit. And if you see or hear anything strange in our house, then get the hell out of there. Promise?"

"I promise. And you promise to phone me as soon as you get to your aunt's place, no matter what the time."

"I will," she said before blowing him a kiss. "Now get out of the rain before you get soaking wet again."

Jason coaxed a smile, blew a return kiss and waved goodbye as she drew away from the kerb. Only when her taillights disappeared into the distance did he begin his slow and hesitant stroll back to the house, a feeling of dread filling his bones.

Yin and Yang both gave him a warm welcome as he stepped into the hallway, noticing immediately how empty and lonely the house felt without Sophie's presence. They had both returned here briefly after leaving Victor's home, hurrying from room to room to collect the items that she would need for her few days away in London. Now he was alone he realized how vulnerable and afraid he was. Just the thought that someone from beyond the grave had been here not yet three hours before – someone who he could neither see nor hear if he was still within these walls – gave him the jitters. What seemed too fantastic and too absurd to be true now felt far too real as he stood here alone within the semi-darkness, the silence of the house seemingly smothering him like a physical force.

"Come on, you two," he told his cats after plucking the courage to walk through the kitchen. As he headed towards the lounge, he noticed that Sophie, after she had quickly grabbed some items for her trip away, had returned the picture of her mother to its rightful place on the wall. He also noticed that she took the time to fill the cats' bowls.

"Oh, honey," he whispered and had the sudden desire to pack his own travel bag and follow her in his van. Instead, he grabbed what remained of the white wine and took it into the living room where the ceiling light continued to blaze brightly.

Sophie's empty wine glass was still upon the computer table, and when Jason reached over to fill it again he accidentally nudged the mouse and the dark monitor burst back into life.

"Better close you down," he muttered to the empty room, but before he could do so, he saw that Sophie had another e-mail from Joseph Rothschild. Jason sat down, opened the message and began to read as he poured the wine. Before long, he was tapping out his own return message with enthusiasm. Just over an hour after that, he was speaking to him in person via his phone.

### Chapter 16 – Death returns

November 23rd

Below a busy highway that stretches from the heart of the town centre to the surrounding suburbs of Upperhampton, and only a few yards from where Queen Street joins this road, a small crowd gathered around a body of another young female whose horrendous fatal injuries were mercifully hidden from view by a white sheet. It was just after six in the morning when the police received a frantic call from an elderly woman who was using the subway to cross the road (although at that hour on a Saturday morning it was all but empty of cars) on her way to the park to walk her Scottish Terrier. After hurrying back up the concrete steps, her dog protesting with the reversal of direction before she could relieve herself upon her favourite tree, Mrs. Sedgwick managed to call the police via the public phone box outside of the local newsagent. After she made her call, she quietly sat upon the rain-soaked low wall by the roadside and waited for the police to arrive, giving her some time for her trembling hands and her fluttering heart to calm a little. Misty, who had been holding her bladder and bowels throughout much of the night, had little choice but to urinate and defecate below the wall close to where her mistress was sitting. Mrs. Sedgwick did not seem to mind or notice.

Now D.C.I Lonsdale and D.S Bromfield stood side-by-side amongst the small crowd of police officers and the forensic team, both of their attentions focused upon the large words scrawled upon the cold subway wall. There were many messages, signatures, artwork and symbols sprayed across the entire length of the subway – graffiti was always a problem in every town and city – but this new addition they now studied was the only one written entirely in blood.

"Mortimer has returned from the grave," Bromfield read aloud as if his superior needed confirmation. "Mortimer..."

"Looks like our killer's certainly got into the role," Lonsdale mumbled before turning away. "He is either mocking us or really does believe he is this Felix Mortimer."

"But isn't this place close to the house where that old man lives?" the Detective Sergeant asked as he followed. "You know, the one who was involved –"

"In the original murder case," Lonsdale finished for him. "Yes, I thought of that from the start, but it could be just coincidence." He stopped close to the body, taking care not to step into the thin rivulets of blood that had seeped along the subway's pathway and looked back at his colleague. "Or it may well have some vital connection or significance. Maybe our killer is getting closer to his inspiration or idol, or whatever twisted influence he may be. Or perhaps..."

He beckoned one of the forensic team over and he lifted one corner of the bloodstained sheet to reveal the victim's face and upper body. What looked to be a sequined dress had been pulled down to expose her bloodied breasts. Lonsdale had seen many dead bodies in his years on the police force, but to date, none appeared to have skin as pallid and bloodless as the one he was now looking at. With the waxy appearance of her face and the lifeless stare of her eyes, she could easily have been mistaken for a shop-window mannequin.

Being much taller than his superior, D.S. Bromfield peered over his shoulder at the all-too-familiar shape of an eye and the number ten sliced within the flesh of her right breast.

"Mutilations to the genitals?" Lonsdale asked the Crime Scene Investigator.

"Yep. It's the same formula as the others, although we've yet to find the weapon that did it. He normally purposely leaves it near to the scene, so we should hopefully come across it soon." He replaced the sheet over the victim's face and began to lift the bottom half to show the two detectives the lower mutilations, but Lonsdale flapped his hand and shook his head.

"Not yet," he mumbled. "I've yet to have my breakfast."

The forensic officer smiled and released the shroud. "We may need to cordon off more of the street above if we don't find a weapon of some sort down here, although we've found a broken bottle and bagged it up as a possibility. They're searching all of the waste bins around the area right now, and may have to open a few storm drains, too."

"Thank you," the D.C.I told him as he turned away. When he stepped back into the light of the morning sun, he looked round at Bromfield who was following closely behind like his shadow. "By the way she's dressed she was obviously coming home from a night out in town." Lonsdale said. "Because they found her driver's licence in her handbag, we now know she's in her late-thirties, so was more likely returning from a party or possibly from that place that caters for the older clubbers."

"That would be The Main Event," Bromfield said. "That's not too far from here." He took a final glance behind him at the shrouded body. "Why do they walk home alone, Ben, knowing that there's a maniac on the loose?"

Lonsdale shrugged his shoulders. "Two officers are now checking out the address on her licence, so we'll find if she's living alone or not." He then released a long sigh of frustration and ran a hand through his hair. "More bodies, Alex. Now six women and one male butchered by this sick bastard but still no clues. The Chief's going to blow a fuse over this new murder. He's already threatened to bring in extra help. To tell you the truth, I think we really are out of our depth on this one."

"They may yet find some D.N.A evidence on the body this time," he replied. "He's bound to slip-up sooner or later."

"Later more than sooner, it seems."

"But I think we should concentrate on that Gwynne fellow." They were now at the foot of the steps and they both paused for a moment before ascending. Lonsdale shivered and adjusted the collar of his jacket tightly around his neck. The morning was bright now that the blanket of dark clouds had dispersed, although the air felt dank from last night's relentless rainfall.

"I think it would be a good idea to put an unmarked car outside his house to see who goes in and out of the place," Bromfield continued. "Everyone who visits him should be monitored to see if Gwynne has any secret admirers. I don't believe for a second that the old boy has nothing to do with it – knowingly or unknowingly."

Lonsdale nodded his head and began to climb the steps. "I agree with you and we should have done this earlier. Whoever is copying the Mortimer's Mark killings must have been influenced somehow by Gwynne's presence. I no longer think it has anything to do with coincidence, especially now this new murder is practically on his doorstep."

When they reached ground level, both detectives removed their gloves after ducking beneath the police tape that separated the subway entranceway from the public. By now, there were many curious spectators crowded beyond the partition guarded by two police officers, and many of their solemn faces depicted what they already knew would be down there. As soon as Lonsdale spotted the familiar snooping presence of the press members amongst the crowd, he quickly ushered his colleague in the opposite direction.

"Come on, Alex," he said after he thanked one of the officers on duty. "I know a good little café we can hide from this lot before we head back to base. I don't know about you, but I'm bloody gasping for a cup of coffee."

As Jason Mathews left Upperhampton and joined the A27 heading west through the latest downpour, he felt a pang of sadness that Sophie was not sitting in the passenger's seat beside him as he drove his van towards Dorset. Within his mind, he had a conflict of feeling, beliefs and opinions spawned by the events of yesterday's encounter with the invisible entity and the consequential chat with Victor. Now, within a space of about eighteen hours, his whole life had turned upside down and he had the unshakable feeling that he was lost within a surreal nightmare.

After Sophie left to travel to her aunt's house in London, Jason put aside his sceptical views of the supernatural and decided to contact Joseph Rothschild via e-mail. He told him everything that had happened that evening including Victor's confession of dabbling heavily with the occult during his time with the Richmond Cult. More through lack of conviction than interest, he had never fully read any of the previous e-mails sent to Sophie in response to her paranormal attacks. Moreover, although he appeared to show a little enthusiasm for her sake, his hesitancy in getting fully involved was an attempt to dampen her acute obsession that a writer of such subjects as devil worship and poltergeist activity could only augment.

So there he was, tapping out his account of the evening's events like an excited reporter on the story of the century. After sending it on, he was surprised when, less than an hour later, Rothschild sent a return message. There was nothing in his writing to make Jason feel as though he was contacting an overenthusiastic occult buff obsessed with proving to the world the existence of the paranormal. Instead, he came across as a levelheaded expert who is as much a sceptic as he is a believer. The reply was very matter-of-fact and encouraged him to consider a logical explanation behind the possible 'haunting', although his clear interest in Victor Gwynne dominated this message. The last thing he wrote was his home phone number and a note encouraging him to contact him that night. This Jason did almost immediately after reading the e-mail, and the conversation lasted another hour.

Joseph Rothschild had a soothing, laid-back quality to his voice that reminded him somewhat of his father. He assured that both he and Sophie were now away from any foreseeable danger, and that if this spirit of Mortimer were real, it would be compelled to stay close to the energy source that brought it back into this world: Victor Gwynne. It would seem that this trapped, malignant physical energy would have no need to attack Jason now that Sophie was far enough away from Upperhampton. Rothschild was also concerned when he read that Victor was to involve him in his attempt to 'exorcise' Mortimer's spirit.

Instead of delving into a deeper and longer conversation, the author invited him to visit his home in Dorset for a face-to-face chat. Jason, at first taken aback by his offer and feeling a little guilty that Sophie was not around to join him, accepted his invitation.

A little after eleven that night, Sophie called him after arriving at her Aunt Lynne's house. After Jason reassured her that the house appeared void of any unwelcome spectral inhabitants, she began by telling him that her fabricated reason for her sudden visit without him was that she needed to be in London to meet a client for a possible business deal. She hated herself for lying to her aunt, but she would only lie to stop a situation from getting worse, and she believed this was one such situation. When Jason finally got a word in to tell her that Joseph Rothschild had invited him to his house in Dorset, she appeared overjoyed because not only would he be far away from Upperhampton, he was also beginning to accept the existence of the supernatural.

"And are you going to his place?" she had asked him excitedly.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning about ten. If you want to come too, I can drive us both there." He was lying back across the settee where he would sleep that night with Yin coiled by his feet, far too nervous to sleep alone in his bed. It was the first night since he was eight years old when he purposely kept the lights on all night long through fear of ghosts and ghouls.

"I would love to really, but I can't just get up and leave my aunt after just arriving and..." She let off a sigh and became silent for a moment. "And I have something else planned."

"What's that?"

"Well, it's just a shot in the dark, but I believe Mortimer's daughter, Judith, still lives in London. I'm going to try and track her down so I can talk to her."

"You must be joking," Jason exclaimed. "Even if she's still around, she could be dangerous. You heard what Vic said about her. That woman might be crazy!"

"That was many years ago," she said calmly. "And I'm not Victor. She had a reason back then for being angry, and don't forget she was barely older than a child. I will try to find her sister first, but I have a strong feeling she no longer lives in London."

"I doubt if Judith does too, with so many bad memories," he told her, fearing that she has removed herself from one dangerous situation only to put herself into another. "Even if you do manage to find her, I doubt if she'll take kindly to your prying questions about her father."

"But I've got to try. I can't explain why, but I have a strange hunch that Victor hasn't told us everything." The line went quiet again. "Oh, Jason, I'm so worried for you about this exorcism. Vic says he knows what he's doing, but I believe he could put you in danger. I don't want you to get involved on Sunday."

"That's why I'm travelling up to Dorset to see Rothschild," he explained. "If he is the expert on the occult as he claims to be, then I will listen to his advice. Don't worry: I have no desire to come into contact with that thing again anymore than you do."

Now Jason signalled left before turning into a slip road that led to a number of fast food restaurants and a garage – he needed to refuel both his van and his body. Before leaving Upperhampton he had banged upon Victor's door, meaning to let him know that he would be away for the night but will return Sunday evening to help him as promised. When there was no answer, he climbed into his van and drove away in the opposite direction to the main road to avoid the weekend traffic. By going this way, he became unaware to the fact that, only yards from the eastern end of Queen Street, the police were busy investigating the sixth female victim of the killer who held this town within his grip of fear since Halloween night.

Now, as Jason strolled towards a fast food restaurant, his face turned to the rain-free sky, he was also unaware that the next time he returned home his life would be in grave danger.

George Fields, with his phone pressed to his ear as he relayed his acquired knowledge of the latest murder to his editor, hurried back to Queen Street where he was fortunate enough to be able to squeeze his car into the only available space. Rain was beginning to fall yet again from a dense mass of dark clouds that had suddenly drifted in from the sea, and he managed to reach his Volkswagen just before the heavens released its burdensome load in a heavy torrent. He was so eager to be out of the sudden downpour that, as he fumbled with his key to unlock and open the driver's door, his phone slipped from his hand and skidded beneath the car.

"Shit!" Getting on hands and knees, soaking his trousers in the wetness upon the pavement, he groped beneath the VW until he found his it lying in a shallow puddle. Luckily the phone was not damaged, although he had to wipe away a smudge of grime from the display screen. By now, his editor had given up with the conversation and terminated the call, and George swore aloud again before diving into the front seat of his car and shutting the door.

The local reporter allowed himself a few moments to catch his breath and calm a little before fastening the seat belt and switching on the engine. What he really needed was another cigarette, but during his time spent lingering amongst the curious or plain morbid spectators and other press reporters, he had smoked his way through what remained of a pack of twenty. He could have popped into a nearby shop to buy another, but right now, all he wanted to do was get back to the office and type up what little information he had gained, which was enough for the next edition of the Upperhampton Herald (he could always add a little extra later if more facts are released in time). Luckily, he managed to coax a handy bit of information from one of the police officers he had befriended during his time reporting crime across the town, but he cursed himself for not being able to squeeze a little more out of D.C.I Lonsdale as he normally did. The next time he appeared from the subway with D.S Bromfield in tow, he was on the opposite side of the road and swiftly disappeared from view.

After pulling out of the tight space and doing a U- turn, he headed in the opposite direction to the crime scene to avoid the controlled traffic. His wipers, sweeping rhythmically across the windscreen at full speed, strove to clear the heavy rain as he pondered on why he was making such an effort for a story that will be old news by the time the Upperhampton Herald became available on Tuesday. By tomorrow morning, this new murder would be front-page headlines on all the big national newspapers.

Just before George passed Victor Gwynne's house, he slowed his car a little for a curious glance to see if the old man was around. He was glad he sold his handy piece of information about him to one of the big papers, knowing the reward for his efforts would be far greater than from The Herald. As for the police, he won another golden star from D.C.I Lonsdale for this significant piece of knowledge, and George took great pleasure in knowing that the miserable old bastard will now be getting no rest from either the press or the detectives.

Not seeing any sign of life, he stepped on the gas pedal and sped to the end of Queen Street, unmindful of the narrowness of the road due to the many parked vehicles. Once he reached the junction at the end, he turned left and drove along a less busy avenue before rejoining the main road further down. Here he increased his speed further, eager to reach the office of the Herald on the outskirts of the town centre. It was now half past ten, and he wanted to finish his task before midday for his little get-together with his pals at the King's Arms just outside of Upperhampton. Today, he also had two lovers to see. At the King's Arms, his on/off girlfriend, Kerry, would be there. Later that night, he would be in the company of his other casual lover: Ben.

"Come on, you slow old fucker, get out of my way," he growled under his breath at the car in front doing a steady thirty mph. Although his eyes strained to see through the torrent of rain, he still overtook the small Fiat on a bend that could have sent him on a head-on collision with any oncoming traffic. On the radio, the first report of the murder came through on the local news bulletin, and George turned up the volume. "Yeah, that's another one gone, baby," he said with a cruel smile creeping across his face. "That's another bitch gone."

When he was only about five minutes from the office, he eased his speed down to a legal thirty as he neared the town, fearing a reprimand and a ticket from the police more than a mishap upon the wet road. He knew that on a Saturday morning there would be heavy traffic near the shopping precinct, so George diverted to a route that would take him a little out of his way, though shortening his journey by avoiding the congestion of shoppers slowed further by the rain.

Right now, he desperately wanted another cigarette and his eyes began to scan the scattered shops along the streets empty of human traffic while they took shelter from the relentless downpour. When he caught sight of a liquor store, George began to slow further as he searched for a place to park. It was at this moment when he heard the familiar 'click' of his seatbelt fastener just before the strap become slack around his shoulders. When he took a curious glance downwards, he saw the buckle slipping across his waist as the belt retracted.

Thinking that he merely failed to fasten the catch properly in his haste, George took his left hand from the steering wheel to unhook it completely from his shoulder – he was about to park-up anyway. This was when the sensation of a heavy weight suddenly pressed against his lower body, causing him to scream out with shock and almost lose control of the car. "What the fuck...?" For the first confusing seconds he firstly believed that, for some reason, the muscles in his legs had locked up as if in spasm. Then, when the weight shifted on his lap and he felt more pressure upon his right foot – the foot upon the accelerator – George began to believe that the Invisible Man had hitched a sneaky lift.

"What the fuck?" he cried out again as the car sped dangerously forwards, the engine revs roaring as the speedometer climbed. He managed to steer clear from the two vehicles ahead of him as he swerved erratically across the road, and a large van approaching in the opposite direction beeped its horn as they passed within inches of each other.

Hoping and praying that he could stop or at least slow the vehicle, George attempted to move his right and, when this failed, his left foot onto the brake pedal. But visible or not visible – he dared not take his eyes from the road ahead to look – the obstructing object had somehow pinned both his feet in place, and no matter how much he struggled the car continued onwards with increasing speed.

Now, not only had this phantom-like hijacker taken control of the accelerator, it had full control of the steering wheel, too. With every effort George took to fight against his intruder, the invisible force easily overpowered him with every move. And all the reporter could now do was stare with wide-eyed horror as he headed dangerously towards a junction where the traffic lights had only just turned red. While George's mouth stretched open to scream out in terror, the car rapidly reached the crossroads and, miraculously missing the vehicles gathering speed across the junction from a dead stop, sharply turned right without slowing and continued onwards along the wrong side of the dual carriageway.

George's bladder released its load as his car sped towards the oncoming traffic, barely managing to squeeze past them upon the grassy central reservation. As the horns began to blare, mixing with his frantic screams, the driver's side window slid slowly downwards to admit a gale of rain and wind. As if this ordeal was not enough for the terror-stricken reporter, what felt like a hand began to force his head out of the gaping window.

"No... stop... please!" he managed to cry into the onrush of icy air as his hair whipped across his contorting face. "Whatdoyouwant with me?" Now his hands were free, he attempted desperately to beat, scratch and claw at his unseen assailant. But his frantic efforts did nothing to stop his head from being pushed all the way out of the open window. "Get off me... What in hell are you? Wha –?"

Then, as the car bumped half on the road and half on the central reservation, the engine continuing to roar as the speed increased further, George Fields, through his stinging, watering, terrified eyes, saw the heavy goods lorry heading towards him on a direct collision course. "No... no, no, no," he mumbled before his wailing screams tore into the whipping wind. "No!"

The driver of that lorry also saw the situation ahead and stepped onto the brake pedal. Turning his wheel slightly to the left, he attempted to avoid the oncoming car without aquaplaning on the wet road and taking-out any vehicles in the next lane, although the front edge of his cabin clipped the back end of a transit van, ripping off its rear bumper and smashing the taillights to oblivion.

At this precise moment, George managed to stretch his left arm across the invisible bulk upon his lap and seize the handbrake in his last-ditch effort to stop the car. He was as far from being a religious man as one could get, but at this seemingly frozen moment in time, he squeezed his eyelids shut and prayed to God to spare his life just before he yanked the handbrake upwards.

Because of this manoeuvre, George lost his life. The moment the wheels locked-up, the car practically leapt into the pathway of the averting lorry in a crazy spin that sent the driver's side edge of the car crashing into the front of the heavy goods vehicle. There was a spray of sparks and an ear-shattering squeal of metal grinding against metal just before the reporter's skull ripped cleanly from his neck, sending it rolling across the wet tarmac below. The blood that spurted from the decapitated head mixed with the rain water once it finally settled against the kerbside of the highway, the muscles around the mouth twitching in the last spasms of death as though he was attempting to smile for one last time.

High above the town of Upperhampton, the dense mass of blackened clouds passed northwards on their continual journey while the lesser trailing clouds broke apart and drifted away as small, heavenly bodies. The bright November sun peeped gloriously through the increasing cracks that eventually revealed a pale, untainted blue sky, and the last of the raindrops fell gracefully to earth to splash into George Fields' open yet lifeless eyes.

### Chapter 17 – Joseph Rothschild

Jason had an idea that Rothschild's house would be of an impressive size and style due to his success as an author and his overall impression that he was of the scholarly, upper class type who would be expected to reside in nothing less. After arriving at his property that stood within the picturesque Abbotsbury, Dorset, he did not imagine it to be as grand as what he saw beyond the two large, open gates.

The striking stone-grey manor house with its characteristic creeping vines climbing the outer surface took his mind away from the news report he recently listened to, announcing the latest murder in Upperhampton. Not long after he had switched the car's stereo from his CD to the radio, the national news bulletin reported the new discovery of a body bearing the infamous 'Mortimer's Mark' found in a subway early this morning. There were many subways across the town and its suburbs, but Jason had a gut feeling it was the very one just beyond Queen Street. After the bulletin had finished, he had pulled over to call Sophie on his mobile phone. Because she had already heard the news an hour earlier, she had called Maxine to find whether she knew of the exact location of the murder. It turned out that he was correct.

Now the car's tyres crunched upon the gravelled surface as he slowly turned into the large parking area before the house, close to the two other vehicles parked there: a BMW Roadster and a transit van. There was also a horsebox standing at one end, and Jason looked beyond it to see a line of stables set to the right of the property. After killing the engine, he relaxed back in his seat for a moment to observe the peaceful environment, but it was not long before a twitching of curtains in one of the top windows caught his attention. Realizing his presence was known he climbed from his car and walked the short distance to the front door, avoiding the numerous small puddles collected upon the stony surface. Before he had the chance to press the ornamental doorbell, the solid oak door swung inwards to reveal an attractive, young female displaying a warm, wide smile. She swept strands of her lengthy blonde hair from her face before stepping forwards. "Are you Mr. Mathews?"

"That's right," he told her before attempting to equal her smile. "Jason... Just call me Jason."

"I'm Abby, Joseph's daughter." She offered her hand and he shook it gently. "Please come inside." She stepped aside to let him pass before closing the door and leading him down a long hallway. The fist thing he noticed was the mouth-watering smell of cooking, and his stomach began to stir. As expected with a house as grandeur as this, Jason observed the oak panelled walls adorned with framed paintings and ornaments, the high ceiling with crystal glass chandeliers and the dark antique furniture lining the walkway. As they passed the staircase with its curving mahogany banisters, he noticed a stair-lift rail running along the back skirting board with its chair waiting above the first step.

"How was your journey?" she asked as they entered a room to their left. "Has the weather been holding up?"

"Only a little bit of rain on the way," he replied as he followed. "Much better weather here than where I come from." He took the opportunity to glance down at her shapely buttocks and thighs pressed against the material of her tight jeans, thinking that she must definitely be the one who rode the horses in the stables.

"We've had a lot of rain here too over the last few weeks," she continued as she led him through the dining area towards another door. Again, this room had oak panelled walls and chandeliers. "We are prone to getting heavy rain this time of year, unfortunately." She stopped at the door and knocked lightly before turning back to Jason. "My father's in his study at the moment – practically lives in there now. He's so excited to see you –"

"Yes, Abby, come in," a male voice came from beyond. She swung the door open and stepped inside, temporarily blocking Jason's view of the room's interior.

"Daddy, Jason Mathews has arrived. Are you ready to see him now?"

"Oh, excellent," came the reply, and what sounded like a shuffling of paper and a large book snapping shut followed. "Show him in, show him in!"

Abby stood aside and beckoned their guest to enter the spacious study that was floor to ceiling with bookshelves and artefacts. "This is Joseph, my father," she told him. When he stepped inside to greet his host, he was not surprised to see him seated in a wheelchair.

"Mr. Mathews, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," Rothschild said with a smile that mirrored his daughter's. He rolled his wheelchair towards him before stretching out a hand. He was dressed casually but smartly, and his hair was as white as his neatly trimmed beard. Jason estimated that he was in his mid to late sixties, although his eyes – alert and shining with intelligence – appeared much younger. He bent forwards to shake his host's hand and was surprised by the strength in his grip.

"Pleased to meet you, too," he returned. "And just call me Jason."

"And please call me Joe. So you've had the pleasure of meeting my lovely daughter," he said with a wink. "She's my guardian angel."

"I certainly have." He looked over at the smiling yet slightly red-faced young lady, noting again her natural beauty.

"It's a shame your wife couldn't also be here today," he continued. "She seemed very enthusiastic about the paranormal. How is she?"

"I haven't made her my wife yet," he replied with a grin. "She's staying with an aunt in London at the moment. I sent her there to keep her out of harms way. If I'd known you were going to invite us up here, I would have waited another night."

Rothschild nodded his head. "That's a deep shame, but never mind: at least you are here." He began to roll his wheelchair forwards, towards the open doorway. "With full knowledge _and_ first-hand experience of a paranormal attack, no less."

"That's right, unfortunately."

"It may seem unfortunate at the time, yes, but how rare an opportunity it is to experience something that has and always will baffle mankind." He glanced over his shoulder. "Please forgive me. I'm chattering on already and I haven't even offered you any food and drink yet. How rude of me. I'm a rotten host."

"Not at all," Jason replied and looked back at Abby. She lightly placed her hand on his shoulder and led him back out of the door and into the dining room where Joseph Rothschild was guiding his wheelchair towards a small bar area to one side of the bay windows.

"I expect you are hungry as well as thirsty after your trip," he called out to him as he parked by the low bar top built to the height of his chair. "Abby has prepared some dinner, and you are welcome to join us. Roast chicken, I believe."

"Oh, I don't wish to impose," Jason said, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I've already had a bite to eat on the way, and I must find a hotel before we begin our –"

"There's no need for that," Rothschild interrupted. He had two glasses on the bar top and was now reaching for a collection of liquor bottles, reminding Jason somewhat of Victor Gwynne. "We have plenty of rooms in this house. And we have plenty of chicken to go round, too. Abby does all the cooking here – she insists on it, don't you my dearest?"

"That's right. We have no servants here," she said humorously. "Do you eat meat, or is there anything you can't eat?"

"I can eat just about anything," he replied as he slapped his tummy. "Don't worry about that."

"That's good," Abby said as she turned away. "Dinner will be in about half an hour."

Her father thanked her before returning his attention to his guest. "I will make you tea or coffee in a moment, but would you join me in a little pre-dinner tipple?"

"Well, maybe a small one, please," Jason replied. "I'll have what you're having. What do you normally drink before eating?"

Rothschild turned his chair slightly in order to face him. "That would normally be a glass of port, so shall we go for that?"

"Certainly." He was now feeling more relaxed in his company.

"Then sit yourself down in one of those chairs," he told Jason as he reached out for the bottle of vintage ruby port. "We have so much to talk about."

Over dinner, they mainly spoke about their lives, although Jason mostly listened to Joseph Rothschild's stories of his wild adventures during his younger years to prove or disprove the existence of the paranormal. He became fascinated by his experiences and discoveries on every continent, his numerous close shaves with death and his theories and conclusions for each incident. His last great exploit before being forced to give up his paranormal investigations took him to a small island in the far east of Asia. Here he joined forces with the Buddhist monks to fight against what he believed to be a demon spirit dwelling within a deep cave.

"If you don't mind me asking," Jason said while they sat drinking their after-dinner coffee at the large dining table, "how did you become wheelchair-bound?"

Rothschild firstly glanced over at his daughter sitting silently on his left side before looking back at his guest seated opposite. He gave him what appeared to be a sorrowful smile before replying.

"It was in Florida during the promotion of my book 'Super-unnatural' back in nineteen ninety-four when I had a car crash. I was travelling back to our hotel with my wife, Lilly, after a book conference when this car came hurtling up behind us seemingly from nowhere. After he overtook me at a great speed, I noticed in my mirror that there were cops chasing him, although they were quite some distance away. I began to slow my hired car more in reaction than as a precaution, even though the speeding car had already passed me by.

"But it did no good, though, because what turned out to be three armed robbers in a stolen car had a blow-out right in front of me. It spun out of control, collided with the front of my car, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in hospital. I had spinal injuries that resulted in me being confined to this." He tapped the armrest of his wheelchair. "But my poor, dear wife had it worse. She had severe head injuries and died on the operating table. It's ironic, really. All those times I've had skirmishes with death during my investigations, the worst happens on a peaceful drive back to my hotel. The only thing I was thankful for was that Abby was not with us, although the news hit her badly, of course. She's my only child. You must have been only seven years old at the time, weren't you dearest?"

"That's right," she said.

"Because we were to be in the States for a couple of months, Lilly's sister took care of her in this very house while we were away. It turned out that I was away for a little bit longer than planned, and returned accompanied by a wheelchair instead of her mother."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Jason said.

"It was many years ago now, and one must not dwell on the past. Now Abby has grown into a very well educated young lady, haven't you?"

"Yes, daddy," she said with her cheeks glowing red again. She stood up and began to collect the empty plates. "But I'm sure you've both got more important things to talk about than me."

"She's got degrees in psychology, sociology, religious studies, parapsychology... more than I can remember," he continued defiantly. "She's even been on many of her own investigations."

"She's a real chip off the old block," Jason said as she took his plates. Their eyes met for a few seconds and he felt a flutter in his stomach, reminding him of his schoolboy days when he had crushes on some of the pretty girls.

"All that and she chooses to look after this old fool instead." He chuckled and backed his wheelchair away from the table. "Come now, my friend. Sit over here with me and we can try sorting out the problem you and your good lady have found yourselves in. And the entire town, by the sounds of it."

Jason followed his host into the hallway and through another door. The living room where he entered stretched from the front to the rear of the house, and what he saw made him stop in mid-step and stare with awestruck amazement. To him, Rothschild's spacious living room looked something between Buckingham Palace and a museum. Adorning each of the four walls almost from floor to ceiling were many framed paintings, artefacts and ornaments, although it was far from having a cluttered or gloomy appearance. Flanking the large stone fireplace were two tall glass cabinets displaying an impressive collection of relics, more artefacts and curiosities, obviously from Rothschild's travels. Three crystal glass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling with its decorative plaster cornice that matched the archway and pillars central to the room.

"Wow," Jason near whispered after continuing onwards towards the rear of the room where many antique-looking chairs awaited. "You have quite a home here. It's a damn shame my Sophie's not here to see it."

"Maybe another day," Joseph replied. "I've lived in this house for so many years now that I don't appreciate these things anymore. You probably noticed that there's no television or modern gadgets in this room to spoil the effect other than a hidden security camera. I keep all the entertainment and technology up on the next floor. I mostly sit here in the peace and quiet eating words – that's my little pet name for reading. Not to be confused with having to eat one's words, which I've had to do many times in the past."

"Like the Winston Churchill quote," Jason put in.

Joseph grinned at his comment. "'I have never developed indigestion from eating my words'." Then he chuckled and gestured towards a bulky high-backed chair. When Jason sat down, he was pleasantly surprised how comfortable it felt.

"This manor house was built in sixteen sixty-two, not long after King Charles the second came to the throne. These walls could tell a few stories of their own, I bet, just like the items I have within my cabinets."

"Have you lived here all your life?"

"Mostly – from the age of about ten or eleven, when my mother and father finally returned from Africa where I was born. My father was an amateur anthropologist and archaeologist as well as a businessman, you see, spending most of his spare time in countries like Egypt and Kenya. He sometimes travelled to the Middle East, too – he's the one I obviously got my mad taste for adventure from. This very house has belonged to my family for generations, and when I'm gone it will be passed on to Abby." He slapped the flats of his hands onto his thighs, making two sharp reports that filled the silent room. "Anyway: enough about me. You didn't travel up here to listen to my life stories, so let's continue with the affair back at your home. You were telling me about your attack just before we broke for dinner."

Jason cleared his throat before speaking. "That's right. Sophie said she first noticed there was somebody or _something_ standing there in the kitchen when one of our cats began rubbing against what appeared to be a solid object, even though there was nothing but thin air."

Joseph sank back in his chair and began to brush the bristles of his beard absently with his fingers. "That's odd," he eventually said after a moment of silent deliberation. "Very odd indeed."

"Why?"

He looked up at his guest and held him with his pale yet captivating blue eyes. "Because all animals seem aware of a paranormal presence – they are much more sensitive than humans are to this phenomenon – and they are always wary if not deeply afraid of it. It just seems strange that your cats never showed the slightest sign of fear. Tell me: if a stranger walks into your home for the first time, would your two cats be cautious, or would they approach the visitor without apprehension?"

Jason had to think about this. "The male cat, Yang, is bolder than his sister, but he normally becomes friendly only after the new person has stayed for a while."

"I see," Joseph said, nodding his head. "Cats, like most domesticated animals, become accustomed to human behaviour, but a sudden paranormal visitation would alarm them just as much as us, maybe even more, whether the presence is malignant or not. It almost seems as though this spirit has been in your home on numerous occasions to have this effect on your cats. Even so, it is still unusual that they never retreated from it."

A chill ran up Jason's spine at the thought that Mortimer's murderous spirit may have entered their home many times before. "So you think that, apart from when Sophie was... _raped_ in bed and the recent attack, this thing could have been watching and following us before?"

"There's a big possibility, yes. Most short-term visitations, which are mostly demonic or poltergeist activity, tend to begin with minor incidents such as moving of furniture, noises and throwing of objects. This can then escalate into more personal, physical 'touching' that can sometimes turn violent." He pointed to the fading bruise on Jason's neck. "The evidence of this is clearly demonstrated around your throat. Because you already know who your attacker is – or rather, once _was_ – tells me that it has targeted you two for a specific reason. The fact that Victor Gwynne is your next-door neighbour and you have become involved with him has given it a reason."

"But what about the murders around town?" Jason asked. "Did this thing have a reason to kill them, too?"

"Of course it does," Joseph told him with a thin smile. "It is simply carrying on with its morbid hobby of butchering young women as before. I cannot say whether it really is Felix Mortimer doing the murdering or just a crazed copy-cat killer, but if yours and Victor's statements are true, then these murders will continue for as long as his restless spirit is free to roam the earth."

"And Victor believes he can stop him," Jason said. "He told us that he was the reason why Mortimer's ghost returned – brought on by his previous dabbling in witchcraft and his near-death experience – and therefore can be the one to send him back."

Joseph was about to speak when his daughter entered the living room carrying two bottles and three glasses upon a tray. She settled the tray onto a low coffee table by her father's wheelchair. "I thought that you two would be thirsty by now, so I brought you some wine." She turned towards Jason. "I didn't know if you preferred red or white, so I brought both."

"Thank you," he replied with a grin.

"You see?" Joseph said as he gazed lovingly up at his daughter. "She takes good care of her old man."

Abby looked back at Jason again. "He has me well trained. Does your lady bring you wine, too?"

"I must honestly say that she does look after me... Oh my God!" Jason suddenly leapt from his chair, pulling back his sleeve to check his watch. "Sorry, but I just remembered that I haven't yet phoned Sophie. I promised to call her as soon as I arrived, which was about four hours ago!" He plucked his mobile from his pocket. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Joseph said. "You may use our phone if you wish. It's in the hallway."

"I'll be okay with this," he replied and strolled towards the opposite end of the room whilst dialling Sophie's number. When he returned a little later, he found both Abby and Joseph sitting beside each other drinking wine.

"Sorry about that," he told them before settling back into his seat. "You know how they worry."

"I'm in no doubt that you would be too, if it were the other way round," Joseph said. "How is she?"

"She's fine, thank you, but I'm a little worried that she's going to get herself into trouble."

"Oh? How?"

"She wants to find Elizabeth or Judith Mortimer – his two daughters. She would prefer to speak to Elizabeth, but she's utterly convinced that Judith still lives somewhere in London, but so far had no luck in tracking her down. She's looked in the directory and came up with a few names, but none of them are her."

"It appears that her feelings are correct," Joseph said. "Although I learnt that Elizabeth immigrated to Australia back in the seventies, Judith, unless she has moved away during the last two years, is still residing in a North London apartment. For my ongoing research into the Richmond Cult, I found out where she was living and obtained her telephone number. But when I phoned her and explained who I was and why I was calling, she told me in more than one way to 'go away' before slamming the phone down on me." He chuckled at this. "So I never tried again, although I believe I do still have her address and number."

"Really?" Jason sat up straight in his chair. "If you have, then that would save Sophie a lot of time and grief... although I would prefer it if she just forgets the whole damn thing. I don't know what she'll achieve by talking to her – she's a bit of a loony, I heard."

"Yes, she has had a shady life, I believe. And I doubt if she could be of any help, even if she will talk to her." He looked over at his daughter. "Would you mind finding my old diary from two years back? You'll find it in the bottom drawer of my desk in the study.

"I know the one," she said before rising from her chair and heading towards the door.

"Thank you, dear." Joseph then plucked a clean glass from the tray and held it before his guest. "Would you care for a glass or two of wine?"

"Yes, please. I'll try the red."

Joseph filled the glass and handed it to him. Jason had only taken a few sips when he heard Abby's elegant footsteps approaching.

"I've found it," she said and handed the diary to her father. Joseph thanked her before leafing through the book until he found what he was looking for.

"There you are," he said, offering the open diary to his guest. "I have the address and also her land-line telephone number. Whether any of them has changed in the last two years, I don't know."

"May I give these details to Sophie?" Jason asked as he took the diary from his hand. "If I phone her now, it will save her a lot of time and effort."

"Certainly," he said. "Although I doubt she'll have any more luck than I did."

It was almost midnight before Abby bid goodnight and retired for the night. The two men now sat sipping whisky as they continued with their conversation, mixing general talk and topical issues with their ongoing debate on the paranormal. By now, the alcohol and the recent distress was taking its toll on Jason and he felt that he would soon need to climb into the big, comfortable-looking bed Abby had prepared for him in the guest bedroom. Joseph, too, was beginning to show the signs of sleepiness, and Jason though it best to wait until his host decided to end the night's discussion.

"It seems that now she has Judith's address, she won't bother phoning. I tried to talk her out of it, but she insists on meeting her in person."

"I don't believe she will physically harm her," Joseph returned. "If Victor Gwynne turned up on her doorstep, then she would. But not her. Verbal abuse should be the worst she'll get."

"Have you ever met anybody from the Richmond Cult? Maybe not the secret group that Victor and Mortimer became involved with, but from the original cult?"

"Yes I have. A few years back, when I first started researching the Mortimer's Mark case, I met two members who knew and spoke to Felix. One of them – I think his name was Roland – was in a hospice, dying of cancer. He told me the most, although he also had no idea what went on within this section that Felix got involved in, whose members were sworn to total secrecy. It appears that the Richmond Cult dabbled not in actual witchcraft but with psychic phenomena, such as telekinesis, mind reading, psychic healing, predicting the future – that sort of thing. Of those members who began to show signs of strong psychic abilities, Richmond, their spiritual leader, invited them to join this special group. So, if your friend Victor told you that they dabbled in black magic, then it was purely within this secret unit, although I rather doubt it was as heavy as devil worship."

"Victor told Sophie that it was a gentlemen's club before admitting it was a cult," Jason said. "Were there any women members?"

"I believe there was, though only a few compared to their male associates. Although this chosen group which Felix and Victor belonged to had only five all-male members under Richmond's leadership."

"Victor said his so-called 'brotherhood' dabbled in contacting the dead, and may have found a portal into the afterlife. He said it was a possibility that Mortimer may have been possessed or driven insane by what he witnessed. Do you think this probable?"

Joseph sat silently for a moment as he pondered upon Jason's latest question. "I consider it a possibility, yes. Although he did have a drinking problem and had spent time in prison for burglary, it didn't automatically make him capable of butchering women. On the other hand, many seemingly normal, respectable people, such as Ted Bundy, became vicious serial killers. As for being possessed or affected by what he dabbled in... it all depends on your beliefs."

"What do _you_ believe?"

Within the subdued lighting of the large room, Joseph's smile appeared too wide for his thin face. "I've seen a lot of things in my time as an investigator that would bring you sleepless nights for the rest of your life. Before you told me of your paranormal attacks within a town plagued by serial killings mirroring the Mortimer's Mark murders, I would have said that Felix was no more than a disturbed individual. The trauma caused by his wife's premature death, his alcoholism and his dabbling in black magic would have without doubt toppled him over the edge. Now, with all the evidence from what Victor told you and your supernatural visitations, I am forced to rethink my beliefs."

"And do you believe that Victor can 'exorcise' Mortimer's spirit?" Jason asked just before his jaw stretched open in a wide yawn.

"Looks like you need to get some sleep, unless I'm boring you." Joseph chuckled as he eased his wheelchair forwards.

"Far from boring me," Jason replied, "although you're right about me being tired." He slowly stood up, stretched his arms above his head and yawned again. "Excuse me."

"Go and get a good night's rest – I need to myself – and we can continue the conversation in the morning, if you wish." He led the way through the living room and back into the hallway. "I assume Abby showed you your bedroom and where the bathroom is?"

"She did," Jason told him. "Thanks for that."

Joseph smiled. "You're welcome, young man, and I bid you good night."

Jason shook his hand, thanked him again and began to climb the stairs. After taking the first few steps, he turned back to his host who remained in the hallway, watching him from his chair. "You never told me if you believe Victor can get rid of Mortimer's spirit. What if he can't? What if something goes wrong when I'm with him tomorrow?"

Joseph closed his weary eyes. "This I cannot truly answer, my friend." He opened them again and stared solemnly up at him. "All I can say is that one must have extensive knowledge and experience as well as faith to exorcise a spirit, which I don't believe Victor Gwynne has. If I were you, I would seriously reconsider helping him tomorrow."

Jason simply nodded once, turned and continued up the staircase with his head held low, seemingly weighted with fearful thoughts.

### Chapter 18 – Concealment of the Past

November 24th

While Jason was tucked-up in bed at Joseph Rothschild's home, sleeping off a mild hangover, Sophie was up early for her unannounced visit to Judith Mortimer's apartment. At just past nine in the morning, she climbed into her car and headed towards Barnet in north London, hoping that the address given by Rothschild was correct. Her nerves, already jittery in anticipation of a hostile reception, almost got the better of her and she was on the verge of turning her car back round when her sat-nav announced that she was nearing her destination.

She arrived in an estate that, even in broad daylight with nobody in sight, made her feel edgy. The grey slab apartment blocks with their lower regions gloriously decorated with graffiti appeared to surround her like waiting giants beneath a cold, blue sky. Litter blew across her path as she guided her car into a space beside an abandoned supermarket trolley, and although Sophie was satisfied she had found the correct address, she was reluctant to kill the engine.

It took her another ten minutes before she summoned the courage to climb from her Nissan. The only sign of life was a distant barking of a dog as she slowly made her way towards the entrance of Seymour Court, the sound of her heels appearing far too loud within her ears. Once inside, she made her way to the elevator, pushed the call button and waited, having nothing but the white, graffiti-coated walls to look at.

It seemed an eternity before the lift arrived, and when she stepped inside, the faint smell of urine greeted her. Slipping the single piece of paper with Judith's address from her jacket pocket, she re-read the floor number and pressed the desired button, praying that the goddamn machine does not break down halfway up.

As the elevator ascended, making an occasional, light grinding sound that did nothing to ease Sophie's nerves, she plucked her phone from her pocket and considered calling Jason. Just as she was on the verge of tapping out his number from memory, the elevator came to an abrupt stop before its doors slid reluctantly open. Holding the phone tightly in her hand as if for comfort, she stepped into a long corridor that looked surprisingly tidy compared to what she had seen so far.

Now her heart was thumping in her chest and she told herself not to be so ridiculous: she was simply calling on an elderly human being, not a man-eating troll. The shrill cry of a baby behind a closed door filled the corridor as she counted down the apartment numbers until she found Judith's flat near to the end. Here she stopped and stood silently before it, the hand not holding the phone opening and closing in anticipation, wanting yet not wanting to press the doorbell. Her mind began to recite the words she would say as her free hand slowly rose to press the button, the script within her head repeating again and again like a stuck recording.

Releasing a long hiss of breath, Sophie waited patiently for the sound of footsteps behind the door. When none came, she pressed the bell again. She waited and waited. After pushing the button once more and lightly but firmly rapping against the door for good measure, she gave herself two minutes before she would turn back round and walk out of here.

"Come on," she whispered as she fidgeted on her feet. _She's out and about_ , her mind replied. _It may be Sunday, but she could be out buying a paper or walking her dog, if she has one._

Then came the sharp sound of one... two... three locks turning, startling her enough to take a step backwards. There must be a lot of crime around here, Sophie mused absently, although that did not surprise her in the least, and she even managed to smile at her own stupid thoughts.

When she finally came face to face with Felix Mortimer's youngest daughter, the visualization of what she may look like almost perfectly matched. Sophie could clearly see that she had once been a very beautiful woman, but now the ordeals of life and what could be alcohol or drug abuse had not been kind to her features. She was fully dressed, although her puffy eyes and dishevelled, lank grey hair gave the impression she had just woken up from a deep sleep.

"Yes? What do you want?" she almost barked as she peered suspiciously back at her through the slight opening in the doorway.

Sophie cleared her throat and began to speak, but it appeared that her ready rehearsed script had now deserted her in her moment of need.

"I... I want... I am," she began clumsily, but then she reminded herself again that she was talking to a mere woman, not a man-eating troll. Sophie cleared her throat again, put on her best friendly smile and tried once more. "Good morning. My name is Sophie Skinner. Sorry for calling on a Sunday morning, but I really need to ask you something."

Judith's eyes narrowed to fine slits. "Ask about what?"

"Sorry... but are you Judith Mortimer?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. What do you want?"

Sophie's mind went blank, and all tactics were lost. "I want to ask you about your father, Felix. It's just that I –"

"You're a journalist, aren't you?" Judith snapped. "I've already told you lot to fuck off before!"

Sophie's tongue stumbled. "No... no, I'm not...It's just that... I live in a town called –"

"Who are you?" the woman snapped again. "I don't want any of you coming round here again asking questions about my father. It's my business, not yours!"

"But I'm not a journalist Mrs..."

Judith slammed the door shut in her face, leaving Sophie to continue speaking through its woodwork. "...Mortimer. I just thought that maybe you could help me!"

There was a sound of another door unlocking and a middle-aged man dressed in just a pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt that barely stretched across his ample midriff stepped from the next apartment to see what the commotion was about. Sophie did her best to ignore him as he stood eying her up and down whilst absently scratching at his crotch.

"Please Mrs. Mortimer, I don't wish to offend you but I need to ask you something," she continued defiantly, although her mind was screaming back at her to simply walk away. "You see, I live in Upperhampton where all those murders are happening, and my next door neighbour is Victor Gwynne."

There was no reaction. Sophie released a sigh of frustration before turning away. The nosey neighbour now had a lewd grin on his face, and she gripped her phone even tighter. Just as she was taking her first hurried steps back towards the elevator, Sophie suddenly remembered something and she returned to Judith's door.

"You probably know him as Victor Godwin. He lives in the house next to mine. Do you remember him?"

Still no reaction. "What's the use?" she mumbled to herself as she shook her head with resignation. Then, just as she was stepping away again, there was a sound of a catch turning within its frame before the door swung widely open. Judith Mortimer cautiously poked her head beyond the doorway.

"You know Victor Godwin?" Her voice had lost its anger and now sounded curious if not puzzled. "You say you personally _know_ him?"

Sophie nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Judith just stared back at her for a moment, seemingly considering something. "Then you'd better come in," she finally said.

It was warm and bright inside Judith's apartment, and although the carpets were threadbare in many places, the rooms Sophie had seen so far were clean and tidy. Judith took her surprise visitor into the living room before disappearing for a few minutes, giving Sophie the chance to look at some of the framed photographs, many now faded with time. The one that caught her attention the most was a slightly yellowing picture of two adults and two young girls, each displaying a wide grin upon their faces. By the amount of pebbles in the background as they huddled together for their photo, she guessed they were on a trip to the seaside. Sophie assumed that the broad-shouldered, dark-haired man was Felix Mortimer, proudly crouching beside his wife and their two little girls, Elizabeth and Judith.

"That's better," a voice came from behind and Sophie turned to see Judith walk back into the living room donning a pair of spectacles. Her shoulder-length hair appeared much tidier than when she first saw her peering behind the door as though she had taken the time to brush it. "I can see you properly now I have my glasses on. What did you say your name was?"

"Sophie," she replied with a smile.

"Oh, that's right." She fussed about the coffee table as if searching for something, appearing somewhat confused. "Sophie..."

"I'm really sorry for bothering you Mrs. Mortimer. I didn't want to just turn up on your doorstep like this, but I didn't know what else to do."

"Not at all, not at all," she continued to mumble as she fiddled with magazines and leaflets. A little while later, she suddenly straightened and looked directly at her guest. "You say you're definitely not a journalist... reporter or whatever they call themselves these days?" she sternly asked. "You're not in here to trick me, are you?"

"I assure you that I'm not," Sophie returned softly. "I am nothing to do with the newspapers or T.V. I'm actually a florist."

"Oh... a florist," she said as she turned away and began fiddling with ornaments upon a cabinet by the doorway. "How nice..."

Sophie drew in a deep breath in readiness to deliver the speech she had prepared earlier. "Mrs. Mortimer, the reason I am here today is to –"

"Would you like some tea or coffee?" Judith asked cheerfully. "I was actually making myself a cup just before you called."

Sophie, appearing as though she had just been slapped across the face, forced a smile. "Oh, yes please. Tea would be great. Only the one sugar, please."

Judith nodded her head and disappeared from the room again.

"I thought the world had forgotten me," Judith told Sophie as they sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. "It was only after those murders in your town started when the bloody press began knocking at my door asking questions about the past, as if I had anything to do with it." She shrugged her shoulders and huffed. "Well, they certainly can't pin that one on my father this time, can't they!"

"The press have also been harassing Victor, too, on many occasions."

"Good," she replied with a smile of satisfaction. "That bastard deserves everything he gets, which is never enough!"

"You seem to blame Victor for your father's death. Do you know something that he did – something bad against your father?"

"Now you're sounding like one of those journalists," she said brusquely, and Sophie braced herself for another outburst. But Judith only smiled weakly and relaxed back into her wooden chair. "It's because of him and those other members of that... bullshit witchcraft club he belonged to why he got hanged. They knew of something but never told, just to save their own rotten skins. I know they were lying and had something to hide. I saw it within their eyes outside the Old Bailey – especially in Godwin's."

Sophie waited patiently while Judith sipped her tea in silence, her eyes appearing distant as she delved back into her memories of a turbulent past. When almost two minutes passed without her uttering a word, Sophie risked asking another prying question.

"Mrs. Mortimer, I heard from Victor that you attacked him once outside his home. Did you try to get at any of the other members?"

"It's _Miss_ Mortimer, but you can just call me Judith." She gave her visitor a warm smile that appeared to take some years away from her face. "Although I did get married and divorced twice, I prefer my maiden name. I'm not ashamed of it; quite the opposite." She sighed and drank what remained of her tea before answering the question. "I wanted to get all of them, really, especially Godwin. I waited until I gained a little size and independence before I found out where he lived and attacked him with a wooden bat I stole from my old school. I would've killed him if his neighbour hadn't have stopped me. I almost did his wife, too. They put me away in a borstal for girls for a while. I was only sixteen."

"His wife's been dead a few years now. He lives on his own."

Judith only shrugged her shoulders.

"But why Victor? Why him the most?"

"Well, it was that old weirdo Richmond who I hated the most, but he was already dead and burning in hell. As for Godwin... I knew he had a big part in it."

"Big part in what?" Sophie pressed.

"He was the one who became friendly with my father – or pretended to be. He even turned up at our house a few times after their funny cult sessions. I never liked him back then, when I was just a little girl; there was something I didn't trust about him. Anyway, at the trial he proved what a genuine friend he was by practically condemning him himself."

"But Victor said he only saw you the one time, and that was during the trial," Sophie said.

"He lied. He spoke to me and Liz a few times at our house. He even drank whisky with my father once or twice. I remember. I know he had a part in framing him or setting him up for the murders. I can't prove anything or say what they did, but I just know it."

"But the police did find the murder weapons in your home and close to the body with your father's prints on it, if you don't mind me saying." Sophie was sure that this would raise Judith's temper, but she continued to sit calmly in her chair, her face showing little emotion.

"Maybe he was the one who put those weapons there. They belonged to my father, yes, but who could say that he didn't sneak them out of the house, kill those girls with them and put them back again?"

"Didn't they mention this in the trial?"

"I think they did, but nobody believed it."

"What does your sister believe?"

"She believes father was innocent, too, but it never affected her the way it did with me. She's living in Queensland now – been there for years – and I only see her every now and then when she comes over here for a visit." Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood up. "Would you like another drink? All this talking has made me dry."

Sophie looked down to see she had not yet finished her first cup, although it would be almost cold by now. "No thank you," she replied. "And I hope I'm not keeping you from anything."

Judith remained silent for a moment as she fussed about the kitchen preparing her drink. Sophie continued to drink her lukewarm tea more out of politeness and sat patiently waiting for her to finish.

"After they put me away for a while I got into further trouble," Judith continued as she stood at the worktop with her back to her visitor. "I got into taking drugs, such as pot and LSD, broke into people's houses, joined a rough biker's gang for a while..." She turned and stepped back to the table with a fresh cup of tea in her hand. "I even became a hooker at an early age, after living on the streets for a short time. I was locked-up for prostitution twice." She let off a shrill chuckle as though she was simply telling a joke, although there was not a hint of humour within her haunted eyes. "Yes, I was one seriously fucked-up individual, pardon my French. I did improve at one stage and got married, but that never lasted long. My second husband got drunk every day and beat me regularly until I was a bruised and bloody heap on the floor. I miscarried twice because of his violence and found I could never give birth no more. After I left him, I practically became an alcoholic myself up until only a few years ago." She stopped to sip from her steaming cup. Sophie waited patiently again.

"Yes, I was badly affected by what happened to my father, and I lay most of the blame on that bastard Godwin, or whatever he calls himself these days. I looked for him again not long after being released from borstal, but I couldn't trace him. I had no idea he changed his name, and in those days I didn't have the money or the know-how to find him. I thought the cold-hearted bastard would be dead by now, but it looks like he's still hanging on." She went to take another sip when the dreamy, far-away look in her eyes suddenly cleared. "So what are you here to ask me about, then? Has Godwin sent you here?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Mort... Judith. It's just that I wanted to find out more about what really went on within the Richmond Cult. I've heard Victor's side of the story, but I was wondering if your father ever told you anything about the cult." Sophie decided against mentioning the paranormal visitations, knowing that this would surely put an end to their conversation and possibly earn her a boot up her backside for good measure.

"He never spoke of what he did within that place to me or Elizabeth: we were both too young. Do you know why he joined it? No, of course you don't. My mother died not long before he joined that place. All he wanted was to contact her spirit to see that she was okay. That was all he wanted. He was not a bad man. He was put away in prison once for burglary, did you know? But he was harmless. He was a drunk only after mother died. Sometimes my Aunt had to take care of us while he was at his worst. We would stay at her house until he sorted himself out again. It happened only two or three times. He just missed my mother, that's all." She smiled warmly. "But they're together now – two innocent souls." She stopped to take a few more sips of her tea. "Huh, telling my personal memories to a virtual stranger. Not many people ever got near enough to get that chance!"

Now lost for words, Sophie decided to keep quiet in the hope that Judith would continue spilling memories of her father of her own accord. When she happened to look down into a corner by the door, she noticed an empty dog's bowl with the words 'Hungry Little Mutt' on the edge.

"Oh, I never realized you had a dog," she said with a grin. "He must be sleeping somewhere."

Judith's eyes followed her visitor's, although she already guessed what she was looking at. "That was Misty's bowl, but she's been dead seven months now," she said ruefully. "Not had the heart to get rid of it, as silly as it sounds. She'd been my only loyal companion for years."

"How sad," Sophie said. "What breed of dog was she?"

Judith managed a smile. "A Jack Russell terrier. Feisty little thing – a real character. I had her for about fifteen years."

"I have two cats. I've had dogs before, too. I wish they'd live as long as humans do." Sophie leant closer to Judith across the table. "The trouble is I get too upset about losing them."

"Me too," she replied. "But it will be my turn soon."

"Your turn? What do you mean?"

Judith looked directly into Sophie's eyes. "I'm dying." She said this with no emotion in her voice or face. "I've been diagnosed with incurable cancer... spread too much, so the doctor's say."

"Oh, my God." Sophie straightened in her chair. "I'm so sorry..."

"They tried chemotherapy a while back but it did no good in the end. I've been in and out of hospital more times than I care to remember. The doctors tell me they want to keep trying, but now I'm just tired of it all. Well, I've abused my body for most of my life with drink, drugs, smoking and rough living, so I suppose I'm lucky for lasting this long. I've not had the happiest of lives, as you probably guessed by what I've told you."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sophie was at a loss what to say, and this was the best she could think of.

"There's nothing anybody can do now, I'm afraid," she told her with a weak smile.

"But if you need someone to talk to... I live on the south coast, but you can always phone me if you need –"

"Thank you very much, but that won't be necessary." She made to stand up again then relaxed back into her chair. "Well... maybe I could have your address so I can write to you, perhaps. I'm not the one for using phones – never got on with them – and would much prefer to write a letter if that's okay?"

Sophie grinned and immediately reached for the pen in her jacket pocket. "If I had my handbag with me, I could've given you one of my boyfriend's business cards," she told her. "But if you get me a piece of paper, I will gladly jot it down for you."

Without a word, Judith slid one of the newspapers on the table towards her. As she began to write her address on a clear section on the front page, she happened to notice the headlines in bold print: MORTIMER'S MARK MURDERS ARE BACK AGAIN! Glancing up at the date, she realized that the newspaper was from November 11th – almost two weeks ago. "Victor has been mentioned in the papers, did you know?"

"To tell you the truth, I haven't bought another one since that issue or watched the news broadcasts, either," the older woman said as she watched her visitor writing. "I just didn't want to know anymore about it."

"I'm sorry that I dragged up all your bad memories." Sophie pushed the paper back towards Judith. She picked the newspaper up, read what she had written and neatly tore the section out before folding it into the top pocket of her blouse.

"Don't worry about it. I've had two journalists turn up on my doorstep not so long ago because of those new murders. I told them both to sling their hook." She smiled again, and this time it appeared more natural. "Would you like a fresh cup of tea or coffee?"

"No thank you," she said and stood up. "I'd better get going now. I've kept you long enough."

"It's been good talking to you," she returned as she rose from her chair, "although I wouldn't have believed it to start with."

After Judith led the way back through the short hallway and opened the front door, Sophie buttoned her jacket and adjusted the collar – it felt markedly cooler once she stepped from the apartment. "Thanks again for your time, and sorry for my intrusion."

"Don't mention it. It's been good to talk, really. I should do it more often... what time I do have left."

Sophie reached out and took her hand. Her skin felt too cold and too soft. "Remember to write to me. Make it soon. I hope I can be of some help and comfort in some way."

The old woman smiled. It was a sorrowful smile, but it brightened her face nevertheless. "I will. Take care, now."

Sophie turned away, thought about something and turned back again. "One more thing, if you don't mind me asking."

"Of course not."

"This may sound odd but..."

"Go on," she prompted when she hesitated.

"Do you think there's a possibility that your father was... _possessed_ somehow by what he may've dabbled in? Have you ever thought about that?"

It firstly appeared as though Judith was too shocked to answer, but she was only giving herself time to consider her question. "I don't believe in such things as demons and witchcraft, and neither should you. My father was innocent of those crimes, and whoever did murder those four young girls was born evil, not possessed by it."

Sophie simply nodded her head, thanked her one last time and turned away. The sound of Judith's numerous locks turning echoed through the corridor as she briskly walked towards the elevator, now eager to be back within her car. To her, it sounded like a prison door closing, and she thought of Felix Mortimer waiting in his death cell for the day the hangman arrived.

Having enjoyed a midday dinner of roast beef, Yorkshire puddings and vegetables, Jason now relaxed in Joseph Rothschild's study as he sifted through various books in his substantial collection. Being such a clear, dry day, Abby and a friend were riding her two horses beyond the house's grounds, leaving the two men together to chat about the forthcoming 'exorcism' with Victor Gwynne.

"I wish I could just see that old book he has," Joseph, now wearing his reading glasses, told his guest as he wheeled his chair back towards the large oak table central to the spacious room that occupied the entire lower east wing of the building. Within his hand, he held yet another volume from his extensive collection on the occult. "You say it must be an unpublished book – or diary – containing the works and discoveries of Henry Richmond as well as Victor."

"That's what he told us," Jason said as he sat within a shaft of strong sunlight below a bay window. "I had a quick flick through it but never really read anything. It looked very old, especially the first half."

"Would this first half be from Richmond, or from another author?"

Jason shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot honestly say. Maybe there were others who wrote in it, but..." His forehead suddenly creased in concentration. "Wait a minute... I _do_ remember him vaguely telling us that somebody else wrote the book prior to Richmond... somebody who had the knowledge to perform this so-called exorcism. I'm sure of it."

"But you cannot remember his name?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't; my mind was not exactly focused that evening, having just been thrown across my dining room by the Invisible Man."

Joseph chuckled. "No, I certainly don't blame you." He opened the large, dusty book, wet the tip of his index finger with his tongue and began leafing through the yellowing pages. There was a pleasant sweet and musty smell of old paper dominating the air. It reminded Jason of libraries and second-hand bookshops he used to visit as a boy.

"Do you think your lady would remember?" Joseph was now looking at him above his spectacles. "It seems she had more interest in the subject and chatted a lot to Victor. Maybe she would know."

Jason considered this. "You're probably right. She has a much better memory than I have, especially when it comes to names. I should phone and ask her."

"That would be a great –"

The sudden warbling of a mobile phone filled the stillness of the room and both men froze at its sound. Recognizing the ringtone as his own, Jason reached for his phone and flipped it open. "That's odd...we were just talking about her. It's Sophie."

"Speak of the devil and he doth appear," Joseph said with a smile.

"Excuse me while I answer this." Jason rose from his comfortable chair and strolled towards the far side of the room holding the phone to his ear. When he ended the call a few minutes later, he turned to Joseph, who was waiting eagerly for the news.

"She found Judith. She was hostile to begin with but softened-up in the end."

"Wonderful!" Joseph snapped his book shut and slid it across his desk. "Now I'm really jealous: first you find that a member of the Richmond Cult is your neighbour and now you get to talk to Judith Mortimer."

"Apparently, she's dying of cancer," Jason added.

Joseph dropped both his eyes and his smile. "What a shame... what a sad end to a sad life." He sat in silence for a moment before looking back up at his guest. "Did she say much else?"

"Mostly that her father was totally innocent of the crimes and that she lays the blame on Victor and the other secret cult members."

Joseph nodded. "That doesn't surprise me in the least. I knew she wouldn't believe her father was the real perpetrator. That was why she attacked Victor Godwin all those years ago."

Jason approached his desk. "But just suppose Mortimer _was_ innocent? What if those murders were actually committed by another?"

"Then that wouldn't make sense of your unwanted visitor," Joseph said, and Jason's brow rose questioningly. "If Felix Mortimer was not the real killer, then why would he return from the dead to re-enact a crime he was wrongly accused of?"

"Well... to seek revenge, perhaps."

"To seek revenge? Seek revenge with whom? Victor would be his only target if he was the one who set him up or betrayed him, but so far, he has been left unharmed. No, it doesn't make sense."

"Unless... unless he was being controlled somehow," Jason said doubtfully.

Joseph began rubbing at his beard while his mind chewed over this possibility. "It's plausible," he eventually said, "but not probable. It has been done before – I know that for sure – but one must have considerable knowledge to have an influence over a spirit. Unless your good friend Victor is the bad guy controlling him through knowledge learnt from Richmond and this book, I don't believe this to be true."

"I don't either," Jason said. "He seems genuinely upset by what's happened and wants to stop it." He was returning to his chair when another idea struck him. "What if this spirit is not actually Mortimer but somebody or _something_ else?"

"That's possible, too," Joseph agreed, "but to continue in the same style as the original murders still means that this physical spirit is the original killer, whoever that may be." He released a long sigh. "It seems that we have a big puzzle where none of the pieces fit."

Jason glanced at his watch. "I should really be going soon. Looks like I will finally discover the truth tonight, anyway. I'm worried about that old man... what he may be getting himself into."

"I have reasons for persuading you from doing so," Joseph told him. "I don't like the sound of this. Maybe I should come with you..." He became silent for a moment before saying, "Did you get the name of that book's author?"

"Yeah, I did, but Sophie could only remember his surname. It was... it was _Locard_ , I think."

"Locard?" There was a look of astonishment on his face. "Francis Locard? Surely it can't be the same man..." He turned his wheelchair round, headed towards one of his many bookcases and began searching across the rows of book spines. "My God, if this is true, then it would explain the reason for the Eye of Providence. How could I be so stupid for not making the connection?" With his fingers slipping across each title he scanned, it was not long before he found what he was looking for.

"Here it is!" He brushed a hand across its front cover. "Concealment of the Past – a book by Philippe de Molay. He was a French writer on the occult from the late nineteenth century. One of his subjects was of a French monk called Francis Locard, who caused terror and mayhem within the small village of Bonnu in Cuzion around seventeen seventy-two until his mysterious disappearance around seventeen seventy-five. Locard never actually practiced witchcraft as far as we know, although the villagers at the time accused him of sorcery."

Joseph, carrying the book on his lap, steered his chair back to the desk. "That would explain the cats' behaviour," he mumbled mainly to himself. "That would also explain how the murders were done and why there were no traces... no evidence." He reopened Concealment of the Past upon the desktop and began to search through the pages. "Locard painted the Eye of Providence on a large canvas, which he left behind after his disappearance. Unfortunately, it was destroyed in an accidental fire many years later. Here it is."

He turned the book round so that his guest could look at the illustration of Francis Locard painting. Although the police had not yet released any pictures of the current victims' mutilations to the public, he could compare the similarities from the original Mortimer's Mark autopsy photographs from the newspapers.

"The Eye of Providence has been used many times throughout history," Joseph began as he studied the page. "It was first used in ancient Egyptian mythology, then as a symbol for the Holy Trinity as well as in witchcraft and other religions. To this day, the Freemasons use it. Even the Great Seal of the United States and the one-dollar bill has it."

"Did this Locard kill people the same way?" Jason asked. "Did he cut markings into his victims, too?"

"No, he didn't. He only killed and spied on people for his own personal gain. Nobody suspected him for a long time. Richmond must have studied Locard and tried to achieve what he accomplished. Maybe that's what the secret group was for – the book Victor has proves this. And it now looks like he or somebody within the cult did achieve it, however."

"What was it then?" Jason asked, puzzled. "What did they achieve?"

Joseph continued to leaf through the pages. "If I'm right, then this changes everything... absolutely everything." After silently reading a few lines from the text, he looked up and held Jason with his gimlet eyes. "You had better pull that chair over here, my friend. We have a lot to discuss. If I am right about this, you and Sophie's lives are in grave danger."

### Chapter 19 – Grave danger

It was just after seven in the evening when Victor Gwynne answered his door to find his neighbour standing on the doorstep. He gave him his best welcoming smile before inviting him into his cosy home. By now, it was full dark outside and what little warmth the sun had brought died along with its light.

Once inside the living room, Jason sat and relaxed in the usual place upon the settee opposite Victor's chair. He listened to the old man's shuffling footsteps in the kitchen as he prepared their hot drinks.

"How's Sophie?" he called. "Is she still away?"

"Yes, she is," Jason replied. "She's staying at her aunt's until I say it's safe enough to come home."

Victor reappeared carrying a tray in both hands. He placed it upon the table between them and eased into his high-backed chair with a small sigh of gratitude. "That's better. It's been a busy weekend. How about you?"

Jason took his mug of tea from the tray. "Busy, too. I've been away to visit someone."

"Oh, that's good," he replied as he stirred his hot cocoa. "It was a nice day today, and a shame to stay inside. Was a bit nippy first thing, but the sun warmed things up eventually."

"I heard about the recent murder just down the road. I suppose you have, too."

The old man firstly nodded his affirmation then shook his head with pity. "Yes, it was another terrible shock."

"So I hope I'm not too late for this... exorcism, Vic. Are you still going through with it?"

Victor took the mug away from his lips, gave the biggest grin he could muster and pointed at his face with his free hand. "You see this? You see this smile I made for you?" He saw the mystified expression on his neighbour's face and laughed. "I've already done it, son. While you were away, I performed the ritual right here within this room and banished the evil spirit of Felix Mortimer forever!" His eyes turned towards the floor and he mumbled, "Well, I hope forever, anyway."

"Wow! How did you manage it?" Jason asked, although the look upon his face did not match the delight in his voice.

"Mostly from the knowledge from that book I had, the one you brought to me while –"

"While in hospital," Jason finished. "The book by Francis Locard."

"That's right. You remembered!"

"Were you scared?"

Victor shrugged his shoulders and screwed up his face. "A little."

"Did it take long?"

"Not as long as I feared. Maybe half an hour.... forty minutes after summoning him."

"Did you see him?"

"Only at the last moment before he left this physical earth. And yes, it was definitely Mortimer."

Jason slowly nodded his head, his eyes wandering as his mind drifted. The room became silent except for the constant ticking of the wall clock. Victor sat quietly in his chair as he sipped his hot cocoa, gazing curiously at his neighbour.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Jason eventually said, his words a statement more than a question.

The relaxed look within the old man's eyes suddenly changed to one of puzzlement. "What was that, son?"

The wall clock ticked and ticked as the two men stared at each other across the coffee table.

"I said: it was you. You're the murderer."

Silence again. Only the continual ticking.

"I don't quite know what you mean, son."

"Yes, you do. You're the murderer of the first four girls in the fifties and you are the one who murdered the others in this town."

Victor shook his head. "I don't understand. You've lost me."

The knowing smile that slowly spread across Jason's lips made the old man's mouth gape open. His fingers became weak and he almost lost his grip on the mug, spilling a small amount of hot cocoa on his lap.

"No more telling lies, Victor Gwynne... or Godwin. I know the truth now and I know how you did it. You've murdered eleven people, maybe more, and somehow I will put a stop to it!"

Sophie Skinner glanced into her rear-view mirror to ensure that there were no police patrol cars before putting the phone to her ear. She had left the motorway and was now on the duel carriageway heading south towards Upperhampton, and she estimated that she should get back home within the next forty to fifty minutes. She sighed when Jason failed to answer yet again, and when his voice mail offered her to leave a message she hung up – she had already left four messages already. Instead of putting the phone down again, she dialled their home number in the hope that he was back at the house.

"Come on... answer the damn thing," she muttered under her breath. Now her hands were beginning to tremble. Although Jason had a habit of leaving his phone on silent mode, this time she believed he was purposely not answering. "Don't do this to me..."

Sophie hung up again and threw the phone onto the passenger seat with frustration where it bounced into the darkness of the footwell. "Shit!" she hissed, knowing that if Jason happens to call back, she would have to stop the car somewhere to find it. She began to reach out to search blindly with her left hand before wisely thinking better of it.

"Why did you lie to me?"

Sophie thought again of the recent phone conversation with Joseph Rothschild while at her aunt's house, and of how worried he sounded as he began to explain that Jason insisted on going back to meet Victor Gwynne that night. She told him that this could not be, because he had called her only an hour before to let her know he will be staying an extra night in Dorset, and that she must stay in London until the following day. Joseph then told her of what they had uncovered, and as soon as he finished explaining his theories, Sophie was on the verge of tears.

"This can't be true... I can't believe he would do such a thing," she blurted, although somewhere in the back of her mind she had always suspected the old man was lying. As ludicrous as Joseph's findings were, the big, mysterious puzzle now began to fit together.

"I don't know what Jason plans to do," he continued, "but he should never let Victor know we suspect him. I warned him not to, but I doubt if he'll heed my advice. My daughter, Abby, has decided to drive to your house to make sure he's not in any danger... I have tried to reach him on his mobile, but he hasn't answered so far. Maybe you'll have better luck."

"I'll try again myself," she replied. "Then I'm going back home, too."

Now a cold sweat broke out on Sophie's forehead as she sped back towards home, knowing in her heart that Jason would definitely confront the old man – he had a score to settle for raping his girlfriend.

Sighing with frustration, Sophie waited for a space in the next lane before overtaking a shabby-looking Mini, pressing her foot harder upon the accelerator.

And little did she know that the driver of the Mini Cooper was heading towards the exact same destination.

"Are you out of your mind? I'm an eighty-four year old man recovering from a heart attack. How in hell can I physically go about murdering people in the middle of the night?" Victor gave a short, sharp bellow of laughter and sneered at him. "I was even in hospital when the first girl was killed, so how do you explain that!"

"Because it's not your physical body that's actually doing these murders, isn't it Vic? It's not the ghost of Felix Mortimer returning from the grave to continue his hobby of butchering women, but yours. Although you're not actually dead yet."

The humourless smile on Victor's lips suddenly dropped. "I don't know what you're on about."

Jason relaxed back into the settee. Although his heart was now racing with trepidation and conflict induced adrenalin, he wanted to display a sense of calm, albeit false calm. "I found out how you do it. I found out how you killed those women without leaving any evidence behind. I found out how you sneak into people's homes without them seeing you. I found out how you blamed everything on a ghost of a man wrongly executed for murder. And all this you done while safely tucked-up in your warm bed." He pointed at his mug. "Is that why you're drinking cocoa instead of coffee these days? Is that because you need your sleep a little more now?"

Victor, sitting relaxed and composed in his chair as he listened, suddenly sat bolt upright, spilling more of his hot drink onto his lap. "You're talking absolute bullshit! After all that has happened, after all that I've said and explained, you want to pin those murders on me?" He dropped his voice to a softer, sorrowful tone. "I though you were my friend, son. I thought I could trust you... You're breaking my heart."

"I'm not your son," Jason said bitterly. "I would want to be your son no more than I'd want to set my testicles on fire." He clenched his fists and bared his teeth, relishing in the new distress clearly showing within the old man's eyes. "And you touched my Sophie. You sneaked into our house and... and you..." He lowered his face to the floor. "I should kill you for that!"

Victor slowly shook his head. "You're wrong. You are terribly mistaken. Whatever you've read or whoever you've been speaking to has seriously misled you. You must –"

"I know it's you!" Now Jason's controlled composure was slipping away and his face burned a deep red. "I know what that old book of yours is about. Francis Locard was a man who experimented with astral projection. I know that people who had these experiences claim they are like spirits who can pass through floors or walls, but this man found a way to become physically solid as well as being completely invisible. Somehow you've found a way to do the same, and I think you did it back in the nineteen fifties to kill the other girls, too."

Victor's mouth was now comically agape as he sat in stunned silence. The room fell still yet again as they stared wide-eyed at each other across the table like two opposing gunslingers. Only the clock broke this stillness with its continuous tick, tick, tick, tick...

"Okay. Fuck it. Yes it was me." The corners of the old man's lips slowly rose. "I don't know how you finally found it out, but you are partially correct. I guess it was that author Joseph Rothschild who you spoke to?"

Jason remained tight-lipped. Not only was he reluctant to affirm his supposition, he was momentarily speechless.

"Never mind; it doesn't matter now. Henry Richmond gave that book to me just before he died of an inoperable brain tumour. It seems absurd that a man with so much power and knowledge couldn't save himself.

"I was already familiar with the book, of course, because we members of this secret group – as Sophie put it – were studying it closely. You're right about Francis Locard. He was a monk who once had a near-death experience after a horse-drawn coach accidentally hit him. This is when he found himself floating above his own body. After that, he had regular out-of-body experiences where he could travel about unnoticed. Then, with focused concentration and years of practice, he finally achieved his ultimate goal: to be able to physically touch and move objects while still in his out-of-body state. But instead of putting his newly-found talent to good use, he decided to terrorize the local villagers."

"Just like what you're doing," Jason said.

Victor scowled at him before his face softened again. "I suppose you're right. I can't exactly argue with that. Locard suddenly disappeared without a trace after the villagers realized who was doing the raping and murdering, but his documents and notes did not. Henry Richmond acquired this book after opening his first occultist club back in the late nineteen-twenties, and since then he became obsessed with achieving Locard's skills. However, it was not until I became a member when he did finally achieve it. He knew he was dying, and he was desperate to fulfil his dreams. He accomplished the art of leaving his physical body at will many years before, although his disembodied spirit could not touch or move objects as Locard had done. Henry taught each of his cult members how to master astral projection, singling out the most successful in this phenomenon. With those members, who included me, he formed the special group to further his experimentation in the hope that one of us could do as Locard had.

"Then one day, during one of our sessions, he had a convulsion because of his tumour and we rushed him to hospital. On his return some days later, he suddenly found that he was able to touch and feel and lift objects while in his out-of-body state. It was incredible!"

"That was when the murders started?" Jason calmly asked.

"Not straight away, no. Henry put his newly acquired skills to the test. He would mostly play tricks on people by moving things about before them, frightening them... that sort of thing. Sometimes he used to invite us to places to observe his pranks." Victor smiled at his next memory. "I remember he once told us to meet together at a fancy restaurant in London's West End. We were all having our meals, waiting for Henry to show, when suddenly, from the next table, a very attractive woman dining with her husband or fiancé screamed out. When she stood up after feeling invisible hands upon her body, she fell across the table, had her dress yanked up high above her waist and her underwear pulled down to her ankles right in front of the entire restaurant diners."

The grin on his face suddenly dropped, his face becoming grave. "This is when the sexual attacks started. From that moment on, Henry had a taste for sexually abusing women. The other members of the special group began to protest against his actions, so he began to conduct his little escapades in secret."

"Was Felix Mortimer a special member by this time?"

"Not yet. He joined us soon after, just before the murders started. I new Henry had some plan up his sleeve, because Felix had shown no sign of astral projection capabilities, yet he insisted on making him a member of our special order. My suspicions were correct, because one night whilst relaxing at my home, I had a visitation from Henry – in the flesh, this was. He told me he had just raped some girl in his out-of-body state and left her for dead. He wasn't ashamed of what he'd done but quite the opposite, and wanted me to see for myself. He took me there that same night, to a dark alleyway in Camden, where I found Mary Hodges well and truly dead. Henry had cut her throat from ear to ear with a broken bottle, and cut a symbol of an eye into the skin of her breasts. That, as you now know, was the emblem we used for our special group."

"Locard used it," Jason said. "The All-Seeing Eye depicted his state of invisibility, and how he could watch people unnoticed."

Victor grinned. "Boy, you have been doing your homework, haven't you? Yes, you are correct." He paused to finish his cocoa and put the mug down on the coffee table, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. "Although now we had a problem, because there was an identifiable mark clearly displayed across her breasts. When I saw what looked like the number one sliced into her skin, I knew he intended to kill more."

"So she was the first victim," Jason said bitterly, "and you're going to tell me that Richmond killed the other three."

"No, no..." The old man closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can easily lie to you again about this, but I want to – need to – tell you about what happened. You are the only living person who will ever know the truth."

Jason smirked inwardly. We'll see about that, you old bastard, he thought.

"This is where Mortimer entered the picture," Victor continued. "Not only was he a drunk and a depressive, he happened to be an ex-convict. Henry made out that Felix had a special ability for astral projection just to get him into the private group."

"You were going to use him as your scapegoat, in other words," Jason said and shook his head in wonder. "I've got to admit it: you two certainly had things worked out."

"That was his plan," Victor agreed, "because he wanted to do it again, but with me watching. A few months later we agreed on a night and a place where we would take our next victim, and with me watching in the shadows to heighten his pleasure, he struck again. He raped Pamela Martin before cutting her vagina open with a knife I supplied him. It was strange watching this disembodied knife coming down again and again until..." The old man became silent once more, his mind brooding on private thoughts.

"Did you join in?" Jason eventually asked. "Tell me the truth, Vic. You owe me this much!"

"Yes. I did not rape her, but I did the final act of slitting her throat and cutting the symbols and the number two into her flesh."

"So you were a team," Jason muttered under his breath.

"That's right, and now we had our scapegoat if and when the police tracked us down. Richmond knew he was dying, so he had nothing to lose."

The old man reached across the coffee table and picked up a small bottle of pills and a full glass of water. With slightly trembling hands, he fumbled two tablets from their container. "These are for my heart," he told him before swallowing them with a chaser of water.

"Was a damn shame you didn't die that day and done us all a favour."

Either not hearing or caring about his last comment, Victor continued. "But soon after, the police rounded all the members of the Richmond Cult's special group to the station for questioning. A detective called Jack Squires led the case, and he somehow discovered that we used the All-Seeing Eye for our symbol. I had my suspicions that it was one of our own members, Alfred Burrows, who informed them, although all the members were outright afraid of Henry to fully spill the beans. They had no other evidence to pin on any of us so they had to let us go. Anyway, because the police were seemingly watching our every move and hot on our trail, I had to get out of this situation before they somehow managed to prove it was me."

He paused to take his final pill before returning both bottle and glass to the table.

"This is when our plan came into effect. After I became extra friendly with Felix Mortimer, he invited me back to his house a few times after our sessions to meet his two daughters and have a drink. This is when I took the opportunity to sneak a kitchen knife from his home. Another night, I carefully broke into his garden work shed and stole a hammer from his toolbox.

"We needed the police to quickly catch their killer, so for our next victim, Josephine Barrymore, I bludgeoned her with the hammer, although Henry cut her vagina with another broken bottle. That same night, whilst in his invisible state, he returned the bloodied hammer to Mortimer's shed for me and hid it. Only a few weeks later, I did the same with Sarah, only I used his knife and left it near the crime scene in a park in Edgware, which was close to Mortimer's house. Again, Henry mutilated her genitals."

Jason was now glaring at him with naked contempt. "You seem to take some kind of sick pride from your achievements. And it seems you couldn't wait to get back to your old murderous ways!"

Victor simply shrugged his shoulders as though he was merely criticising his fashion sense. "Of course, once Mortimer was arrested, I stopped, got married, settled down, opened a book shop... I used to practice astral projection from time to time, but I eventually grew tired of it. That was, until I had a near death experience at the hospital where I found myself standing next to my physical body. It was no real shock to me, being that I had done this many times before, but I suddenly found that I could touch and move things." A devilish smile spread over Victor's face at his next memory. "I pushed one of the nurses over in the corridor to see if I was correct, and she blamed one of her colleagues!"

He began to chuckle, saw the fierce look on his neighbour's face and immediately stopped. "Anyway, after this I found that I can feel pleasure and pain only if I wanted to, and that I simply lose my solidity and return to my body when I naturally wake up. With years of practice, I can now easily put myself into a trance and induce astral projection.

"Well, you know the rest of the story. I killed the first girl of this town in her cosy little home. Another night, I followed and killed that same nurse from the hospital. I never intended to kill her boyfriend, Graeme the porter, but he got in my way."

"You murdered two people who likely cared and treated you in your moments of need. Why was that, Vic? Did you take a fancy to her... to all the sexy nurses?"

Victor simply shrugged his shoulders indifferently and continued. "But the first nurse I followed – the second intended victim – was unsuccessful."

"Huh! You were bitten by her dog," Jason said gleefully. "I read it in the papers."

The old man shook his head. "No. It was not the dog who stopped me but that old, nosy bastard in the next bed to mine."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember the old fool in the next hospital bed? While I was asleep and on my jaunt, he began nosing around my things, probably looking at my book. I was on the verge of taking my next victim when the old bastard knocked a vase onto the floor and woke me up. I suddenly found myself back in my body again, and damn near had another heart attack! Since then, I made sure nobody else disturbed me."

Jason recalled reading about a suicide in the newspaper. "He was the man who jumped out of the window... It was you again, wasn't it? That was no suicide. You threw him out of the fucking window!"

The cruel smile was back on the old man's lips. "Not just him, but that other nosy bastard journalist who hounded me. I reckon he sold me off to the bigger papers. He got what was coming to him."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? You've got a new lease of life now you're back to butchering people again!"

He shrugged this off once more, his countenance revealing neither emotion nor inner thoughts. "I wanted to torment the police for my amusement, too. They don't have a clue. I've visited their headquarters many times in my invisible state to listen to their so-called progress. All they have are poor, insufficient casts of my footprints, being that my unconstrained spirit has weight. I can now play as many games as I like, although now I feel I must stop."

There was a burst of mocking laughter from Jason. "Stop? Why would you stop? You're enjoying your evil little self too much."

The old man sighed. "I don't expect you to believe me, but the whole reason behind my bogus exorcism was to make you two believe that I had banished Mortimer's spirit. I have no intention of continuing with the Mortimer's Mark killings, and found this to be the best way to conclude it. I've had my moment of madness, and now wish to put an end to it all."

Jason was far from convinced. He stood up and began pacing the room. "No, you won't end it. You'll swap the attention-seeking murders to the more discreet 'accidents' where you can pick-off anyone for the least excuse... And spy and rape anyone you choose, like you did with my Sophie!" He suddenly strode over to the old man's chair and leant menacingly towards him, their faces only inches apart. Victor cringed back into the supporting cushions, his body tensing with expectation of physical attack.

"You sneaked into our house and raped her, didn't you? On the day she invited you into our home and gave you food and drinks and gifts..." Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke through clenched teeth. His face was now the colour of deep crimson. "You violated her, you rapist pig. I should break your scrawny little fucking neck for that!"

But Jason did no such thing. Instead, he slammed one fist into the chair's worn armrest, discharging a puff of age-old dust into the air. He released a stifled, frustrated scream of anger as he turned away. "Bastard!"

Relaxing slightly, Victor leant forwards. "And I'm genuinely sorry for that. My physical body never touched her; you must understand that. I got carried away and honestly didn't mean to do it. It was just because I... I _cared_ about her."

"Oh, I bet you cared about her. I bet you cared about how it felt!" He pulled the neck of his sweater down to show him the fading bruise around his throat. "You threw me and Sophie across the room the other day, do you remember that?" Now there were tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. When he next spoke, his voice was low and croaky. "I thought I was your friend, Vic. We done everything to make you feel welcome and... and you betrayed us."

The room fell silent again. The clock ticked onwards before chiming the hour of eight o'clock.

"I suggest we just sink back to where we were before," Victor said. "I say we go about our business like before where we were just two neutral neighbours. You'll go your way, and let me go mine."

Jason glared at him incredulously. "Are you out of your mind? Do you really expect us to be able to live next door to a psychopath who can sneak up and kill you any time he chooses?" He shook his head. "No way, Vic. I'm not going to let you get away with this, you fucking murdering sonofabitch."

Victor chuckled at this. "Go ahead, be my guest. The cops will show a great interest when you start talking, especially when they finally discover the weapons that killed the last victim in the subway just beyond our street."

"What do you mean?"

Victor held his visitor with his captivating eyes. "Listen to me. What I'm telling you now is the whole truth. I could have easily denied your accusations until I was blue in the face, but I know I'm safe from any repercussions. It's my word against yours if you decide to take this further, although it would be a very unwise choice to make."

"And why is that? The police have already been here to question you, so you must be a suspect."

"They only think there's a possibility that somebody I may know is recreating the Mortimer's Mark murders because they know of my past history. If you go to the police spouting such things as astral projection and murderous spirits, they'll lock you up far quicker than they would me. Besides, I have a guarantee that will ensure that _you_ will get the blame for these recent murders."

"Go on, let's hear it," Jason replied as he glared defiantly back. "How could I be blamed?"

"By the same way I framed Mortimer." That crooked, taunting smirk was back again. "Have you ever wondered what happened to your kitchen knife? How about a wood chisel from your toolbox?"

"Knife... toolbox?" Jason's face reflected his confusion, then, as realization dawned, it gradually reflected his horror.

"At my birthday party, I decided to take a couple of souvenirs home with me. The knife that you cut the cake with and one of your chisels I found on the landing hallway for repairing the floorboards became a handy murder weapon for my latest victim. Each one will have your fingerprints on. I made sure that none of my own touched them."

"You sneaky little shit," Jason seethed. He clenched his fists again but remained rooted.

"Call it my little insurance policy, if you will. Only I know where they are hidden, and it could be a matter of days or less before the police find them. I could keep moving them so that they don't, unless you open your mouth."

"That won't work," Jason protested hopefully. "Sophie is a witness who can say I was at home when those murders happened. Also, the footprints they found won't match mine."

"Are you sure about that?" The grin widened. "While at your house I also took the liberty of trying on one of your shoes. It fitted perfectly. I'm now a little shorter than you are, but I was much taller when I was young, like yourself. My feet haven't shrunk, even if everything else has." He punctuated this with a humorous laugh that only he appreciated. "The police have only inadequate casts of my footprints and some photos, although the size is rather evident. Also, on the night of the last murder, you were on your own. This was why I needed Sophie out of the way. She could also be a suspect – an accomplice to the other murders. Do you want to risk involving her, too?"

The blood in Jason's face was burning like hot coals, but still he stood frozen and speechless as he glared wide-eyed with fury, hatred and creeping fear.

"Look out of the window, young man," Victor said, jabbing a finger at the parting in the curtains. "Look across the street at the car opposite."

Slowly, as if not trusting to turn his back on the old man, Jason did as he asked.

"There are two policemen in that car," he continued, "and they've been watching this house since last night, taking notes of who comes in and out. Detectives came to my house again yesterday, asking more questions about the people I knew. They also came knocking at your door not long after you left, so they obviously have you in their sights. I can easily 'confess' that you and Sophie had been in here many times asking me questions about the Mortimer's Mark murders long before they started."

Jason turned back round. Now it appeared that the skin on his face and forehead was beginning to boil with his anger. "This is it, Victor. You won't say anything because I'm gonna throttle the fucking life out of you right here and now. If I'm to be accused of any murders, it's gonna be yours!"

Headlights suddenly cut through the gap in the curtains just as he was stepping forwards with his hands clenching and unclenching. The sound of a car door slamming and hurried footsteps along the pathway to the next house followed. Jason suddenly spun on his heels. "Sophie?" He tore open the curtains just in time to see his girlfriend disappearing inside their home. "Sophie..."

"Looks like she can't keep away," Victor said light-heartedly. His neighbour turned away from the window to face him again.

"Just tell me one more thing."

"Go ahead."

"Why? Why did you kill those girls? Why did you do those things?"

The corners of Victor's lips slowly turned upwards. "Because I can."

"I'm not finished with you yet, Gwynne," Jason snarled before storming out of the house.

"Likewise," the old man whispered before closing his eyes and relaxing back in his chair. "Likewise."

### Chapter 20 – The final victim

Before Jason had a chance to slip his house key into the lock, Sophie swung the front door open wide and threw her arms around his shoulders.

"Thank God you're safe," was the first thing she said to him, then, "why didn't you answer your bloody phone?" followed shortly after.

Ushering her back inside the hallway, Jason began to explain. "I forgot to take my phone charger with me when I visited Joseph Rothschild. After I phoned you the damn thing ran out of juice."

"And that's another thing," Sophie continued as she kicked off her shoes. Her voice contained no anger but distress clearly showed on her face as well as in her words. "Why did you tell me you were staying over in Dorset tonight when you had every intention of coming back here? I only found out when I called Joseph after I couldn't call you. Why did you lie to me?"

"Darling... babes..." He was now following her into the kitchen. She went directly to the wine rack and randomly picked a bottle of Shiraz. "This is the reason why I couldn't tell you. I knew that if I told you the truth, you would come straight back here and put us all in danger."

"Well, I'm here now." After struggling with the corkscrew, she filled a glass each for her and Jason. "I never had any at my aunt's," she said as if to justify her drinking. "Here, have some wine."

"We can't stay here," he said and gently pushed the glass away. "We must get away from here for a while –"

"Why? What's going on now?" She drank half her glass before continuing. "Joseph told me that Vic was the one doing the murders and the haunting. Is that true? Can... can you believe something like that?"

"It is true. I've just been next door and I made him confess to everything."

"Everything? How much is everything?"

"Everything from his involvement in the original murders to how he can simply kill people in his sleep. He was the one who raped you that night, Sophie, and he was the one who attacked us both on Friday. That sweet, innocent-looking old man is a cold-hearted, sadistic lunatic."

Sophie only stared blankly back at him as her mind churned over her troubled thoughts. Yin and Yang's hungry meows were the only sound that broke the uneasy silence.

"So how does he do it?" she eventually asked. Her voice now appeared flat, almost listless. "Joseph said that he uses astral projection. How does he do that?"

While she stood behind the kitchen worktop and sipped more moderately from her glass, Jason repeated Victor's confessions, including how he planned to frame him for the murders. He watched her expression constantly change from surprise, disbelief, fear and disgust. When he finished she simply shook her head, reached for the wine bottle again and headed for the living room. "I need to sit down. My head can't take much more of this crazy shit. If I don't –"

The warbling of the phone in her jeans pocket startled her enough to emit a brief yelp. She quickly plucked it out and answered it. After a short while, she looked up at Jason and whispered, "It's Abby," before returning to her conversation. The last thing she said was her house number before hanging up.

"Abby?" Jason asked.

"Yeah. I forgot to tell you that Joseph's daughter is coming here because they are concerned about you. I gather you've met her already."

He turned away, scratching absently at his head. "Why go to the trouble? I told him what I planned to do... although it didn't quite go as well as I hoped."

Sophie released a long sigh. She appeared tired, afraid and irritable. "Well, whatever you said, she's almost here now." She drained her glass in three large gulps, placed it on the windowsill and turned back towards the doorway. "I'm going to have a quick shower now. Can you feed the cats for me, please?"

"I'm going to book us into a hotel tonight until we figure this situation out," Jason told her as he watched her stroll away. "Can't you shower then?"

"I need to freshen up now," her voice returned from the hallway. "And we don't need to book into a hotel, either." Sluggish footsteps followed as she climbed the stairs. "Answer the door when she arrives, will you?"

"Yes, darling," he mumbled so low that only he could hear. After the sound of running water came from the bathroom above, he went into the kitchen and picked up the full glass of wine that Sophie had poured him, deciding that he now wanted it.

"What the hell," he told the empty room before raising it to his lips. As Jason drank, his mind began to flash random images of his confrontation with Victor. Firstly, he saw the old man's face changing from calm and friendly to one of surprise and anger. The memory of the clock ticking endlessly between the tense moments of silence followed the sly, calculating look in his piercing blue eyes as he told him about his kitchen knife and chisel.

Jason's arm jolted and spilled what remained of the wine over himself when the doorbell suddenly chimed, soiling his sweater. He swore under his breath as he rushed into the hallway, hopelessly dabbing at the spreading red stain with a tea towel. "I'm getting it," he called out to Sophie as he headed towards the door. "She's here!"

Just as he was opening the door, expecting to see the angelic face of Abby Rothschild beyond, the memory of what Victor told him about inducing astral projection at will returned far too late to warn him.

"Hello," he said to the empty night before him. "Hello?"

Then invisible hands tightened around his throat and hauled him back into the hallway.

Judith Mortimer unknowingly parked her Mini Cooper behind an unmarked police car where two surveillance officers were conducting a stakeout on Victor Gwynne's property. Satisfied she had found the correct address she killed the engine and sat for a moment in silence, staring across the street at the row of terraced houses. Directly opposite she could see the house number that Sophie had given her during her visit earlier that day, and so she knew that either of the two flanking homes must belong to the man she had driven all this way to see.

After taking two, calming deep breaths, Judith opened the car door, began to step onto the pavement then remembered something extremely important. She ducked back in, opened the glove compartment and withdrew the object inside. After slipping it into the inside pocket of her long raincoat, she stepped back out into the dark, chilly evening.

Unaware of the two sets of eyes keenly watching her from the police car, she crossed the road, passed Sophie and Jason's house and continued to the gate of what she hoped was Victor's home. Except for the living room, where a sliver of light escaped from a gap in the curtains, the rest of the house appeared to be in darkness.

After looking up and down the street and finding it virtually empty of life except for one tabby cat skulking in the shadows, Judith opened the gate and stepped up to the front door.

Sophie saw the door to the bathroom slowly creak open as the shower began to spray the first droplets of warm water over her body. She expected to see Jason peep his head around the door to see if she was not too upset or simply to use the toilet, but as she started to squeeze shower cream from the bottle into her open palm, there appeared to be nobody there. Just as her heart started to speed up and unsavoury thoughts began to rise from the back of her mind, Yin suddenly appeared at the glass screen to meow in protest for still having an empty stomach.

"Oh, kitty," she said with a smile of relief. "Has your rotten daddy not given you any food yet?"

But Sophie was glad she was here, especially now she learnt that her cats seemed to sense Victor's presence, even if they were not afraid of him. As far as they were concerned, he appeared the same whether he was in his physical or spiritual form. She began to laugh when Yin stood on her back legs and leant against the glass already fogging from the steam, one paw scratching harmlessly across its surface as she attempted to find a way inside.

"You won't like it in here, silly, it's all wet!"

From downstairs, the sound of the doorbell ringing caused the cat to jump back onto its four paws again and slip out of the room, its curiosity diverted to the new visitor. Sophie began to smear the shower cream over her body when she heard Jason's voice calling to let her know that Abby had arrived.

Now feeling more refreshed by the soothing water and the excitement of meeting Joseph Rothschild's daughter, her sombre mood began to lift. Moments later, she was singing in a soft voice as she applied shampoo to her hair, unaware that at the foot of the stairs, her boyfriend was slowly being strangled to death.

But dying was not part of Victor's plan and Jason somehow knew that, even while he was pinned high against the wall by his throat. If he should pass out before he could scream a warning to Sophie, he would without doubt waken to find her dead, mutilated body and the murder weapon within his own hand. Therefore, he struggled, kicked and punched at the invisible yet solid form of his elderly neighbour, but soon his efforts against his supernatural strength rapidly began to ebb away.

So this is it, Jason calmly thought as the light began to fade and the pulsating dots before his eyes danced wildly. I'm going to lose the love of my life and be blamed for her and possibly all the other murders in this town while the old, murderous bastard sits in his favourite chair planning for his next victim. Life really sucks.

Upstairs, barely audible through the buzzing in his ears, he heard the bathroom door open followed by Sophie's concerned voice. "Jason? Is that her... was that Abby?"

Would she find out in time? Jason was willing her – silently praying for her – to venture out of the bathroom and just take that vital peep down the staircase to see him with his feet dangling inches above the floor. Only Yin the cat sat on the landing staring curiously down at the human stuck halfway up the wall.

But Sophie never did look. Instead, he heard the bathroom door click firmly shut again. Seconds later, the sound of the shower returned as Sophie stood naked, vulnerable and completely oblivious to the killer on the floor below.

With his heartbeat pulsating like thunder within his skull and the trapped breath within his lungs seeming to turn to fire, Jason attempted one final time to pummel against his invisible attacker with the last of his dying strength. His right fist came up high to take another swinging punch, but he caught the wall-light by his head and all but tore it from its fixings, pulling the wires from their terminals. A split second later, the electrical safety device tripped and the entire house went dark.

"Jason, what's going on down there... is everything okay?"

Those were the last words Jason heard before the world faded away.

Sophie stopped singing when she heard a thud from downstairs. She was just about to rinse the shampoo from her hair when the noise, faint yet evident, preceded another, stronger sound as if somebody was moving furniture about. She turned the shower off and listened, expecting to hear voices. Instead, an unnerving silence ensued.

Maybe it was not Abby. It would not be the post or canvassers at this hour and definitely not on a Sunday. Maybe it was Victor coming round to argue it out with Jason again. This last thought made her step out of the shower, wrap a towel over her dripping body and open the bathroom door enough to peep into the top hallway.

"Jason?"

There was no answer, no voices and no more thudding noises.

"Is that her?"

Only silence.

"Was that Abby?"

Shampoo dripping from her hair suddenly stung her eyes and she retreated into the steamy shower cubicle. Something was definitely wrong, but she had to quickly rinse the soap from her hair and face before she could do anything more. Now her heart was racing as she hurried in her task, feeling the dread and panic begin to rise.

Then the lights went out. Except for the faint light of the moon seeping through the frosted window, she was in total darkness

"Shit!" She grappled with the shower control and, after turning it off, searched blindly for the towel.

"Jason?" Now stark fear had replaced concern and unease, and she managed to find the doorknob in the dark and step out into the equally dim hallway. "Is everything okay?"

Wrapping a large towel around her wet, naked body, Sophie crept cautiously to where she knew the first step of the staircase would be, guided by a sliver of light from the streetlamp that shone through the opposite bedroom window. Yin gave a half-hearted meow from somewhere within the darkness.

"Jason, what's wrong, honey? Why has all the lights gone out?" Her voice, as well as her body, was now trembling. In the hallway downstairs, the street lamps also shone through a small window, creating a strange, yellowish pool of light. From what she could see, the hallway was deserted, and it appeared that the front door was ajar.

"Jason?" Maybe he went outside, she thought as she tightened the towel protectively around her body. Maybe to help Abby with her suitcases...

Then the first thump upon the stairs came, as if somebody heavy was ascending.

"Honey, is that you down there?"

The next thump came, followed by the creaking of the third step.

"You'd better say something or..."

Thump... thump...thump...

"Who is that?"

But now she already knew, even before she saw the brief flash of the yellow light upon the blade of her butcher's knife – a knife that was seemingly floating in mid-air and coming nearer on each footfall she heard.

"Oh, God, no," she whimpered as she felt the strength drain from her legs. "Please, not again!"

The simple plan Judith Mortimer put together played out yet again within her mind as she reached up to knock upon Victor's front door with one fisted hand whilst the other crept towards the inside pocket of her raincoat. Her heart, racing with a mixture of apprehension, excitement and guilt, almost stopped completely when the door swung inwards upon the first strike to reveal the semi-darkened hallway inside.

Her mouth gaped open. This did not happen in any of the many versions she imagined throughout the duration of her journey, and she stood upon the doorstep in utter bewilderment like a person lost in heavy fog.

She did not expect this, and her mind quickly began to amend her plan. What should she do now? Should she call out from the doorway or simply creep inside?

It did not take long to reach a decision, and after another furtive glance behind both shoulders, Judith Mortimer cautiously and silently entered the home of Victor Gwynne.

Sophie's legs, although feeling like they were made from soft rubber, never gave out in her moment of need. She ran blindly towards her bedroom and slammed the door shut, instantly regretting not choosing the bathroom with its lockable door.

But somewhere within the blackness, amongst the pile of her discarded clothes, was her mobile phone. Now her eyes had adjusted to the dark she could make out a deeper shade before her that had to be the bulk of the bed. In her panic she attempted to remember exactly where she put her phone, and being a creature of habit, it would likely be within the pocket of her jeans.

The sound of creaking floorboards approached as she grasped desperately at the garments, her hands feeling the material like a blind person until she recognized the shape and texture of her jeans. There was indeed a solid object within its pocket, but her relief was short-lived when the bedroom door crashed open.

Sophie had enough time to turn towards the doorway before she felt a cold, hard hand smash against the side of her face, making her scream out more with surprise than pain. A powerful shove with those same invisible hands forced her backwards onto the bed where the back of her head collided with the headboard, her neck jolting painfully on impact.

"Vic," she screamed as her arms and legs flailed about in the darkness. "Vic, I know it's you!" Her feet kicked Victor's invisible form, and the sensation was more like hitting solid marble than flesh. "Please stop... please –"

As she was attempting to clamber into a sitting position, another slap across her face snapped her head sharply to one side and sent blood spraying from her nose. She managed to remain upright, but the following blow was much harder, knocking her senseless. With a sound that resembled a discontented groan more than a scream, she fell back against the headboard in a stupor.

Sophie did not feel the icy hands upon the smooth skin of her legs, but as consciousness gradually returned, the sensation of the towel slipping from her body swiftly forced her back to reality. Her hands grasped at the material in an attempt to pull it back over her breasts but she felt too weak against her assailant's strength. Once the towel was tugged away, leaving her lying naked and helpless, her only attempt of protection was to curl into a foetal position.

"Vic, don't hurt me... I'm your friend," she pleaded. Tears were now stinging her eyes, not only from the blows, not only from fear of death, but for Jason. Somewhere downstairs in the darkness, she knew he was lying dead in a pool of blood. "Please, Victor!"

Then she felt the cold steel of her own butcher's knife trailing gently over her exposed buttocks, leaving a fine scratch in its wake. She froze in terror, her breath lodging within her throat, as it slipped towards her vagina. There it stopped moving, its deadly point resting upon her delicate, sensitive skin.

Sophie had time enough to release a weak, whimpering groan before Victor's solid fist crashed into the side of her head, knocking her into oblivion.

Although Jason was not lying in a pool of blood, he found that he was lying in an awkward position on the kitchen floor when he woke in total darkness. He did not seem to know where he was and why he was sprawled across a hard, cold surface, and for how long. His hand firstly came up to his throat where it felt as if he had been swallowing razor blades, then, as consciousness returned, the events of what seemed like a ludicrous dream came flooding back.

Jason groaned, winced with pain and eased himself into an upright position to lean against the kitchen unit. Within the darkness, with the glow of the moon creeping through the window as the only source of light, he saw two sets of glowing green eyes staring back at him. He froze in fear until he realized it was only Yin and Yang, still waiting patiently for their food.

Sophie!

The possibility that she was in danger jolted him from his restful position on the tiled floor and onto his unsteady feet again. His panicking mind screamed out as unspeakable thoughts entered his head – thoughts of Victor's mutilated victims with eyes cut into their breasts. Am I too late? How long have I been out cold?

Using the worktops as a guide, Jason headed towards the yellow glow in the hallway where he could see more clearly. He fumbled for the light switch and flicked it several times without success.

"Sophie!" he screamed, but what came out was a pathetic hoarse whisper that could not even waken the lightest of sleepers.

He knew they were upstairs, or at least Sophie was – alive or dead. His imagination tried to torment him with another image of a violated, butchered body, this one wearing Sophie's tortured face, and he struggled to blank it from his mind.

The front door was slightly open, and across the road, two police officers were sitting in an unmarked car. But going outside and asking for their help would lose vital time. And he believed time was running terribly short.

Jason turned towards the staircase with its black void beyond and began to ascend, not wanting to go but knowing he had no choice. Then a thought struck him and he quickly turned, fell to his knees and shuffled beneath the staircase. Somewhere within the blackness was the electrical mains box and he felt blindly about until his hand struck its familiar surface. It seemed to take a lifetime of fiddling with the switches before it returned power to the house. Light immediately filled the hallway and he quickly climbed back out of the cubbyhole and rushed up the stairs two at a time.

The first door Jason opened revealed an empty but still steamy bathroom. His hopes that he had been unconscious for only a few minutes began to fall apart on each step towards their bedroom door, which stood open enough to see a sliver of the bed beyond. Upon that bed, he could just make out a bare female leg.

He froze with his fingers gripping the door handle, his breath catching in his inflamed throat, his heart thudding too hard within his chest. Once he opened this door, he would find out for sure of Sophie's fate. Jason, forcing himself to continue, reluctantly swung the door open wide and stepped into the brightly lit bedroom.

Sophie was lying naked on her back. Her eyes were closed and Jason believed she was simply sleeping.

Until he saw the markings that resembled eyes and the number eleven cut into the flesh of her breasts.

It was strange that the old man should leave his front door open in the late evening, but Judith Mortimer assumed it was because he was either absentminded or Alzheimer's disease had set in. Maybe a visiting relative or friend had popped out for a few minutes, although that would not be a problem. Her own visit will be a brief one.

She found him slumped in a chair within the warm and stuffy living room – a room too hot even for her own standards. In his sleep, his mouth was hanging obscenely agape with a line of drool trickling down his chin. About every third intake of breath, he emitted a grunting snore that reminded her of a pig.

Because he is a pig, Judith thought as she stealthily approached. She took a good look at him as his head gently nodded back and forth. Yes, he did look like Victor, although it was God-knew how many years since she last looked at his face – a face that hid the evil inside.

Her hand found its way into the inside pocket of her coat again, and before she even realized what she was doing, her PPK automatic was pointing at his head. She had bought the gun this morning after Sophie's visit. All through her adult life, she had been involved in the criminal world both voluntarily and involuntarily, and she still had many contacts for purchasing certain items on the black market without any questions asked, although an old lady buying a gun did raise a few eyebrows.

The hand tightly gripping the automatic's handle was steady, although her nerves felt like faulty electrical wires. 'My heart feels like two cats fighting in a sack', her father used to say, and Judith dared to imagine yet again how his heart felt the morning the hangman slipped the noose over his head.

Now Judith aimed the gun between Victor Gwynne or Godwin's eyes. In a few seconds, she will pull the trigger and blow his shitty brains out. Easy. Whatever came after that, she did not care a hoot. In maybe a few months, weeks or even days, the cancer that was eating away at her body would end her life for sure. Now all she wanted was physically do what she had dreamt of since the government wrongly hanged her father for four murders he never committed, and then she will finally find peace.

But what if he's not Victor? Does he really look like the man I last saw over fifty years ago? What if the woman who visited my home this morning got it wrong? If I shot an innocent man, then will that make me as bad as those who incriminated my father?

Now Judith's hand began to tremble and the gun suddenly felt too heavy to hold. Her arm fell to her side and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, blocking the image of the sleeping old man before her.

"I can't do this," she whispered to herself. "I can't kill him."

"Sophie... darling... baby," Jason babbled between hitching sobs as he slowly approached the bed, feeling like he had no supporting bones inside his body. His arms were outstretched, his vision swam within hot, stinging tears, and his stomach churned at the sight of his beloved before him. Blood from her breasts and nose stained the white duvet she lay upon, but there was no indication that her genitals had been mutilated.

"I failed you. I'm sorry, baby... please forgive me!"

Sophie, upon hearing his voice, snapped her eyelids open and stared vacantly up at the ceiling. Jason took a surprised step backwards and his mouth dropped open. "Soph? Baby... you're alive, thank God!"

Her head, ever so slowly, turned to face him, although her eyes remained transfixed.

"Sophie?" He leapt the final distance between them and covered her body with his own, feeling the stickiness from her bleeding wounds soaking his sweater. He grasped her face with both hands and planted kisses upon her cheeks and forehead, ignoring the coppery taste of her blood on his lips. "Thank God you're still alive," he wailed as his tears and snot dribbled down onto her neck and breasts. "I thought you were dead... I thought you were –"

Victor's invisible hand grasped Jason beneath his chin and yanked his head backwards, holding him within a headlock. The pain was bad, but when he looked upwards, the sight above him was worse. Floating high in the air was a butcher's knife, the bright overhead light gleaming off its cold steel. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the sensation of the blade piercing through his chest, praying that it would be a quick death.

But that moment never came. Instead, he felt the handle of the knife slipping between his clenched fingers as Victor forced the weapon into his own hand.

"What are you doing?" he struggled to say through his compressed mouth, his head still locked within a vice-like grip. "Stop it... stop it!"

But he could not fight against him. The hand now holding the butcher's knife slowly inched towards Sophie's supine body as Victor forced his arm forwards. All Jason could do was watch in wide-eyed terror as the blade came to a stop above her bloodstained abdomen, poised inches above her delicate flesh.

"Stop it, Vic," he mumbled hopelessly from between clenched teeth. "I won't say anything about you, I promise... just let us go..."

Instead of stopping, the knife began to rise as Victor lifted his hand upwards. Sophie continued to stare vacantly ahead, her eyes never blinking as though in a deep trance.

"Please, Vic. Don't do this." But all he could now do was close his eyes tightly again and wait.

Wait for the moment his hand plunged the knife deep into her stomach.

When Judith reopened her eyes, she felt much calmer. The old man seated before her continued to snore, his head bobbing up and down with each intake of breath. He looked so innocent, so harmless, and she had to fight back the urge to feel pity for the frail looking old buzzard.

But she knew who he was, and she knew what he had done. The hand that held the gun, no longer trembling but steady, began to rise until the short muzzle of the PPK aimed directly at his head again. Her finger slowly began to squeeze the trigger. Then she stopped.

She has seen him now: he was no longer that tall, imposing, _menacing_ man but a pathetic aged bastard in the last years of his miserable life. Maybe a quick death was too good for him – a death far quicker and humane than the drawn out death she will soon suffer. Judith lowered the gun again and turned away, not wanting to look at the man who had haunted her for most of her days and sleepless nights. After releasing a deep, shuddering sigh, she decided that maybe revenge was not as sweet as she believed it to be.

She was on the verge of slipping the gun back into her coat pocket when something caught her eye. It was a framed photograph sitting upon a cabinet shelf at the opposite end of the room. Slowly, she stepped towards it, removing her glasses to wipe the lenses on her coat. Even before she picked the picture up and held it beneath the light, Judith recognized the young Victor and his new bride.

He looks so happy, she mused as she stood in the middle of the room. He looks like the king of the world standing there with his wife on holiday.

Incredibly, a warm smile spread across her lips as she gazed down at the photograph in her left hand. They must have had a good life together... going places and seeing things...

Living a fulfilling life that she and her father never had.

Then the last memory of her father returned – the memory that haunted her dreams ever since the final meeting at the prison before they hanged him. His face was calm and he was smiling, yet she could see the desperate sadness and fear within his eyes as he gave her his last goodbye kiss.

Her father, Felix Alexander Mortimer, snatched from her life and killed for a crime he never committed.

Judith lifted her arm and tossed the silver plated frame at the wall, emitting a war-like scream of fury. The glass holding the photograph smashed on impact and scattered onto the floor below. The old man began to stir, but he had no time to wake. Judith, still holding the gun in her right hand, turned, aimed and fired three shots into Victor's skull. The top part of his cranium tore open, sending blood and brain matter flying towards the opposite wall. His body rolled forward with the force onto the threadbare carpet where he settled with the mangled remains of his head touching the floor and his ass in the air.

Then there was silence again other than the tick, tick of the clock. Judith Mortimer remained frozen in position with the gun still pointed at the area where Victor sat only moments before. The smell of gunpowder filled the room, and a large patch of oozing blood and brain tissue now decorated the facing wall.

Yet Judith was aware of none of this, just as much as she was aware of the front door crashing inwards as Victor Gwynne's spirit returned, drawn back by the sudden demise of his earthbound body. The last thing she acknowledged during her short flight across the room and through the closed window was her reflection in the glass.

And she noticed that she was smiling.

Detective Constable Cutler, after seeing the suspiciously acting woman slip into Victor Gwynne's house, used this as an excuse to interrupt D.C Potter during his continuous drone about his failed marriage. The night sky was clear and cold, and his breath was visible after he unwound the side window to see more clearly.

A BMW Roadster had just parked a little further down, and Cutler watched as a young woman stepped out and strolled along the pathway, seemingly looking at the number of each house she passed. She was blonde, well dressed and very pretty, and by the car she drove and the stylish clothes she wore, he assumed she was also wealthy.

Interestingly, the house she sought was next door to Gwynne's home, and he watched as she opened the gate and walked up to the front door. He had already seen Gwynne's neighbour entering and leaving not long before, returning home when his wife or girlfriend appeared. He assumed he was doing his neighbourly good deed by checking up on the old man due to his heart condition.

Blondie, standing upon the doorstep within the light of the streetlamp, called out to the residents inside. D.C Cutler did not observe her knocking or ringing the doorbell, although he may have missed this action. She once more called out two names before pushing the door open and stepping inside the brightly lit hallway. Unless she had a key, the occupants intentionally or unintentionally left the door open.

A moment later, three distinctive gunshots erupted from Victor Gwynne's house and he immediately thought of the old woman who had entered his home only minutes earlier.

"Shit!" he gasped and turned back to D.C Potter. "Did you hear that? It sounded like gunshots."

"I thought I heard something but –"

"It came from Gwynne's house. Radio base right away."

Before his partner could reply, Cutler stepped from the car and rushed across to the opposite side towards Victor's gate. He stopped at the foot of the pathway, knowing that he should not enter a house where an armed felon was lurking. After briefly looking over his shoulder to see Potter on the radio, his worried face peering back at him through the car window, Cutler slowly edged towards the open front door, never taking his eyes away for a second. It was during this time when he felt what he would later describe to a colleague as 'a sudden gust air, as if somebody swiftly ran past me'. To his astonishment, the door to Gwynne's house crashed open as if invisible hands pushed it. Only seconds later, as he stood frozen in mid-step, a body came hurtling through the living room window.

Not thinking about endangering his own life but merely reacting, Cutler rushed over to the body of what appeared to be a woman lying on the grass of Victor Gwynne's front garden. Even in the poor light shining through the broken window, he could see that her head was face down upon the ground, while the rest of her body was facing the sky. Blood from numerous lacerations from the glass seeped onto the wet earth, appearing black within the dingy light. He did not feel the need to check her pulse for any sign of life – it was clear she was dead as dead can be.

"What's going on out here?" a male voice called from across the road. D.C Cutler stood up from his crouching position and hurried back to the gate. By now, many residents were opening doors or windows to see what the disturbance was about, some already venturing out into the street.

"Keep back or stay in your homes," Cutler yelled to the growing crowd. "This is a police matter!"

In only a few minutes, before the first of the police squad cars arrived with their light flashing and sirens wailing, and long before the armed police entered the scene, the majority of Queen Street's residents were watching excitedly from inside or outside their homes. Everyone was there it seemed, except for the occupants of Jason Mathews and Sophie Skinner's house.

After finally arriving in Upperhampton, Abby Rothschild followed the instructions of the sat-nav until she found the road where Jason lived. She managed to find a tight space amongst the numerous parked vehicles, killed the engine and sat for a minute looking across the quiet, shadowy street before climbing from the car. Normally she would take her cameras, recording equipment and her laptop computer whenever conducting an investigation on the paranormal, but this time she decided to leave it all in the trunk of her BMW, believing there would be no need for them on this occasion. If something was to happen between Jason and Victor Gwynne tonight, she believed it already had.

Abby reached into the pocket of her jacket for her phone then thought against calling her father until a little later. She began to search for the correct house, having to study the numbers in the semi-darkness until she found number twenty-one.

A sliver of light between the front door and its frame indicated that it was open, and Abby put her ear to the gap and listened for voices. No sound – television, music or activity – greeted her. Only dead silence. Her hand began to creep towards the doorbell button, but instead she simply pushed the door open a little wider.

"Jason? Sophie?"

Then she heard a male voice. It was very faint and strained, as though its creator took a great effort to speak. She listened intently, poking her head through the open door. The voice returned, seemingly from the floor above.

"Just let us go!"

"Jason, is that you up there? Sophie?" Abby stepped inside and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up.

"Please, Vic, don't do this," the voice came again.

Did he say Vic, as in Victor? She was on the verge of climbing the stairs when she heard what sounded like three loud reports, halting her in mid-action. Were they gunshots she heard, and did they come from up there?

No, they were too muffled and too distant to be coming from upstairs. Her head cocked to one side as she listened, but all she could hear was her excited heart beating. Maybe it was from next door...

This was all she had time to consider before heavy footfalls crashed towards her from above. Abby turned her head and saw nothing but the empty staircase before her, but her ears told her a different story.

Thump... thump... thump...

What felt like a brick wall hit her head-on and she flew backwards, landing on her back and knocking the wind from her chest. Although both her mind and body were stunned for a few seconds, she managed to witness the front door crash open as something invisible rushed outside.

Victor, she thought as she gasped for air. So it _was_ true. Eventually she caught her breath and managed to climb clumsily back onto her feet, but what got her running up the stairs two at a time was a female scream that chilled her blood. When she burst through the master bedroom door, she found Jason with a naked woman in his arms, sobbing against her blood-smeared flesh. A knife lay on the floor on top of the woman's strewn clothing.

"Jason?" she gasped, and although her voice was little more than a shocked whisper, he immediately turned in her direction and set his wide and terrified eyes on her.

"He was here," he sobbed. "Victor... he almost killed my Sophie!"

"He's gone now," she told him. "I heard gunshots, I think, from next door."

Jason did not appear to acknowledge this. He had already turned back to Sophie and continued hugging her tightly, rocking her like a child. Abby observed the blood on the sheets and stepped forwards. "Is she badly cut? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"No, you mustn't!" To her surprise, Sophie was the one who spoke to her. Her voice was composed but commanding. She gently pushed Jason away from her, and for the first time Abby could see the markings on her breasts. "We mustn't tell anybody about this. We mustn't tell the police what happened if we can help it."

"Yes, we must –" Jason began, but Sophie cut him short.

"What do we tell them? Do we tell them that an old man with a heart problem attacked us? Do we tell them that a _ghost_ attacked us?"

Jason looked as though she had slapped him across the face. "What do you mean? We can tell them he... he sneaked in and surprised us and –"

"It's too risky," she said weakly and wiped tears from her eyes. "Honey, we've got to think about this first."

Jason turned back to Abby. "What would you do?" His eyes were still wide and pleading, and for a brief moment, his face resembled that of a frightened and vulnerable boy lost in the woods. She firstly shrugged her shoulders before considering the question.

"In your situation, I would say nothing, although it would depend on what happens next."

"Thank you," Sophie said before slipping from her boyfriend's arms. She then got to her feet, standing naked on two trembling legs. "And it's nice to finally meet you, Abby, although I'm sorry that I'm not better dressed." She began to giggle – a tension-releasing laugh – as she grabbed the bath towel from the floor, wincing with pain on every movement. Before she wrapped it around her body, Abby took a more detailed look at her wounds, clearly seeing the eyes on each of her breasts and the number eleven slashed just below the collarbone.

"My God," she whispered. "You were his last victim."

From outside, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.

###  Epilogue

### Eternity

Abby was correct about Sophie being the 'last victim'. By the time D.C.I Lonsdale and D.C Purvis came to their door asking for witnesses and statements, both Jason and Sophie were composed enough to act ignorant yet totally shocked about the deaths of Victor Gwynne and a woman found to be Judith Mortimer, daughter of the hanged criminal Felix Mortimer. Sophie, with a little extra make-up to help hide her damaged nose, was able to answer any questions they asked, omitting all knowledge of Victor's murderous history and, of course, his supernatural abilities. Taking the risk that Judith Mortimer never spoke to anyone of Sophie's visit to her apartment, she never once indicated that she had ever met the old woman.

Forensics discovered that the only fingerprints on the gun belonged to Judith, and that it appeared to be a simple revenge killing – a score she had not settled for over sixty years – for the belief that Victor Gwynne was responsible for her father's conviction.

But there was one important thing that baffled the detectives: who threw Judith Mortimer through the window? If the old man was stone dead from three bullets to the brain, then how could the old woman crash through a window with such force and hit the ground several feet away without a very strong helping hand? For such a frail-looking elderly woman, to achieve this task herself seems virtually impossible. Whether her neck was broken before, during or after her journey through the glass yet remains a mystery.

When armed police finally entered the house that night, they found no other person except for the shattered carcass of Gwynne. Other than the front door, all other doors and windows in the building were shut and locked. D.C Cutler maintained that he kept his eye upon the open door until backup arrived, but admits that he had occasionally looked away briefly to keep order, giving enough time for their other possible culprit to escape. Like Sophie, Cutler deemed it unwise to mention anything about doors crashing open on their own and invisible forces rushing past.

Strangely enough, the Barefoot Murders, aka the Mortimer's Mark Murders, ceased after that night.

Case remains unsolved.

Although Sophie Skinner's wounds healed without medical assistance, she would never wear a bikini or low cut dress in public again due to the faint but distinctively shaped scars. They remained good friends with Abby and Joseph Rothschild, and occasionally took trips in the summer to visit their manor house in Dorset.

A few months after the death of Victor Gwynne, on a bright Saturday afternoon, a distant relative on his wife's side of the family emptied the house of possessions prior to putting it on the market. Both Sophie and Jason, thinking it wise to attend Victor's funeral to maintain the façade of their friendship, first met Kenneth amongst the few mourners. Now they both stood outside in the spring sunshine, curiously watching as the young man and his wife moved Victor's furniture and belongings onto the front lawn.

"Got far to take all this stuff?" Jason asked Kenneth.

"As you can hear from my accent," he told him between puffing on a cigarette, "I live all the way up in Aberdeen. He had so much stuff that I can't take it all. Most of it's old and no good anyway."

He indicated at the items stacked haphazardly in the garden. "I'm taking the best things, but all this lot here I'm either throwing in the dump or giving away to charity. If you see anything out here that you would like, then feel free to help yourself."

Sophie did not want anything that belonged to Victor, but out of curiosity, Jason began sifting through a large cardboard box containing mostly books. "Look at all this lot. These were his pride and joy."

"I'll be glad when it's all gone," Sophie replied from her side of the garden wall, pulling a sour-looking face. "They should burn the whole fucking lot."

"Look what we have here," Jason said and held up a large, leather-bound book. Across its front cover were the words 'The Experiment on the Magical Arts: My Personal Experiences by H. F. Richmond'. "I know who would like to have this," he said with a large grin. When Sophie took it from his hands, a shiver ran up her spine despite the warmth of the day.

Suddenly, as if bitten by a snake, Jason gasped and recoiled from the box. "Oh, my God!"

"What is it?" she asked and leant over the dividing wall between them. When Jason held up the two objects for her to see, she gasped as he did. Within his hands, the missing kitchen knife and wood chisel that Victor stole from their house gleamed under the bright light of the sun.

"I thought he told you he hid them near the crime scene," she said in a hushed voice.

"He did."

"Maybe he kept it for another murder he was planning, to keep you in the frame. Or maybe he was going to plant them in the house or garden somewhere, like he did with Mortimer."

Jason became quiet, considering something before saying, "Perhaps he never used them. In the end, maybe he never intended to frame me but took them just to keep my mouth shut."

Whatever the reason, Jason thoroughly washed the two potential weapons before wrapping them in a bag full of rubble. That same night he cast the bag over the edge of Upperhampton Pier into the sea, finally ending his worried, sleepless nights.

He did not want to take any chances.

"Let's go home," Sophie said after he returned to the closed newsstand on the promenade where she waited. "Let's put our feet up and finally relax."

"And watch a good movie," he said as he slid his hand into hers.

"I'm up for that," she agreed, "but on one condition."

"What's that?"

"No more horror films. I think I've had my fair share of ghosts and murderers!"

Jason chuckled and pulled her closer to his body. They walked that way back to their car, this time without fear.

When the three bullets tore through Victor's skull, killing him instantly, his spirit had nowhere to go, no earthly body where he could return. After killing the vengeful Judith Mortimer by hurling her body through the window, he found that all his physical traits – his strength, substance and weight – began to dwindle rapidly, like a fire that had burnt itself out. Now he could walk through walls and closed doors and float in the air, yet he could no longer touch, feel and experience pleasure as before. He was little more than a faint, insubstantial whisper of a breeze.

Just like a ghost.

The first few years were tolerable. Ten months after his death, Sophie Skinner became Sophie Mathews. While she was pregnant with her first child, they packed their bags and moved away from the house next door to start a new life in Dorset.

Over the ensuing years, families came and went from his house until finally being demolished with the rest of the street to make way for a new housing development that reached far into the sky. Another century passed. Wars came and went. People came and went. The small town that he once knew became unrecognizable. Then so did the rest of the country and the rest of the world.

After a few thousand years, the humans who did not travel to the worlds beyond perished in the last devastating wars and resulting famine and disease. Eventually, the skies turned black and the earth became a frozen shell.

For the lonely ghost that was doomed to walk the planet in limbo, there was neither a bright tunnel of heavenly light nor a hellish pit of fire where he could go. Everyone and everything had died, yet there were no other lost spirits like him.

He was all alone.

Even after the dying sun vaporized the dead planet at the end of the galaxy's life millions of years later, Victor Gwynne, also known as Victor Godwin, continued to exist within the empty, black vacuum of space in solitude forever.

And ever.

And ever...

### # # #

Oct 2011 – Sept 2012

