Birth of a Killer

I let Miss Redfern's skirts fall back on her leg, covering the ugly break and jumped up.

"No..." I heard her whisper, but only just. Her strength was discharging out of her rapidly, yet I had been too young to realize that no matter what I did, she wouldn't have survived the fall. I knew she was dying, but also believed that were I to help her I could have saved her. Afterwards, the innocence and na•vetŽ of a young mind had left me completely. I learned fast, just like any slum child does, no matter what kind of an environment he is put in. The desperation of life sobers people up, children quicker than anyone else.

I staggered into the hunting room as it was called, where trophies of countless heads and busts of animals my brothers had killed were decorating the walls. Elk, deer, foxes and birds of prey were glaring at me with their glassy eyes, as if in warning of what was to come.

A heavy oak cabinet in the corner of the room, which held a collection of guns and rifles had been locked, the safety precaution of my brothers. I realized that breaking into it would have sealed my fate just as leaving Miss Redfern to live would have done.

My head spun wildly as I searched for a piece of weapon, which would be carelessly discarded somewhere in the open, finding none. Then, I remembered that Julian kept an old revolver in the drawer of a heavy wooden desk next to the cabinet. I walked over to it and ever so slowly, as if expecting something gruesome to jump out of it, slid the drawer open, awarded with a glorious look at the small gun, its handle carved in ivory. It had belonged to my father. It was his pride and joy, and I was sternly cautioned never to touch it, never to play with it, as I could have done harm onto myself as well as others.

I picked it up slowly, turning it in front of my face, admiring the beautiful piece of a potentially deadly toy. The moans from the hall just outside the room were becoming more frequent. Miss Redfern was obviously struggling against her doom, and in spite of being well aware that she was too hurt to move, I would not have been surprised if I saw her crawling around the corner.

With wobbly knees I walked out of the room, relieved to see that she had not moved an inch. I stood over her, wanting to make certain she was looking at me. Her eyes were now closed; her forehead frowned in pain. I softly kicked my foot against her head and the eyes flew open.

"Edward..." she gasped. Was that a smile I noticed? Did she really think I came back to help her? That day it had been the first, and I might add the last time, she had called me by my given name when nobody else was present. She had other names for me.

Her eyes now open, she spotted the revolver in my hand and a wicked smile played on her lips, now very obvious. "You little bastard..." she coughed and moaned, blood spurting out of her mouth. "I always knew..." she continued, and then ran out of breath.

Standing straight up, my feet on each side of her head, I pointed the gun at her face. My hands trembled so hard, I was afraid I would shoot myself in the foot rather than hitting that ugly bird face.

"This is for my mother, you bitch..." I said and squeezed the trigger. It felt as if I had blanked out for a moment, I thought I was passing out, sucked into a big, black hole of nothing; no feelings, no thoughts, nothing but a sickening feeling of nausea.

Miss Redfern's croaking attempt at laughter brought me back to reality. The revolver was either empty or it had jammed, and I had no idea how to check for either.

"You imbecile!" she said, spitting up blood and spasming in pain. "You can't even do that right." She closed her eyes and her body seemed to calm down for a moment.

I was desperate. I wanted to kill her, to end her miserable life and punish her for all vileness she had bestowed upon me. I never knew why she hated me so much, she could have had the greatest admirer in me had she chosen to, but she didn't. It was a dumb luck that I didn't know how to operate a revolver. Killing Miss Redfern by shooting her in the face would have certainly left no doubt as to who the culprit had been.

Then, I remembered the day when one of the newborn ponies in the meadow had fallen and broken his leg. The poor animal was in a great deal of pain, crying in a high pitched voice asking for help, his big, brown eyes the saddest sight I have ever encountered. It appeared to be an even more devastating than the image of my dead mother.

Daniel had run out with me, trying to see if there was a way of helping the animal. No gun or revolver available, and seeing that the situation was beyond salvage, he knelt behind the pony's beautiful head, hugged it with his strong arms and with all his might, pulled it to one side, a sickening sound of the neck breaking seeming like the loudest boom I have ever heard. He let go of the head gently, patting the white cheeks and I could have sworn I saw him shed a tear. He remained there even after I had run back to the house, looking for someone to help Julian with the dead horse.

I knew this would be the only way I could have completed what I had set out to do. I knelt down, exactly like I had seen Daniel do and carefully put the gun aside, out of the reach of a woman, who didn't have the strength to pick it up anyway. I wrapped one of my arms underneath her chin, the hand of the other gathered in a fist and pushing against the cheek. She tried to struggle, but couldn't. Her arms and legs were twitching in effort, but she was beyond any sort of self-defense.

I placed her head in my lap, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. With all the strength my young, skinny body could gather, I pulled hard towards me and then with a jerk to the left, hearing the unmistakable sound of the vertebrae being dislocated, only to pop and break. I remained like that for a moment, unable to open my eyes and look at my deed, terrified that yet again, I had failed.

Miss Redfern's body jerked and a heavy sigh escaped her, then she went limp in my hands and I knew that was a moment when she died. That was a moment when I had taken the first life, my first kill.

I jumped up and her head landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. It didn't matter anymore, she got away effortlessly, much easier than she deserved. I had the presence of mind to take the gun back into the room and return it to the spot from where I had taken it just minutes before. I jumped over the broken body of my nemesis and dashed up the staircase, changed clothes, stuffing the shirt and pair of pants that displayed smudges of the woman's blood into a clean pillowcase and taking it with me.

Certain that she was dead I didn't want to see her again. I threw the pillowcase with the telltale clothing out the window and climbed out, chancing a broken neck of my own. I ran to the stable and picked the tamest mare I could find. Not bothering with a saddle I jumped onto her wide back and rode out into the meadow, far away from the manor house, where the dead body of a housekeeper laid in a pathetic display.

Some half an hour later, I reached the deep forest, which I always felt uncomfortable in. One can be a slum child, but one can still be afraid of a bogeyman, even though he or she is constantly reminded that there is no such thing.

I was afraid that at any given moment I would turn around and Miss Redfern in flesh or spirit would be standing behind me, patiently waiting for an opportunity of revenge. I slid off the horse and threw up violently, my hands trembling, my stomach churning with burning pain.

The mare stomped nervously around me and for a moment I was afraid she would run away. I had no lead to hold onto, having foolishly tried to escape the horror in the house. All my rationale went into covering my tracks; I could not think beyond that.

I shook the bloody clothes on the ground and covered them with a few heavy stones that were lying about. I made sure not a single inch was visible either to an accidental by passer or even to someone who might deliberately stake the woods, looking for evidence.

Finally satisfied with the outcome, I slowly turned towards the house, which was by now some five miles away and started walking, the mare following me obediently, without a word needed from me. The rain had finally stopped and we strolled through the woods, approaching the meadows at the back of the manor house; the closer we got, the tighter my stomach felt. The passion and madness of the deed over, the rational side of my brain had started working, and I felt terrified beyond anything I had ever felt before or since. I will never forget that feeling as long as I live.

When we turned the corner of the house and approached the stables, I saw my brother Julian's carriage standing next to the old barn. My heart sank and at the same time, my spirits lifted. I didn't want to be the one who had 'found the body'.

I led the mare into the stable and gently patted her, rewarding her with a few cubes of sugar. I was grateful for her quiet company, as I was certain she had saved my sanity that day.

Just as I walked to the front door Julian came running out, pale and in obvious distress, his eyes haunted.

"Good Lord!" he screamed and rushed towards me. For a moment I thought he was about to hit me. "Thank God you're alright, Edward!" he said and hugged me so tight I gasped for breath.

"What's the matter?" I asked, trying to peer past him, inside the darkness of the house.

"There has been a terrible accident." He said sombrely, still clinging onto me tightly. "Miss Redfern had fallen down the stairs. I'm afraid she is dead, Edward."

"No!" I whispered, shocked that the events seemed to be turning in my favour. There was no sign of accusation in Julian's voice or face. He believed it was an accident and was worried about me.

"Yes, I'm afraid it's true." Nodded Julian and together we climbed into his carriage, finding our way to the village to find some help.

Of course there were questions on where I spent my afternoon and why I went riding in the rain, but to my best assessment, nobody had suspected the truth. From that day on, my brothers had kept an especially close eye on me, not because they didn't believe me, but because they became afraid of losing me. The unfortunate death of the housekeeper had made everyone more aware of how fragile life can be, and their already overwhelming attention tripled.

Every afternoon after my lessons were finished, I would be taken to the nearby town where Daniel had his clinic, helping him with paperwork and occasionally assisting in minor procedures, which did not require anaesthesia. I became familiar with the human anatomy from books and numerous discussions with my brother.

That is where the knowledge of medicine came from. I was no failed surgeon, as so many people like to speculate. I adamantly refused to even consider studying medicine, however, and when the time came for me to think about vocation, I chose law instead. I had a mind for books and a plethora of information every law student needs to keep in their head seemed a child's play to me.

My brothers were immensely proud, and although they could not quite understand my eagerness to work with the macabre, they all supported my decision to dedicate my life to justice. I never finished law school however, to the great dismay of everyone, but myself. I wanted to investigate the most interesting and often vile of human nature. Due to many connections Daniel had had in the higher places of Scotland Yard and my basic knowledge of medicine, I was accepted as a junior detective, astounded over the relative ease with which life had landed me right in the middle of my unspoken fantasy - the macabre irony of life.

IV. DESPERATION IS EVERYWHERE

I will not elaborate on my vocation in great detail, as it is not of great importance to what I do in my spare time. Of course, having an intimate knowledge of the progress or rather the lack of it made by the police, even actively participating in investigations, I was able to watch my step at the right times, in the right places.

Should I ever be spotted and fingered as a suspect, the Constable charging after me would immediately back off once he found out who I was. I'd have the perfect alibi of inspecting the crime scenes and trying out my detective skills in anticipation of the potential new ones.

I was not the best of the crew at Scotland Yard; my career was nothing to boast about, as I never truly applied myself. I was known around the building and in the ranks of detectives and police officers, but I didn't stand out. People knew my face, but would draw a blank should they try to think of my name. My brothers were not thrilled with my decision. They believed I could have easily worked at law, studied medicine, or even lived off my father's inheritance. However, they must have concluded that my desire to be a detective stemmed from my mother's untimely and horrid death. They did not oppose me, believing that this was my way of coping with the hardship bestowed upon me at such an early stage in life. I simply nodded and went along with their theories; anything was better for them to think than to know what my true intentions were.

Apart from a few acquaintances and having made no true friends in the village, which bordered on the manor house where I spent my teenage years, I was glad to finally take an independent step into the big wide world. Certainly, I missed my brothers and their affection for me. However, for nearly thirteen years they were literally suffocating me with attention and love, sometimes making me feel trapped, eager to escape.

I was not a brilliant scholar and had no special skills to offer. Money and name that my family possessed reached far, Daniel had made sure of that.

The minute it became obvious the job was mine I began packing and preparing for the trip to London. I had missed the old stinky girl more than anything. I wanted to be a part of her again. I craved the anonymity a big city offers to a person, being able to pick and choose the people I would associate with, places I was to frequent and activities I would undertake. Under a watchful eye of my brothers I simply could not breathe properly.

Ever since the day of Miss Redfern's death, there was another thing that seemed to have been growing inside of me. The lust for life - someone else's, that is. Young ladies that I had spent time with were all well known in the circles frequented by my family and I could not as much as sneeze without everyone knowing, let alone indulge in my secret fantasies. Not that I ever thought I had it in me to truly complete the deeds, of which I fantasized at night.

Sometimes, when I held a woman in my arms, kissing her softly and caressing her hair, I would close my eyes and dream what would it be like to be in charge of her life. Would I take it, or would I let her go? Would I be equal to God and decide on whether she should live or die? As long as residing in the manor house, I could not do that.

Of course I have never even tried. I respected my brothers too much to risk being caught and bring shame on them. I was not planning to go on a killing spree when I moved to London. However, something in my heart told me that life would be very different when I lived independently in a city so big, one can lose oneself without ever being seen again, should that be what one desired.

I have not always 'known' that killing was my true calling. I wouldn't quite describe it as such, anyway. Exploration, I might say for the lack of a better word. Testing the limits of human endurance and the vileness of one's mind, I suppose.

I had been plagued by horrible nightmares as a child, especially after I had first moved to the country. I'd wake up at night, drenched in sweat, barely able to draw breath, shivering all over and cautiously peering into the dark corners of my bedroom, expecting something scary to jump out at me at any given moment. As I got used to the nightly interruptions, I began seriously thinking about them. All my dreams involved death and blood, guts oozing out of people's bodies, limbs missing, severed heads with mangled faces and many a time I would realize that the hand plunging into one's stomach to pull out a kidney or reaching further up for the heart, was my own.

I began keeping a diary, carefully noting each dream that I could remember. Sometimes, only a flash that lasted a second or two was still fresh enough for my consciousness to recall. No matter how short and seemingly unimportant, I would jot them all down, hiding the diary in the shoebox behind the orderly hung sets of suits in the closet. Were anybody to find it, I could simply have explained that I tried to get to the bottom of my dreams and thus attempt to exorcise them. None of my brothers were known as na•ve fools, but their hearts were so pure, I don't believe they would have thought me capable of such evil. I truly believed that I would turn out to be a writer of sorts, possibly dabbing my skills in the genre of macabre and horror. All those notes would have helped me tremendously. I wouldn't have to invent the shocking; I would simply draw upon what I knew already.

I cannot claim that I woke up one morning and decided that I would kill women. God forbid, no. I have always had, what some call a strong stomach. I never shied from the sight of macabre, blood and guts, knocked out teeth, dead babies wrapped in newspapers and thrown into garbage bins. I rarely felt sorry for any of the miserable souls; most of them had it coming anyway. I accepted it as a part of life and that was that. I would rather point out that it was a gradual process. I was just as mortified about my first few kills as the people who found the victims must have been.

Life in the East End is very harsh. The sight of a man sitting on the pavement, leaning against the building quite dead is not at all unusual. Women are frequently beaten half to death or worse by jealous husbands or boyfriends. There are gangs of thugs who fancy themselves pimps or simply claim the control of a neighbourhood and everyone, including prostitutes have to pay for their protection, which oddly enough, never comes in the time of need. Were one to refuse payment, he or she would be beaten, robbed and eventual chances were that the unfortunate would be found dead somewhere in the alley, half eaten by rats, who are the worst scavengers I had ever laid eyes on.

Everybody always goes on about the smell of death, which is never to be forgotten. They don't mention that that particular scent inevitably contains the stench of the last piss and shit the dead had managed to push out in the final moments of his or her life. That is what attracts rats and cockroaches, flies, stray dogs and pigeons. Police sometimes have to fight the bugs and rodents for the body, chancing a bite themselves, for the little buggers demand their fair share of the prey, as the nature would conduct them to do.

Having seen all that with my own eyes before I even began life in earnest, I became used to it, untouched by the cries and wails of grieving families and friends, should the poor soul be lucky enough to have any.

Due to early sights of the morbid, coupled by my own mother falling prey to violence and the ghoulish dreams, which haunted me for years, it had become a second nature of sorts. I believe life toughens one up. One either gets used to it, or gives in and eventually gives up. The latter was not an option for me. I accepted it as an everyday occurrence, despite having been removed from it for the better part of my life. It is quite simple, you see - you live or you die. I decided not to falter.

I never lacked the company of ladies. Decent and common, educated and illiterate, wealthy and the daughters of impoverished nobility, pretty and the ones who lacked that something to make them so, charismatic and dull, charming and boring. I made no distinction between the blondes and brunettes, I found colour of one's eyes unimportant, I cared not whether they were tall or short, skinny or plump.