Birth of a Killer

The gentleman in me would say: "A lady is a lady, it's up to her suitor to find the interesting that is simmering somewhere beneath the surface of natural beauty." The old Eddie from the slums would add: "A fanny is a fanny. They all get wet if one knows how to rub them the right way."

Despite spending a lot of time in the company of ladies, usually with my brother Julian, I always preferred prostitutes. It was so much easier that way. I got what I wanted from either eventually, but there was no false interest to be displayed and compliments to be given with the latter. The conquest was made by an appropriate money transaction. A few pence for a street prostitute with the brothel whore a few times dearer, but not necessarily better. I could drink and be merry with blokes in the tavern, and then spend some time with a lady of the night, as they are lovingly called, without the spectacle of courting. I would not call it an animosity or hatred towards women; rather it is a matter of practicality.

The times that I have enjoyed whores' company usually closely followed a particularly gruesome scene, which I had investigated as a detective. The more ghoulish and grizzly my work, the greater the desire to indulge in the horrors of my own. Why violence had turned me on sexually to the level of having to pay for the services and be done with it quickly, I could not explain, even if I tried.

I cannot recall each one of my killings in great details. That would have been simply too much, even for someone like me. I have to admit, that sometimes there is a blackness of mind or forgetfulness and I hardly remember any of what happened. I have never pondered on what I had done, but rather savoured the fact that I had gone through with it. The final outcome was always the most pleasing and rewarding to me.

V. THE WILLING KILL

I was twenty-three and living in London for good two months when I managed the first, what I would call a true kill. Premeditated, I suppose one could say. Maybe simply truly wanted would be a better way to put it.

I had been called to a scene of a grisly murder in Stepney, one of the neighbourhoods where I 'operated' frequently, as a detective and later as my alter ego, the ferocious killer as I was to be known. A man, half mad with years of hard work and heavy drinking, miserable life, hunger and in times of decent money overindulgence had finally reached his limit and one fine Sunday afternoon pulled a knife on his entire family, slashing their throats and bellies like they were the cattle that he normally killed for a living at the slaughterhouse.

Four children, three girls and a little boy, all under the age of six were found in the baby's cot naked, piled up like old newspapers. Their heads were almost severed by the heavy hand of their father's. The girls' stomachs were slit open, their intestines oozing through the clean edges of the wounds, mixing with the ones of their siblings.

The man's wife was still fighting for her life when we arrived, gasping for breath; unable to draw enough to manage a proper inhale. Blood was seeping through the soaked kerchief someone had pressed against the wound on her neck and luckily, her belly was untouched; later we were to learn that she was pregnant.

After completing his task, the murderous father had tried to slash his own throat, but the site of his own blood and the pain which accompanied the maniacal deed sobered him up, and he ran out into the street, screaming and falling over himself, asking for help from God and his neighbours.

When I entered the small lodging where the slayings took place I was almost overwhelmed by the stench of blood and guts, mixed with the unmistakable odour of spoilt food and dirty clothes, which seemed to pile up on every surface of the spartanly furnished room. Blood literally covered the walls, ceiling and windows, puddles of it were gathering on the uneven floor surface, soaked up by the old stinky blankets and raggedy clothes. A stray cat had somehow managed to squeeze past the Constables at the door and was now carefully tasting some of the spilt blood in the corner of the room. I picked up a shoe, which poked from under the closest pile of clothes and hurled it at the cat. It jumped and hissed, quickly finding its way out of a broken window at the back of the room.

The scene was absolutely horrid, even for my eyes. I didn't see the point in massacring the children; the woman probably earned it in some way or another. Her heavy set body was half hidden by the two chairs which must have been pushed over her by her husband in his moment of hysteria.

"What's your name, luv?" I whispered, kneeling next to her, oblivious to my own pants now soaking up the blood. I grabbed her hand, which was pressing the small piece of cloth against the wound and carefully pulled it away from her neck. Immediately, a thin gush of blood sprayed my pants.

She gasped, her eyes popping out of her head, the gurgling sound from the throat more pronounced than when I first walked in. " A...a..." she uttered and finally managed: " 'ariet..." Another deep sigh followed and her body spasmed, giving in to the horrible injuries. She died lying next to me, without a loved one to comfort her, without a priest to see her off.

There was nothing more to do in there. We knew whom the culprit was, now being held down by a Constable unnecessarily, as he was too weak to run or hurt another person. The neighbours gathered in front of the unfortunate family's tiny home, worriedly peeping over the police officers' shoulders, hoping to see something, afraid they might succeed in doing so.

"I s'pose 'e finally got miffed by it all." Stated a man in a dirty coat with its pockets hanging off, dreamily rubbing on his unkempt beard.

"He told me once," he leaned towards one of the Constables conspiratorially, "That every time 'e got 'is leg over, she got knocked up, she did." He nodded.

"They was fighting a lo'," joined in a woman, just as ragged and dirty as the man. "He'd come 'ome knackered and pissed, barfin' everywhere, and then knockin'em all abou', cos she din't want to clean it up."

I've heard enough, the pathetic displays of which would probably have been the reflections of my own life had I not been luckier than the poor sods in front of me did me no good. "Where is a gurney, for Pete's sake?" I yelled, glad to notice that the few Bobbies dragging their feet around the crime scene all jumped up and stood alert.

"Should be here any minute now, sir." Replied the policeman who seemed to be the youngest of the lot. His face was green with nausea; eyes were bloodshot as if he had not have enough sleep the night before.

"How long ago has this happened?" I asked, the anger inside of me rising. Why didn't anybody take care of the woman? She could have lived if they were more concerned in her well being than the gossip.

"Good hour ago, Sir." The young Constable swallowed hard.

I closed my eyes. It wasn't his fault; I should not be taking it out on him. "Don't pass out in front of all these people, will you son?" I asked patronizingly, well aware that he could not have been more than four or five years my junior. I patted his shoulder and walked away. There was nothing more to do.

"Wha' is you gonna do about this, guv'nor?" I ignored the calls from the crowd, which seemed to have grown more frequent and numerous as I was walking away.

I returned to the station and reported to my superior, trying hard not to appear too sympathetic or dispassionate. I didn't really care one way or the other to be quite honest, but as a new bloke on the force, I had to make the right impression. A fellow who can show concern but not become too involved emotionally. Someone who can be relied on, trusted and at the end of the day, share a pint with.

I left the station late in the evening, strolling through the bustling streets of the night London. The closer I got to Stepney, from where I had just returned hours ago, the worse it became. The gas lamplights on the main streets left the alleys almost completely dark, an invitation for many to find a quiet corner for business, whatever that might have been. I walked for a good hour before I decided to take a drink, unwinding from the hard day's work. I walked into The Beggar's Arms, a rowdy pub full of butchers and dockworkers, which just like me tried to get a minute of distraction from everyday worries.

Amongst the drunken men a great number of women, all of them prostitutes sipped on their gin and beer, trying to warm themselves up for another stroll down the street on the lookout for a few more pennies, which would likely be drunk before the night was over. I have not frequented this particular pub often, but have been there enough times to spot a newcomer or a stranger.

There she was. A woman, hardly more than a girl, awkwardly standing by the bar, fearfully looking around as if waiting for a familiar face to come out of the crowd. Next to her stood Pauline, if I was not mistaken, an old plump bird of good forty years, with grey hair, missing front teeth and a face so stern, she could have easily frightened any child were she to point her gaze into its innocent eyes.

Pauline, obviously drunk was leaning towards the young woman, talking in a hurried voice, excitedly waving her arms in the air as if she was some sort of a great orator. Her companion did not seem to draw any comfort from this display of knowledge, her eyes continuously flicking from person to person, occasionally brushing against Pauline's ugly face.

Suddenly, the young woman seemed to have made up her mind, or maybe she just simply had enough of her conversationalist. She pushed herself away from the bar and smiling a sweet goodbye squeezed through the crowd, exiting the pub with a stumbling gait.

Looking around and satisfied that nobody had paid any attention to me, I downed my drink and slowly squeezed my way through the river of smelly bodies of the pub's patrons, following the woman into the street. For a moment I thought I had lost her. I had had enough of old women lifting their skirts for me and hurrying me to finish quickly as they did not want to stand bare arsed in the alley all night, waiting on my mercy.

This time I wanted some soft skin, the kind that was not as yet affected by harsh life led by poor souls in the slums. Shiny, pretty hair and a birdlike voice rather than croaking caused by decades of smoking cigarettes full of wood and little tobacco.

I followed her slowly, and when she turned around I averted my gaze across the cobbled street, as if I hadn't noticed her walking in front of me. She was good thirty paces ahead and was now nearing a more deserted part of the slums, where not too many men were looking for a companion, but rather go there with one already picked. I hurried my steps and caught up with her, gently patting her on the shoulder.

She turned around and smiled. From the moment I saw her standing in the pub I knew I wanted her to be my company tonight. When I looked into her soft, dark brown eyes, I realized that she would be mine forever. I haven't dwelled upon whether I would kill her or not, in one second flat I knew I would never let her go. I had decided that long time ago. Probably years before anyone would have believed a young mind can come up with horrors of butchery. And when I heard her voice I knew she was the one I had dreamt about.

"Good evening, sir." She said, her smile never fading.

"I haven't seen you around here before." I said and fell into step with her, walking away from the noises of the pub.

'I only just came here a few days ago." She said with a soft Irish lilt. Her clothes were clean with no signs of mismatched patches anywhere on her long dark blue dress. Her hair was the colour of honey, pulled in a bun on top of her head, held together with green ribbons. Delicate earrings decorated the small earlobes, reflecting in the light, same as her eyes did.

"I see." I said and we walked quietly for a few moments. No demands upon price of what was to come were made on her part, she truly was a newcomer, who evidently had not yet learned the tricks of her trade. I would bet that were she to service a drunk who was too sauced up to realize that he was pushing his prick between her bare thighs rather than inside her cunt, she would obligingly reach underneath and help him find his way.

She shivered in the light breeze, even though it was not cold, her nerves were obviously getting to her. I stole a side-glance and realized her profile was quite beautiful. A small but straight nose, full lips carefully made up with rouge, her neck was white and swan-like, with a few loose strands of long hair brushing against it. She could have been stunning but for the worry that was clearly stamped on her face. She wrapped the big shawl closer to her body, crossing the arms over her chest.

"I would like to have your company for the entire night." I finally broke the silence, trembling with excitement.

"All night?" she asked incredulously and stopped. I didn't want to spoil the moment with bargaining.

"I'll give you four shillings." I offered, knowing that an experienced whore of London streets would have immediately been suspicious of my intentions. "And a royal breakfast in the morning." I added, trying to make her think about food rather than dwell upon my plan.

She didn't say anything, resuming the slow stroll that we had been keeping up for a while now. "I live not far from here." I said. "Just on the other side of the bridge, it's quite lovely, really."

I could have smacked myself! She was a whore not a critic and I was needlessly over exaggerating. I believe that this being a first intentional kill, I went for the weak and inexperienced one. I was like a lonely wolf trying to fill his belly with a lame or sick sheep that got left behind, not in the mood to wrestle with the strong leader of the herd.

"Alright, then." She said and after a moment's thought added. "But I want the money in advance."

Ah, Miss Smarty Pants. She wasn't quite as na•ve as I thought she'd be.

"Two shillings now, the rest tomorrow morning." I said in a voice that allowed no refusal. The girl, she couldn't have been more than nineteen, didn't object. We reached the bank of Thames and paused before the bridge, my mind racing wildly in order to find a place where I could have a few quiet moments with her. My inexperience told me that I had to avoid alleys, at least for now. I didn't know how she would have reacted and I didn't want to draw suspicion on myself.

"Here," I pointed towards the narrow dirt path that led down the embankment, obviously curving under the bridge. She looked in the direction of my finger and then at me in confusion.

"This is where you live?" she asked in disbelief, measuring my nice clothes with her eyes wide open.

"No, of course not," I laughed out loud, carefully looking around us, making sure nobody was about. "It's just...you're so pretty...and well, you know..." I said, trying to make myself appear clumsy and embarrassed, none of which I actually was.

She gave me a look full of suspicion, peering into the darkness under the bridge and just like me, looking to the left and right, her gaze inevitably returning to the designated spot of potential coupling.

"Here," I said and reached into my coat pocket, pulling out two shiny coins, pressing them into the palm of her hand. Her skin was just as soft as I thought it would have been when I had first laid my eyes on her. "Like I promised, now come."

I headed down the path, hoping no beggar or homeless person had taken refuge in the small space between the bridge and the river. Unconcerned that she might try to trick me and run away with my money, I didn't turn around until I heard her stumble after me. I offered my hand and she took it gratefully, her white teeth glowing with a smile.

Together we staggered down the path, which was steeper than I had anticipated, almost losing our footing more than once, until we had finally reached the safety of the level ground. I turned around and she fell into my embrace having stumbled again and for a moment, I felt as if we were lovers, naughtily stealing a minute for ourselves, far away from the madness of the world. "What do you call yourself?" I asked, not really caring.

"Cordelia." She breathed into my face. I looked deep into her eyes and she returned my stare, not offering her lips to me. After all she was just a common whore; no kissing would be involved. I grabbed her hand in a firm grip and led her a few steps farther until the white stone of the bridge above offered a makeshift shelter over our heads. The gas lamp, which stood next to the bridge threw enough light our way so that we could see each other, but I was certain that an accidental by passer would not have known we were there, unless one was deliberately leaning over the guardrail and thus foolishly risking his or her life.

The place under the bridge was deserted I was glad to notice. Another rail stood between us and the river and I motioned to Cordelia to step towards it, which she obligingly did. She raised her dress, wrapping the back of it towards the front and expertly tucking it in so that she had her hands free to grab onto the railing.

Her small arse glowed in the light, its skin just as pale as her face and hands. I hastily unbuttoned my pants, feeling exactly as I had years ago, moments before the first time I was to fuck. Only that is not what we were there for. Knowing how it was to end had made me excited and at the same time terrified. Can I really go through with it? My entire life seemed to have evolved around death and now I wanted to be judge, jury and executioner myself. If I faltered now, my life would have seemed to be in vain, no matter how young I was at the time.

My prick was hard, pulsating with desire to feel the soft wetness of the woman's cunt, which was displayed in front of me without any bashfulness. Alas, my mind and soul were the ones I yearned to satisfy more.

"No funny business, now." said Cordelia, looking over her shoulder, hand firmly grasping the silvery railing in front of her. "Only one place you can put it in, mate." She added warningly.

"Of course," I nodded. "Of course."

I wanked myself off for a few moments, all the while she stood still, bent over, awaiting for me to begin. I reached between her legs with my free hand and rubbed the fingers against her cunt.

"Oy!" she exclaimed. "I said no funny business!" she almost stood up.

"Just checking if you're clean." I said quickly, not really caring. I would not be entering her anyway.

"What do you mean, if I'm clean?" she seemed to be getting aggravated. I did pay her already, quite royally I might add. There was no reason to be nice to me now. The real whore was coming to the surface, overtaking the shy newcomer's uncertainty. "I'm clean!" she stated determinedly but I didn't stop rubbing her cunt.

"It's alright, I know." I breathed hard. "I just want to touch it, it's so soft and warm."

She stirred in discomfort and shot a glance over her shoulder. "Are you daft or something?"

I croaked a laugh, the hand on my prick never pausing. "No, I'm not. You're pretty and I want to see you."

"Well, that's not looking." She bitched and I couldn't help but like her even more. Despite all of her na•vetŽ and inexperience, she was turning out to be a tough cookie.

We remained on the spot for a while, standing under the bridge, bathed in the soft and shimmering light of the gas lamp above us. Cordelia was still bent over grabbing onto the railing, my hand between her legs caressing and exploring, massaging the warm wetness as if my being was gathering the courage through the touch of her soft body.