Psycho X 2 by Alex Severin Dahlia shook with excitement; the newspaper creased and crumpled in her hands as she read: No:6 - KILLER STRIKES AGAIN The naked body of a young male was found in the early hours of this morning at the entrance of Greyfriars Church, Broad Street, Aberdeen. The man, believed to be in his early twenties has not yet been identified. Grampian Police refused to release any details of the death but confirmed that this case would be part of the ongoing investigation into the five recent murders in the area although there is still nothing to directly link any of the killings. Dahlia closed her eyes; she sank back into the chair digging her nails into the arms. She bit her lip so hard the skin broke; blood trickled down her chin and dripped onto her cleavage. Dahlia’s top floor flat on Union Street was sparsely but tastefully furnished; she preferred a few pieces of expensive furniture to a room full of cheap clutter. One wall was strangely decorated; the newspaper clippings and magazine articles on the killer had been pasted onto the wall and hidden behind black velvet curtains; psycho wallpaper, might catch on. Where next? What was the connection? For what reason did he leave the bodies in the places that he did? She had studied his ‘work’ (as she called it) very closely. She understood him and he would need her, oh yes, he would need her, he would be so happy that there was someone who understood. D.C. Campbell chewed on his pen top. What the hell were they going to do? Grampian Police had never dealt with anything remotely like this. Even the coppers up from Scotland Yard were out of their league with this guy; there was no motive apparent, no ritual or pattern or ‘signature’ associated with any of the killings. There literally was no clue for the Detectives and Profiler to go on. Dahlia loved to sit and picture him; he’d be tall and slim, broad shouldered, have long black hair, dark eyes, pale skin and full ruddy lips, his voice would be soft and breathy as he whispered in her ear. Time for another look at her case notes. She had a complete file on him; in a scrapbook a duplicate of every news paper clipping and magazine article that there ever was, tape after tape of news stories and a documentaries and her own notes about how he was progressing, her theories on his reasons and motivation, possible solutions to the pattern so she could pre-empt his next strike and be there when he turned up. She had to find him, they were kindred spirits, they were here in the same space in time for a reason - they were meant to be, that much was obvious to Dahlia. Nathaniel lay on his bed and closed his eyes; the Police were no match for him; he pictured them all - bellies hanging over their trousers and bad coffee murmurings filling the incident room; was there a message in the places he left the bodies? The street names, could the initial letters be made into a word? He laughed, Idiots! Those sort of clues were for amateurs! He was a real killer, the purest of all killers, like Mickey and Mallory - a Natural Born Killer - and above all a Thrill-Killer. He’d leave the Police to their posturing over anagrams and trivial psychoanalysis and pathetic psychological profiling. Meanwhile, he felt a killing coming on. Where next? He flicked through a copy of ‘Walking the Mat’, a book about Aberdeen of old. He fancied that he might chooses a student from Marischal College, cool building; yes, a student from Marischal College; poor bastard he thought, but tough titty all the same. There he was; a holy-jumpered, sandal wearing, greasy long haired little shite carrying a book on Wittgenstein, pretentious little fucker; he’d enjoy this one. As a teenager Nathaniel read piles of books on murderers; he despised serial killers, pathetic little wankers every one, the whole lot of them. It was the outlaws and the career criminals he revered; Billy the Kid to Al Capone to John Gotti; the Public Enemies, and his number one anti-hero, Snake-eyes himself, John Dillinger; he robbed and killed at will and didn’t give a fuck about anybody, the James Dean of crime - lived fast, died young and left a good looking corpse. Yeah, he’d go out in one motherfuckin’ huge blaze of glory when he went. Nathaniel heard the letterbox clatter as the paper boy shoved the Evening Express through; he padded along the hall in his bare feet to get it. The headline read - ‘Serial Killer - search goes on’. Serial Killer! Serial Killer! ‘What a fuckin’ nerve they’ve got calling me a Serial Killer! Arseholes!’ The story was hardly a story at all; a few lines to say that the police had found another body, there were still no clues and the last one still had not been identified. He was tickled by a little table of murder they had put in to fill some space, the dates and names (If known) and where the bodies were found, that was cute, he liked that. There wasn’t much content but there was enough to sell hundreds more newspapers than usual just because something gruesome was happening on their doorstep; everybody wanted to know all the gory details. Dahlia pulled her own hair in frustration, what was the connection between all the places, what significance did they have and where would he go next? She had to find him. She resolved to scour the city, maybe she’d get lucky down some dark alley. Before she left her flat she picked up a pink plastic Dumb-bell and put it in her handbag; an effective weapon without being an offensive one. She cruised the city, hour after hour down back roads and alleys, through streets she had never heard of never mind been down before. It was no use there was no-one around, everyone was so scared hardly a soul had ventured out in a fortnight except to go to work and go home and if they did dare they went in large groups, huddled close looking furtively at anyone they encountered. She took the car home and decided to have a walk, clear head and think things through from the start, go over all the clues again, try to find a link between the locations where the victims were found. As she walked down Union Street it felt strange, she heard the music filter out into the night from Frankenstein’s, from The Cotton Club, The Long Island Iced Tea bar,right the way down to Cafe Ici; but something wasn’t right about the sound, what was it? Then she realised, it was hollow, echoing because, unusually, all the clubs were practically empty. The music was normally muffled, being absorbed by the sweating bodies packed together inside. Dahlia found herself at the top of Union Terrace Gardens’ stairs; she descended. The thick rubber soles of her boots made no sound on the stone steps. All along the left side were wooden benches set in arched recesses; she sat down on the first. Just as she was about to sigh heavily she heard a gargling noise coming from the next recess; her eyes widened, the hair standing up on the back off her neck, heart battering against her chest as she listened to the noise, imagining what it was. She knew what it was, it was the same as the first time you smell human flesh burning, you just know what it is without having smelled it before. She peeked around the corner; there he was, mid act, slicing through a wino’s neck with a cut throat razor. Dahlia was transfixed, almost lulled into a trance by the gasps and gargles, fascinated as she watched the very soul go out from the man’s eyes and the last breath burble from the red gush that was his throat. He saw her then. She had her hand on the dumb-bell in her bag; she was quick and hit her idol over the head with it knocking him cold before he could snatch at her with his dripping blade. Her temples throbbed, she laboured for breath as she stood in awe. She knelt down where he had fallen and brushed his hair from his eyes and gazed lovingly, lustfully at him. She would have to move fast; there was no telling how long he would be out, she’d have to run all the way back home to get the car. As she was dragging Nathaniel’s body up the stairs two students were descending; they were startled by her and looked guilty having just lit a spliff; she almost panicked but they offered to help her with her drunk boyfriend; they stood with Nathaniel to make sure he was OK while Dahlia went to get the car. It was pitch-black at the bottom of the stairs; the two students, a little the worse for happy-hour snakebites and doobies, laughed at the old drunk curled up on the ground with his back to them, their boozy vision mistaking the glistening wetness around him for the old tosser’s own piss, filthy bastard, they thought as they staggered on by bumping into each other every second step and slipping hashy-giggles out of their mouths and into the cold night air. Dahlia landed in a heap just inside her flat door. His dead-weight was a struggle to get up the stairs and it had taken half and hour. She’d have to move quick smart if she wanted to have him secured before he regained consciousness. What was she going to tie him with, think!, think! Stockings, they’d do for now. She dumped him onto her bed and hurriedly undressed him, tying each limb firmly to a corner of the black wrought-iron headboard. There was no chance of him getting out of here without her consent. Dahlia undressed and slipped into bed beside him pulling the duvet over them. She snuggled close to him resting her head on his chest and fell asleep looking decidedly pleased with herself. Nathaniel stirred; he smiled as he felt the warm nakedness of a woman against his skin, He wanted to hold her but something was restricting him, he looked up at his bound hands and grinned, although he didn’t remember going out on the pull last night. Then he felt the throbbing in his head; consciousness and recollection searing into his brain mercilessly. Panic tweaked the pit of his stomach as he wondered where he was and who the fuck was the psycho bitch next to him. As Dahlia stirred and gradually awoke Nathaniel feigned sleep. He felt her close to his face; she kissed his forehead. Dahlia got out of bed and went to shower; what the fuck was he going to do? Who was this woman? Christ!, she had seen him killing that old bloke! Then she hit him and abducted him?; weirdo. Despite the warmth beneath the duvet he shuddered as a chill crawled up the length of his spine and sank into his marrow. Dahlia made breakfast; neither of them said a word as she fed him bacon, sausage, eggs, buttered toast and tea. How nuts is this? he thought to himself. What was she thinking this very second as she shovelled food into his mouth and grinned at him as if they were newlyweds? What was going on in her head? Nathaniel decided he’d rather not think about that at this moment in time. She was fucking scary. “Did you sleep well, darling?” Nathaniel looked at Dahlia and said tentatively, “Uh, yes, thank you.” Thank you? Thank you! Thank you for what? Clubbing me over the head and abducting me?! Doh! “You’ll be wondering why I brought you here. I’m a big fan. I’ve been following your career since No:1.” She sighed and gazed at him. “God, I love you. You’re everything I imagined you would be.” She peeled off her T-shirt, hitched up her mini skirt and straddled him; his manhood rebelled against his better judgement as she forced her ample breast into his mouth. He slickened her hard nipple with his tongue, his nature as a man completely ignoring the fact that he was a prisoner in this house. He had always wondered what it would be like to do it tied up. Dahlia let out a long low sigh as she slid easily onto his hard cock, rocking back and forth, scratching his chest and pinching his nipples making him moan. He liked his pleasure spiked with a little pain. Her nails drew blood on his torso; she licked at the hot red trail smearing her mouth with his blood then kissing him hard. The taste of his own blood made him mad with lust. Nathaniel thrust his hips forward forcing himself deeper inside her. She gasped and moaned, gripping onto his hair, banging his already injured head on the bedstead. Both of them came screaming. That was the best fuck he’d ever had in his life. Nathaniel lay there, still tied up, utterly bewildered. He saw through the open bedroom door most of the back wall in the living room; Dahlia opened the black velvet curtains and although he couldn’t actually read the words from that distance he recognised the headline patterns; they were his newspaper stories, he was pasted up there, all over her wall. Nathaniel’s eyes bulged, his mouth fell open, he struggled against his bondage, he was suddenly much more afraid than he was before. Dahlia came back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, she asked him his name, “Nathaniel.” he said, monotone. She smiled, “That’s my favourite boys name! I’m Dahlia.” He spoke softly to her, “Dahlia, you have to let me go. I can’t stay here like his forever. Please. Untie me.” Dahlia looked wounded, she pouted like a little girl talking to a stray puppy, “No, you’ll run away.” He shifted under the quilt, suddenly uncomfortable; he desperately tried to think of something else to say, something soothing but his anger barged past his rationale, “Unite me you sick fuckin’ bitch!” He immediately regretted his words as he saw The Devil shining in her eyes; he was unnerved further at the soft calmness in her voice, “You’re calling me sick? You’re a serial killer. You’re sick too. We were made for each other.” Fuck me! I had to pick a town with a murder groupie he thought to himself. “Dahlia, I’m not a serial killer. I hate being called a serial killer. Serial killers are pussies. They’re losers. I’m not a loser, Dahlia.” She looked confused, “What are you then? Don’t you have some deep rooted trauma that drives you to do what you do? Weren’t you molested or bullied or something? Didn’t you torture animals when you were a kid?” He shook his head at her, “You read too much psycho babble bullshit books written by jerk off head shrinkers who get hard listening to stupid motherfuckers tell their tales of woe, my mummy didn’t love me, my daddy was a transvestite, I got bullied at school, ha!, fuckin’ idiots! No, Dahlia I’m not a serial killer, serial killings for wimps. I’m a Thrill - Killer, that means I get a thrill when I kill.” Her eyes lit up, “You mean like Mickey and Mallory?” He grinned at her, he could see his words excited her, “Exactly like Mickey and Mallory. I kill because I want to. I kill because I can. I kill who, where and when I want. If I feel like killing somebody, I kill them, God damn it, it’s nothing personal, well, sometimes but not usually.” Dahlia snuggled up to him. “I enjoyed watching you work last night, Nathaniel. I want to come to work with you next time. We could be a real Mickey and Mallory, they could make movies about us, kids all over the world would worship us just like Mickey and Mallory.” Nathaniel couldn’t stand it anymore, if he ever got out of this he was going to kill this bitch, slow. But for now he’d have to play along with her, gain her trust so she’d untie him. “Sweetie, I need to go to the bathroom.” She smiled sweetly and looked as if she was about to oblige his request but instead she said “I’m not stupid, Nathaniel. What do you take me for? Some little bitch you can manipulate? Let me tell you something, I’m in charge here. I call the shots. You’re the one naked and bound on my bed in my home. I’ll get you a bucket.” Nathaniel lay there bewildered, his bladder suddenly aching, his mind frantically searching for a way out of this; nothing came to him. What could he do? She could kill him and no one would be any the wiser; she could say he attacked her in her flat and she killed him in self-defence. Bitch! He hated being defenceless, loathed it when somebody had the upper hand on him; those kinda fuckers usually just got wasted. Dahlia came back into the room with the bucket; she pulled back the duvet, picked up his dick and held it over the bucket. He closed his eyes slowly, humiliated beyond belief; he could feel her scrutinising his face, staring at him deliberately to make him feel awkward. He regretted now taking this chick for a fool. He realised that he may just have met his match. He looked around the room; quite what he was looking for he wasn’t sure. She was out, this may be his only chance, if he could only get one hand free but the stockings were pulled taught around his wrist, there was no chance. Tension flooded into his muscles when he heard the front door open; she had been shopping, the noise of thin plastic bags rustling carried down the hall to him. She walked slowly into the bedroom with a look on her face that belied she had any feeling for him; his diaphragm froze in his chest at her expression. In her hand was a carrier bag from The Joke Factory; what the fuck’s in there? he thought to himself. He realised he wasn’t breathing, his eyes widened and he shouted internally for his lungs to move, breathe in! breathe in!. Dahlia reached in to the bag and took out a black blindfold. She put it on him. He heard her rummaging inside the bag, take out another item, open a box, chinking sound, the snap of a catch opening and cold metal on his skin as she handcuffed him to the bedpost. Christ, this is what it feels like. He heard heavy chains clanking; what the hell now?. Another metal sound, but not chain, something large and heavy. The shrivelling in his groin told him the noises were connected with making his stay more permanent. This is what it feels like. Nathaniel heard her drilling, the floor he thought. She was fixing a metal plate to the floor and attaching a thick, heavy metal ring and to the ring she attached the length of chain. As she fixed the chain to his handcuffs she told him he could use the bathroom whenever he needed. She also told him there was nothing in there that could help him escape so he needn’t bother looking. She left him again and didn’t return for the rest of the night. As darkness fell outside, Nathaniel felt it creep inside his skull; his brain felt useless, disordering his thoughts, almost intentionally he thought. Fear had taken over now and he could feel the breath of panic cold and rank on his neck. Was this the last room he would ever see? Was Dahlia’s face the last face he would ever look at? Would the killer be killed? Would he be redeemed by becoming the victim? Would he be responsible for his own death? Was he not her Svengali and she the ingenue he had honed and sculpted and moulded into a clone of himself, albeit unwittingly on his part but he had taught her all the same, hadn’t he? Would she perhaps continue his work? It wasn’t the same now. It was spoiled. He was just like all the rest; the only difference being his occupation was murder but he was still a fucking man, through and through, it was written through his rotten core. She dreamed that he was a poet, that he was a God walking amongst the shit that was ordinary humans, that he was maybe one of the Fallen Angels, that he was at least not a normal man! But that was all he was. It had all gone bad. Dahlia curled up into a little ball on the sofa and cried. Life wasn’t worth living now; she had waited so long to find him and he was nothing. He didn’t even have a story. He was just a brute, a mindless, artless, unromantic bastard. Thrill-Killer, he hadn’t even been traumatised! What the fuck was he killing for, there had to be a reason, even Mickey and Mallory killed for each other and for love and to make their mark on a planet that didn’t care about anybody. She couldn’t just let him go. What was she going to do with him? He’d kill her. But wait, he didn’t actually know where he was, he could be anywhere. She could drug him and just dump him somewhere. But surely he’d seek her out to wreak revenge on her. Of course he would. As she stared at her Nathaniel wall anger rose inside her constricting her throat muscles; she choked on the hours she had wasted trying to psychoanalyse him, the tens of thousands of words she had read about him and his deeds, how she had wracked her brain trying to decipher his deep and meaningful clues, the keys to his angst and anguish when there were really none there at all. She didn’t move for hours, she sat there steeped in misery and sadness and just stared at the wall. A noise jerked her from her mediation; she realised it was her own screaming. She launched herself at the wall, tearing and ripping through the cuttings and clippings, nails striking so hard and fast and deep that under them were packed with newspaper, paint and plaster. Nathaniel dreaded seeing her come through the door; what on earth had all that screaming been about? He was shivering, eyes wide and moist, he almost cried out at the creak of the floorboards as she approached the bedroom. He was relieved; she was carrying a tray of food, soup he thought, great, he was starving now. She laid the tray on the bed, “I made this just for you, Nathaniel.” He looked at the soup, strangest looking soup he’d ever seen, something wasn’t right. Was that pieces of newsprint? “If you won’t eat your own words then you’ll eat words written about you.” She rammed the spoon into his mouth chipping a tooth and stabbing his tonsils, the chip slid down his gullet as his throat muscles contracted involuntarily, he tasted the paint and the wallpaper paste and the plaster, sharp little shards of which were sticking into his trachea as she forced him to swallow mouthful after mouthful, pulling his head back and pinching his nose so that he had no option but to swallow. He was begging her now. pleading, in agony, tasting blood rising from his throat. She stopped, watching as he wept like a little boy who’d lost his mother in a big bad shopping mall, listened to him as he gargled, the noise reminding them both of the night they had met over the corpse of his final victim. Could she ever remember how she had once felt about him? But that wasn’t how she felt about him. What she felt was for her own fantasy, nothing to do with him and it wasn’t his fault that he was not what she imagined he would be. She’d keep him for a while longer though until she tired of him, let him see how it felt to be a victim, to be helpless. She was quite prepared to be the love interest of a serial killer but Nathaniel had no reason. What he did wasn’t right. Serial killers could be excused couldn’t they? It wasn’t their fault and what they did excited her. Her dream of being so close, as close as she could be to what was inside the head of a psychopathic serial killer had died; it would never be resurrected, these chances only come once. She had chased her dream, been wooed by it , teased and tormented by it, finally found it and had it snatched itself away from her when she had it in her hands. That she could never forgive. He had done that to her, shattered her dream. Killed it. “Dead as Dillinger”, she said to him. Dahlia decided that she would indeed kill this bastard; he didn’t deserve to live. She made a decision to continue his work, make it meaningful, worthy. She’d make it memorable so that when she was done the world would never forget Dahlia - the greatest female serial-killer in the world. © Alex Severin 1998