Briguella

Chapter Two – Kate

Chapter Two – KateMonday 14 December 2015

Someone once told me that I didn't have to be afraid. Fear isn't real. Like the ghosts of my childhood nightmares, it's an illusion. My father lied to comfort and protect me from the real world, so I would fall back to sleep.

I want to be little again; innocent and naïve. Today's world is cruel. Anxiety and fear are an intrinsic part of life. We fear the unknown, losing who we love, and we fear death. The only thing we ought to fear is fear itself, the feeling of unrelenting terror that paralyses your soul.

She felt it when he killed her.

I share her fear, a violent wave of adrenalin flushing through me. Two bodies have been unearthed on the Millbrook Estate in Weston-super-Mare, both stabbed in the heart within days of each other. They were young, with full lives ahead of them. Now they are just statistics among the 600-700 annual UK murder count.

Only these women are not just data to me, they were killed on my patch and now I must face the bloodshed and report the horrific details.

A child, aged six or seven, sits alone in the graffiti-covered playing area alongside a discarded syringe. I want to scoop her into my arms and take her away to safety. I stare into her gentle, watery eyes. She softens me, but I feel icy cold.

My eye line shifts to a hooded figure draped in gold chains outside Londis, dealing cocaine to a scrawny teenager. Beside him rests a homeless man clutching a frayed blanket up to his matted, bearded chin. His bloodshot eyes dart at me momentarily from beneath his worn woollen hat. Panic fills me. I don't like it here. I don't feel safe.

A swarm of police uniforms inhabit Lasmerton Drive. A tall, athletic detective stands authoritatively in the distance, tucked safely behind the police tape to elude the press. I suspect he's in charge and cannot catch his attention.

The sharp wind and its icy pellets penetrate my silk blouse and grip my pale flesh. I think of the victim lying alone in the dark, gradually freezing like an ice pop. No one deserves to suffer a brutal death, let alone be abandoned, like a chicken carcass for foxes to devour.

The forensic figures photograph the crimson and slowly darkening bloodstains. Sparse ash leaves rustle in the trees above, inhabited by a lone ill-omened magpie. It directs a malevolent gaze over its beak and our eyes interlock. In the morbid surroundings, its presence unnerves me and sets my heart racing, my mind reciting the nursery rhyme “One for Sorrow.” The incessant tune replays in my ears. I flinch and shudder it away.

“This is a crime scene, you cannot go beyond this point,” a voice orders.

I break our stare, encountering a plump police officer with vapour billowing from his mouth. His stern, russet eyes probe my presence. I offer my hand instinctively, which he ignores. His formidable stare burns holes in my face from behind his beard, which has white wisps. His sky-grey suit trousers are too short, hugging his chubby ankles and exposing off-white socks. He's pushing 50 and, despite his dumpy appearance, he has a threatening demeanour which throws me off guard.

My eyes are drawn away to the sea of white suits rummaging through the alleyway gathering forensics. Tiny yellow numbered triangles dot the pathway as evidence markers. Attentively, I peer through my new purple Michael Kors glasses, focusing on the blood-tinged ice and an article of clothing. It's dark in colour, either navy or black. The tape pulls across my waist as I hover, scrutinising the scene wondering what else has been unearthed.

Low stratus clouds loom above, sending me into a trance. A storm is impending.

I think about the killer and what motivates him to inflict pain and suffering on women. The chilling faces of Jeffrey Dahmer, Arthur Shawcross and Dennis Nilsen flash across my mind. Dahmer r***d, tortured and strangled his 17 victims during his reign of terror before dismembering their bodies and reducing their remains in drums of acid.

Shawcross, AKA the Genesee River killer, murdered countless women and ate their genitalia, while Nilsen mutilated students and homeless men and flushed their body parts.

Each of them is superseded by chilling images of Fred and Rosemary West, Britain's biggest serial killers. The “ordinary” couple tortured, r***d and murdered at least ten women, including their own children, in a spree that lasted over a quarter of a century. They concealed their dismembered treasures inside their “House of Horrors”.

Such acts of sadism are incomprehensible. My nerves tingle at the vivid recollections and I shake my head instinctively, forcing the imprint of their disturbing faces to the back of my mind.

Fear tremors crawl through me and ricochet up my spine. I wonder if he's lurking, watching the CSIs conduct their investigations. It's common for killers to obsess with the police investigation, revisit the scene and relive their gratification.

You envisage the appearance of a psychotic killer; how they would behave. They're more likely to be one of the anonymous faces you pass on the street or sit across from you on the train. You'll never remember them because they are the average Joe or Jane, with an ordinary appearance camouflaging their tormented minds.

I wonder whether the killer has been building up to this new deviant personality, if he's a tourist or an ex-con; theories roam my mind. Someone must know who he is or have noticed him lurking out of place.

I wonder if he's a thrill killer, sneaking up on random lone women. According to my source, that seems improbable. It appears that he has a type; blonde, young and pretty. He's meticulous and hunts his prey.

My numb fingertips twist my hair tips as I revisit the deadly stare of the magpie. I turn my back on the bloodshed and quicken my footsteps to safety. I contemplate the women and guilt detonates and discharges through my body like a lightning bolt because deep in the pit of my belly, I'm relieved I don't fit the profile.