Manchester Vice

Chapter 5

5

My god, I thought, was this some kind of sick fantasy. or has Jim really killed someone- maybe more than one person - in such a vicious and painful way?

As a conventional family man, I felt horrified by what I was reading.

As a Journalist – I worked for the Manchester Daily News – I must admit that my reaction was rather different. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I found myself actually hoping that Jim might have removed Demons from several ‘patients’, and that I might be the one to reveal his crimes, by way of an exclusive story.

I cast my mind back to the notes I’d been given about him. He was in prison for the attempted a*******n of a young man. It was possible that the police hadn’t uncovered the full extent of his criminal activities and it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that he was a serial killer, the most prolific in the history of Manchester, or even the U.K.

I looked up from the journal. Two hours had passed very quickly. My eyes were tired and I was beginning to feel I wanted to get home. Moreover, if truth be told, once my mind was no longer occupied by the act of reading, I became concerned for my safety. There is something rather unsettling about being on your own in a strange house late at night.

I decided to make a quick search of the place then get on my way.

There was a stash of h****n in the kitchen, and, concealed at the rear of an old pantry, a door leading down a flight of steps to a cellar. I decided to take a look. As I descended into the gloom at the bottom of the stairs my instincts screamed at me to leave, but in the interests of journalism I ignored them.

A single n***d bulb lit the cellar and the walls were bare brick. There was a crude wooden cupboard in one corner and a faint but lingering smell of incense in the air.

And more.

There was a chair.

It horrified and excited me in equal measure.

The coarse-looking wooden armchair had leather straps with metal buckles on the arms and legs. On top of the back of the chair was a rusting cast-iron vice, its two massive jaws positioned to clamp on either side of the head of anyone sitting in it. A handle much like that of an old fashioned wringing machine could be turned to bring the jaws of the vice together. I cranked the handle: the action felt smooth and powerful.

Nearby sat a wooden table with a cut-throat razor, a knife, and a curved spatula. Next to those items was a brace and bit.

The bit must have been an inch in diameter, and the spatula resembled a spoon with razor sharp edges. All the tools were caked in dried blood. I didn't have to ask myself why that should be, because I remembered Jim’s chilling words.

It seemed the account in his journal wasn’t a sick fantasy. It was an accurate record of events that had actually taken place. The discovery set my nerves on edge.

Nevertheless, I examined the chair.

There were spots of dried blood on it and large encrustations of the stuff all over the vice.

I shivered and my knees began to weaken.

I wanted to run away, but I knew that I had to look in the cupboard. Thankfully it contained only shelves, a large number of jars full of pickled cauliflower, and nothing more.

In time I would come to understand the full significance of that cupboard.

But on this, my first visit to the cellar, I was too disorientated with fear to inspect it further.

Having more than satisfied my curiosity, I fled up the steps as fast as I could, ran through the entrance hall, and shot out the front door. Then I breathed deeply, in an effort to calm myself down. With feelings of trepidation, I returned for the journal and took it back to my car.

Finally, and not a moment too soon, I drove back to my home in Chorlton.

It was late when I got there. My wife Sandra was out with her friends and our children were being looked after by a teenage girl who lived down the street. After paying her for her troubles, I began reading Jim’s journal, intending to read it from beginning to end and make notes. Although exhausted, I was so excited by what I might find that I managed to keep from nodding off.

Sandra didn’t get in until about 2.00 a.m., dressed to the nines, as she usually was on Friday nights when she went out. I glanced in her direction, and saw killer heels and a short skirt.

She never made that effort with me, I reflected sadly. When we were out together, she dressed like a frump. An attractive frump, but a frump nonetheless. The eye-catching makeup she wore tonight was never in evidence when the only person she needed to impress was me.

She said hello, her mobile beeping, so she reached into her bag and looked at it, greeting her new text message with a careful smile.

“Something funny?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

She went into the kitchen and I heard her pottering around before going upstairs. I went to the kitchen myself to make a coffee, and noticed her bag on the table. A sudden desire seized me to check the messages on her mobile. Some sort of instinct, I suppose. I opened her bag and looked inside. She hadn’t left the mobile in it.

I spent another hour perusing Jim’s journal before turning in.

I appreciate that I should have gone straight to the police with my findings, but other matters were preying on my mind.

And it may be, that at some subconscious level, I was already contemplating a use for the implements I had found in Jim’s cellar.