CHAPTER

   I grab her from behind, clamping my hand over her mouth and pinning her against me in one quick movement. My other hand thrusts the case of a penknife against her neck. “Just do as I say” I whisper “and you won’t get hurt.”

   She freezes as she lets the fear get to her. And then she starts to struggle. Her body stretches and lurches, her head jerks back and forth, and her elbows thrust against my ribs. But she cannot get away.

   I move the knife until it is within an inch of her eyes and then flick the blade. So that she gets a good glimpse of it, so that she can witness the cold, hard steel, so that she knows I’m serious, that I’m not someone to be messed around with. A ray from the mid morning sun breaches the forest and hits the tip of the blade. I warn her once more.

   “I don’t want to use this, so don’t be silly.”

   As soon as she sees the weapon, the woman stops fighting.

   I don’t want to use the knife, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes, I’m prepared to slit her throat if she doesn’t comply. I press the knife back against her neck, angling it into the groove at the front of her jugular vein, so that it doesn’t cut her, but so that it’s ready, in the vicinity, waiting, just in case. With that, I drag her sideways through a gap between two trees and into the shelter of the late summer bushes.

   Once through, I move my thumb, releasing her nose so that she can breathe but keeping my hand clamped firmly over her mouth. She snorts loudly as she draws in air and then shudders and begins to cry. The tears flow freely.

   I wonder what she’s thinking now, I wonder if she can sense that these are her final seconds. I wonder whether she’s thinking about one particular person, or aching for all the things she promised herself she’d do once she had the time. I’d like to ask her if it’s true that your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die and if this is what she’s experiencing at the moment, but I don’t want to alarm her more than necessary. She stumbles, but cannot fall, as I drag her through the dense bracken into the depths of the woods.

   I push her forward, over mangled roots and past big trees towards the centre, where the bushes are at their thickest and the pathways are furthest away, steering her towards the spot that I chose a long time ago. To the place I’ve visited many times since, but will have no further need of after today. My pre chosen spot. Right off the beaten track. A little way up a hillside. A dark point in the middle of nowhere. There, I snatch her bag from her shoulder and push her to the ground.

   She slumps into a pitiful heap, her hair flopping forward as her body curls into a ball. Her tears break into loud sobs

   “Shut up” I snap at her angrily.

   A few more whimpers escape before she manages to contain the noise. She wipes her face. And then looks up, fear glistening in her eyes, terror mingling with despise she so evidently feels. In spite of that she manages to look up and hold my gaze.

   “What do you want?” she asks.

   I have no answer that she would welcome.

   “Why are you doing this?”

   I spring her bag open and tip the contents onto the floor. Then bend to pick up her phone.

   “I’m ill” she blurts out, “I am… I am… ask anyone… they’ll tell you… ring someone… ring my friend… she’ll tell you… ”

   I switch the phone off and then hurl it into the bushes. She gasps in dismay as she watches it disappear. But it doesn’t stop her.

   “I’ve got money” she pleads. “I can get you any amount you want, just say the word… name a figure”

   “I don’t want it.”

   “You don’t have to do this” she cries.

   But she doesn’t understand. She thinks she knows but she doesn’t.

   I press the recoil button on my knife and the blade snaps shut. As I slip it into my pocket, her eyes only widen.

   “If you let me go I won’t say anything to anyone, I swear I won’t” she says, dragging a finger across her chest to form an invisible cross.

   I watch in mild fascination, finding her naive gesture strangely touching. She thinks that forming a cross will save her, that god and religion will step in and sort this mess out. And I’m betting that she’s never stepped foot in a church before, not really, not for the right reasons, maybe she was christened and maybe she got married in one, but I’m betting that she’s never been a proper worshipper. No, that cross won’t save her now. And I should know.

   “Just let me go”

   Her eyes plead. But I’ve seen it before.

   “Is it sex you want?” she says, the tone of her voice becoming more acute, more anxiety ridden. “Look, if it is, I won’t make it difficult, I’ll let you, I don’t mind”

   Watching her, watching the wretchedness on her face, reminds me of the last time. It reminds me that I’ve killed before.

   For a fleeting second I switch off. Like with everything I do, the reason why I’m here, it follows me everywhere, no matter what I’m doing, or who I’m with, it’s with me, always with me, lurking in the background, ready to pop up at any given second. Ready to ruin my day. And ruin my life. She’s just offered me sex, but she’s wrong, she’s so wrong.

   “I’ve got children,” she says, interrupting my thoughts and bringing me back to reality, “do you have any?”

   Her face softens as it takes on a new expression. As if her thoughts are turning elsewhere. She looks into the distance. Not focusing on anything in particular. Her mood shifts, as if she’s finding an inner strength. She no longer cowers, and no longer shakes. And I know that I’ve taken far too long.

   “Do you have any children?” she asks again.

   I shake my head. I’ve not come here for conversation and I haven’t got the time.

   “My husband will be looking for me” she says, her voice squeaking as I close in.

   I bend over her.

   “Let him come.”

   I put my hands round her neck. And in those final moments she knows. She knows that she’s not going to be able to walk away from this, that she’s not going to be able to say goodbye to anyone she loves, that she’s not going to go to sleep tonight nor wake tomorrow, that she’s never going to shop again, nor eat in fancy restaurants, never going to kiss or make love, never going to laugh or cry, never going to love or hate, never going to feel the cold, nor go through the seasons. That her season is being brutally cut short, that the only way she’s going to leave this spot is in a body bag. I see it in her eyes. I see the terror, then the realization. And I squeeze a little harder.

   Her hands rise, her long nails clawing in an awkward search for somewhere to grip. They scratch the leather of my gloves, but it doesn’t concern me, by this time tomorrow I’ll have disposed of them properly and there’ll be no connection that leads back to me.

   Her head jerks backwards and I get to look straight into her face. With her pale blue eyes and her upturned nose, with her thinning lips and her eyebrows that have been over plucked. I see it all. It’s funny when looking at a person from a closer angle, how it all changes, that some people are prettier from a distance and some look better close up. The woman in front did look better from a closer angle. She did until I started to squeeze. Now her face begins to swell. 

   Watching someone die is surreal. I feel detached, and at the same time, I’m curious. I’m curious because I’m looking for a sign. I want to know if she is passing on to somewhere else, to heaven or hell, I want to know if it’s true, that we all get to face our makers, and pay for our sins. But I’ve already taken the time to consider this and if I do have to face my maker then I’m living on a tab. I’ll pay later, thank you.

   Her body relaxes. Her eyes take on a glazy stare. She gives in. I hold on for a few more seconds, but know. There is something different about a corpse, the skin is different, it takes on a plastic look, the look of a mannequin. Her face is no longer contorted, no longer afraid, her soul having departed, she’s become nothing more than a casing.

   I push her back across a clump of ferns and reach into my pocket.

   I take out some scissors and set to work. Her light blue top cuts neatly and falls aside, exposing her white lacy bra. I pull at the front of it and then cut through the centre. With the support taken away, her chest is soft and limp.

   I move to her trousers. The black jeans are tight and have pinched her skin around the waistband, leaving angry red lines.

   Even though I know that she’s dead, I’m still wary of hurting her unnecessarily. I don’t want to cut her, or to graze her. I don’t want to draw blood or mark her in any way that could be construed as being part of what I’m doing here.

   I put the scissors down and dig my fingers into her waistband, forcing the top button open, then unzip and pull them down. They slide awkwardly over her thighs and on past her knees. I bring them to rest on her shins

   Under the trousers is a tiny pair of black knickers with stringy sides. They cut easily. 

   I pull the knickers away, and then pause to look at her. She is early thirties, pretty, and not a natural blonde. Her body shows the signs that she is a mother after all, I wasn’t sure whether to believe her but those marks across her stomach can only be caused by one thing. She is plump, but curvy in a nice way. Her pubic hair is black and has been neatly waxed. Her nipples are the colour of dark coffee. Her suntan is limited to her face, chest, arms and legs, and outlines the shape of a full swimming costume.

   I consider sex.

   I know that the crime I have just committed will see me locked up with the key thrown away forever and so to have sex wouldn’t make a difference to any punishment if I’m caught, because let’s face it we’re talking about life term here, and at my age, life would certainly mean life. But I don’t intend to get caught.

   I brush the idea away. Sex has never been a part of my plan and to deviate now could throw my whole system out of order.

   The clock is ticking and time is marching on. Or at least for some people it is.

   I reach into my left pocket and bring out a plastic bag. The bag is the type that usually contains sandwiches, with a seal running across the top. Only mine contains something different. I open the seal and extract one dark hair. This I place on her right shoulder blade, near the crease of her neck, aside her own hair and contrasting with the colour. I then select a second hair and scan her body for a suitable place to leave it. Just like with everything else, this has to be precise. Everything counts when you’re a murderer. It’s all about being exact.

   The spot I select is in the gap between her thighs, just above her knees. I place it carefully, then reseal the bag and slip it back into my pocket. I ruffle her hair. And wipe her face and ear, where I had hold of her earlier, with an antiseptic cloth. I take out the bag from my right pocket, open it and extract the contents. I place them into her bellybutton.

   The woman is exposed, the contents of her navel giving her body a strange absurdity. It’s almost a cult image. She is spread across the floor, her nakedness, having lost its sexual appeal, is overshadowed by a set of deep blue rosary beads.

   I pause. I mentally run though my list of objectives. Once I’m satisfied that I’ve done everything correctly, I know that I’m done here.

   I take one last look to see me through. One last look to soothe away any doubts which might pervade my thoughts. One last look to carry me through when things are bad. One last look. And then walk away.