He watched the last Bristol train pull into the Bridleton platform, with rising anticipation. He had changed his doctor. A new type of drug was prescribed; the tablets took the edge off his incessant urges, but they were still there, watching, waiting for another Lucy...
He had settled into his new life as Dominic Bowman. He rather liked the name; it had a certain resonance about it. He had used Precious Mogwase’s credit card to withdraw cash from an ATM; enough to keep him afloat while he sounded out his contacts. Fortunately, he had plenty of piece-meal work to keep him going for several months; such was the nature of his printing business. At his rates, there was a ready demand.
...He heard the town hall clock striking 9:30; the train was on time, despite the snow flurries. A few passengers disembarked; late night Christmas shoppers laden with brightly-coloured carrier bags; a young couple arm in arm, and an elderly gentleman in a long grey overcoat.
The young couple were laughing; the girl was whispering in the man’s ear and pawing at his jacket. He seemed to respond by hugging her, and then they walked off down the unlit lane that ran along the side of the track towards a line of parked cars.
He followed them.
They stopped by one; a red Escort. The man opened it up, the interior light casting a pale shadow. He watched them clamber into the back seat. The light went off. There was only darkness and shadows. He melted into one, and waited.
Plenty of time.
His gloved fingers caressed the comforting switchblade in his trouser pocket. The blade was razor-sharp and added to the thrill; made him feel alive, made him hungry. He moved closer, risked peering at the car windows. They were steamed up. He crouched down, took out the switchblade and flicked it open; wrenched open the car door and bent inside.
The man was on top, groaning rhythmically. The interior light was on. It was easy. He pulled the man’s head back by the hair and sliced the blade through the larynx.
Just a gurgle before the man went limp. The girl started to scream; tried to wriggle out under the man. He pressed the tip of his blade against her cheek and drew blood; a trickle. He showed her the blade.
‘Shut up bitch, or you’ll get it as well.’
She started to whimper; didn’t struggle. He closed the car door, pushed the man to one side, into the floor well behind the front seats.
‘Don’t hurt me, please.’
He grunted; pulled the girl across the seat, and unzipped his fly. He clambered on top of her.
‘You like it like this, then?’
She sobbed her way through his initial assault: tears gushed down her face; her head shaking, as in disbelief.
‘Don’t, please don’t.’
He gasped. ‘Too late now, bitch.’ He gave a triumphant bellow as he flooded into her.
He heard a noise outside; the shadows lightened. Someone had opened a car door a bit further down. He pressed himself down, placed the knife against her chin.
‘Keep quiet. Don’t move.’
She carried on sobbing. He shrugged, and then drew the knife across her throat and waited until the car had gone. No noise, just the darkness and shadows.
Plenty of time.
He searched the man’s pockets, found the car keys, dumped her body on top of the man in the floor well, clambered out of the back, and into the driver’s seat. It had started to snow again. He started the motor, and drove further up the lane to a small wooded copse. He parked up close to dense undergrowth and began a search. He took all their valuables; the man’s wallet, her petite handbag, a gold ring, chain, and bracelet; then dragged out the two bodies.
He looked longingly at the girl; her raven locks contrasting with the blood-red necklace. She was still warm, so he ripped off her top and took her again, before pulling their bodies into the dense bracken. He watched the snow settle; it would cover them completely in a short while. Satiated, he drove the Escort back to the multi-story, long-term car park and left it in a dark corner.