The interior of this vehicle suddenly feels very, very enclosed. It’s as if I’m inside the jaws of a junkyard compressor, about to be crushed into a cube.
I distract myself by looking at the Daily Mirror newspaper on the passenger seat. It contains an interview with a woman who believes she once escaped the clutches of Fred West, who killed himself a few months earlier. While we have one obvious thing in common, he and I couldn’t be any more dissimilar. He was a sick, twisted man, and it rankles me that if I’m ever caught, people might lump us in the same category. I do what I do for the greater good. He did what he did for his own perversions. I’m glad he’s dead. People like him have no place in this world. I throw the paper into the footwell.
Desperate to feel fresh air against my face, I open the door and check my watch, confused as to why I am here so early. Then I remember: I only wound the clocks in the house forward after the weekend’s winter change, and not the clock in the Mondeo. It’s 2.30 p.m. and I don’t need to be here for another hour.
I’ve been haunted by this claustrophobic feeling for a week now and I know what it means. I need to distract myself from the nagging voice that wants to be heard, so I make the most of the mild weather and extra time and take a walk along the path by the canal instead. Perhaps
revisiting that spot will be enough to take my mind off my intrusive thoughts. Who knows? I’m in uncharted territory here. I’ve never taken such a long break between kills before.
The last time I was here, I was thirteen years old. I remember it as if it was yesterday because you never forget your first premeditated murder. His name was Justin Powell and he was a year or two older than me and much bigger. He wasn’t somebody who needed saving – his death was to save someone else and redirected the course of the rest of my life.
I had followed this tall, stocky lad with hair combed into a quiff from the school playground to the barely lit canal path. I used dusk as a cloak to hide me, and by the time he’d turned to see where the rapidly approaching footsteps were coming from, he was already falling into the freezing water.
As he slipped beneath the surface, I took one of the rocks lying by the footpath and held it above me. And the moment his head emerged from the water gasping for air, I brought it down upon him with all my might. I can still recall the crunch it made as it collided with his skull and how he disappeared again into the water. It was a good twenty minutes before he surfaced again, face down and motionless. It was too dark to see his blood in the water so I had to use my imagination instead.
The bench I’m sitting on now wasn’t here all those years ago. Back then, I watched the next morning from my standing position a distance away as police swarmed over the canal and surrounding parkland, investigating the body of a teenager discovered wedged between two moored canal boats. I had been trained never to show emotion at the fate of strangers, so there was no panic, no regret and certainly no guilt attached to what I’d done. In killing him, I’d taken control of a situation and helped someone who had helped me.
I spent most of that day there, taking in every second of the aftermath, framing images to bring back to life as I am today. For a moment I wonder how my world might have been had I not killed Justin that day. But I’m convinced that, if not him, it would’ve been somebody else. There’s only so long you can fight nature. Lately, this is something I am being reminded of every hour of every day.
The last time I acted on my urges was exactly five years ago today. I thought the many distractions of my new life might be enough to occupy my time and give me all the fulfilment I required. But I’ve grown to realise that when I don’t have blood on my hands, they are uncomfortably dry.
I check my watch again and start making my way back to where I need to be. Ahead, a small crowd has gathered, some chatting with one another, and all with a common purpose. I wait on the other side of the road, watching them, and wondering how many hours I have spent hovering around school gates resembling these. A bell sounds and, moments later, dozens of pairs of small feet come running out of the door to greet their parents. When most of them disperse, I spy the one I have been waiting for. They search for the familiar, only encountering it when our eyes lock.
I make my way towards them and their embrace is tight. It fills me with light. Then I take their hand, ask about their day and we begin to walk to the car before I drive us home.
This is what normality tastes like. I only wish it was enough.
IPSWICH HERALD, 1990
POLICE LAUNCH MANHUNT FOR MISSING SIBLINGS BY JIMMY SHAKESPEARE
A one-month-old baby boy and his big sister were snatched from their front garden in broad daylight yesterday, sparking a major police hunt.
Infant William Brown and his four-year-old sister, Tanya, were abducted after their mother left them alone to prepare her son’s bottle. Detectives admit fears for their safety are growing as specialist teams hunt for the missing siblings.
A police spokesman said they are becoming ‘increasingly concerned’ for the children’s safety and have deployed a large number of officers around Stoke Park, Ipswich.
Hundreds of local residents in the estate have joined the hunt, with many continuing their efforts overnight.
