They never did recover Mandy. Sometimes, I try and guess what might have happened to her body, but I can’t. I don’t like dwelling on the whole incident too much, really, because it should never have happened. It wasn’t a murder, but no-one will ever see it that way. At least I know the truth though, in my heart, that I was actually trying to save her. There was one time, about a month after the whole event had occurred, when I seriously considered writing a letter to Mandy’s heartbroken parents, just to put their minds at rest, give them some closure, so that they could start over again, and get on with their lives. In the end though, I thought it was too risky, and just left the whole matter alone; self-preservation again, I suppose. I didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention to myself.
I found out Mandy’s name the next day, in the local newspapers. She wasn’t from the locale; Mandy was a holidaymaker, on vacation with her parents and younger brother. She’d gone out swimming, but had gotten into difficulty, and was carried away by the strong currents around the Hingley coastline. I was shocked to discover that this had all happened the day BEFORE I found her. Mandy must have been tough, to survive all of that time in the sea, before being washed up on the shore near Keln. That just made what happened to her all the more sad, in my eyes. If I hadn’t interfered, she might have made it. But no, I had to get involved, and do more damage than good. It took me a long time to get over that. I carried around a lot of feelings of guilt. Unfortunately, I also carried around a growing desire to experience that feeling, the one of a frozen, intoxicating union, with a female, again. I resisted my inner temptations for about a year, before that resolve completely collapsed. You know what happened next, and once it did, well, I just couldn’t stop after that.
***
There are two different types of murder that I carry out. The first are the ones that stem from that initial experience, when I was thirteen, with Mandy. For example, the murder of Kate Williams falls into that category. I suppose that you could call them ‘sex killings’, even though there’s no conventional sex involved. Let's not beat around the bush here; I derive a sort of sexual satisfaction from those type of murders… I receive gratification, just not in the normal way, but that’s only because I’m NOT normal. Because of what my father was, I carry with me two forms of sexuality; the human, and the inhuman. You could literally say that I have the best of both worlds…
The second category of murder that I’ve committed is much more conventional, appeasing that blood-thirsty and sadistic part of my personality. When I caused that old cunt, Alfie Whitehouse, to die from a heart attack, I got a real thrill from it. It’s a power thing, pure and simple. I like having the power of life and death over overs. One of the people up at the old derelict farmhouse… I strangled them, but really slowly… I even let them think I was going to not actually kill them, at one point… but it was all just a great big game. Fuck, did I get a kick out of that though, squeezing the life out of them until, at the very last moment, I loosened my grip, allowed them to breath again… I even whispered an apology into their ear… before squeezing once more, harder, more ferocious, than the last time.
It’s true, I like to torment some of my victims… I mean REALLY torment them. Deep down, I know it’s wrong, but I do it anyway, and that’s because I enjoy it. It’s a bit like when you’re young, and you steal a pound coin from out of your mom’s purse, then hotfoot it down to the local shops and blow your ill-gotten gains on some sweets, or a comic-book. You know that you’ve done a bad thing, and you feel guilty, ashamed, but at the same time, you’ve enjoyed gorging on the sweets, or reading the story in the comic… and that guilt, well, it certainly doesn’t stop you from robbing another pound coin off your mom, a few days later, does it? That’s how I see this category of murder. I DO, honestly, feel disgusted with my actions, sometimes, but it’s always over-ridden by how much enjoyment I derive from making other people suffer. I guess that makes me pretty sick, eh? Well… so fucking what?
Chapter Twenty Five
Mary and Shark were stopped in their tracks by a fast-flowing river, cutting through Skerrington Forest.
“Shit! What to do we do now? This fucking river’s too wide to cross, and that bastard isn’t far behind us.” Panicked Mary.
“I tell you what we do now, Mary… we lose Howard Trenton for good.” Grinned Shark.
“Oh right, and how are we going to do that?” Mary asked, with skepticism.
“By getting right into that water and swimming in it. IF Howard Trenton can really track us by our scent, then he ain’t going to be able to once we’re in the river.” Advised Shark.
“What? Do you really think so?” Asked Mary.
“Hopefully, yes. I remember watching some film once, years back when I was a kid. There was this guy, being hunted down by a pack of bloodhounds, for some reason or another. That’s how he lost them… he found some water, and jumped right in… this river here might just be a godsend.” Replied Shark. “Shall I go in first? Or do you want that pleasure?”
“It’s going to be sodding freezing!” Exclaimed Mary.
“Like I said before… better than being raped. Or dead.” Mary said, before wading into the river.
Mary followed Shark into the water, which was only knee-deep.
“Keep your backpack free from the river, Mary.” Instructed Shark.
“Why?” Asked Mary. Jesus Christ, girl, use your brain, thought Shark.
“Well, I take it that you packed yourself some changes of clothes for this wonderful, pleasant and relaxing three day excursion?” Asked Shark.
“Yeah, of course I did.” Replied Mary, her whole body shivering.
“Well, we’re gonna have to get into some dry stuff once we’re out of this water, or we’ll probably both die from hypothermia… did you pack yourself any towels?” Shark asked. Mary nodded.
“Three or four.”
“Good. Just make sure that your backpack doesn’t get wet, like I said, otherwise your other clothes, towels… they’ll be next to useless.”
“Okay.” Mary replied.
“Fuck, we ain’t gonna be able to stay in this river for long. It’s so cold in here.” Admitted Shark. “Let’s just hope that this works. If we can lose Howard, then that’s half the battle won. All we have to do then is survive the cold, and find some help. Hey, I wonder if there’s any mobile reception yet?” Pondered Shark. She took her phone from out of her jacket pocket; there was still no signal. Mary did the same. Nothing. Something occurred to Mary.
“Wouldn’t the police be able to track us by our phones?” She wondered.
“Does yours use GPS?” Replied Shark.
“No, I don’t think so.” Mary advised.
“Mine neither. It’s old. I’m not sure if our mobiles will be sending signals out or not… if they’re picked up, then the police should be able to get a rough idea of where we are… using triangulation, I think it’s called… depends on how many phone masts are around here though… I’m guessing not many.” Said Shark. And she was right. The police search had already tried to track them by their phones; the exact location of the groups devices were impossible to pinpoint.