Author: Sonlycou (Me, so don’t fucking steal)
Warnings: Extreme Violence. Language. Gore. Not a happy story.
Notes: Read at your discretion and leisure, offer feedback if you’re that bored.
The sky was slate gray interspersed with pale clouds, average for a winter morning in London. The Thames River, equally dull, reflected it in its choppy waters. In fact most of the landscape appeared cast in monotone, from the landmarks to the people hurrying about. Some stopped behind the taped off area near the bank of the river to gaze curiously down at the group of bobbies in their dark uniforms and shiny helmets. Clustered in a line, most were staring grimly at something in the water, while others looked away as though they were about to be ill. The shapeless form in the water was hard to distinguish even at a few paces, let alone to any passersby on the sidewalk.
Forty-seven year old Detective Chief Inspector George Williamson watched dispassionately as several constables assisted the medical examiner in pulling the bloated object further on shore for a closer inspection. Judging by the sodden dress, it must have been a woman, though you could never tell for sure by looking. Especially when what was once a living, breathing human was now nothing more than a bluish-white carcass, abdomen severely distended and eyeballs ready to burst from their orbital sockets. The medical examiner would confirm the gender along with the body’s identity, God willing, later on.
What he didn’t need to be told to know was that this was no accident or suicide. A dark purple-tinted mark ran around the majority of the body’s neck, a sure sign of strangulation. Williamson was becoming increasingly worried over the sudden spike in murders within the past two months. Most were women ranging from eighteen to forty, their causes of death just as different as their ages and lifestyles. The latest male victims tended to be young, in the twenty-to-thirty range, and known for causing disquiet in the pubs or other public scenes.
So far none of the victims could be linked except for some prostitutes, and yet he had the vague sense that a good lot of them might be connected. Williamson hadn’t been with the City of London Police for more than six months himself but more than once he had spent nights at his desk, leafing through the cases of previous local murders. Many were jotted down to jealous lovers, the mentally unstable, drugs or even business-related. People were charged and arrested, and yet similar crime scenes continued to emerge, along with a pattern.
This was the second strangled woman within a month, though the first body had been found in her own apartment within a forty-eight hour period of her death. Judging by the decomposition on this new one, she might have been floating silently along for days. Which meant if the same individual had taken the life from these two beings then it was almost time for a third. As the bloated form was being zipped into a crisp blue body bag, Williamson was returning to his unmarked silver BMW. He was a moderately-sized man and just stuffing himself into the driver’s seat left him slightly breathless.
He was determined to apprehend his subject if that were the case, before another life was brutally snuffed out. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel as he sat in the vehicle and stared out at those going on with their daily lives. Far too aware that any one of them could be the next lifeless body Williamson had to respond to.
The pattern was only barely traceable; after two or three women there would be one or two men, killed in various manners but all the result of a brutal fight. Williamson hoped he was guessing right tonight. It was almost two weeks after twenty-two year old Lizzie Conley was pulled from the river. A tourist from America, she had been a pretty blonde with sun-kissed skin and cornflower-blue eyes. Now she was nothing more than a cold, bloated corpse, shipped back home after being studied for clues to her killer.
This wasn’t the first pub he sat in, looking for his suspect. He chose a new one every night, hoping it might be the right one at the right time. They were all small and had few customers, because that’s where it often happened. Witnesses to the fights were too drunk to be of any use, creating outlandish stories just to gather some attention or see themselves on the telly. “ ‘E ‘ad th’strangth ov’an ox, picked ‘im right ‘oop an thrown th’bugger through th’table there.”
Williamson slowly sipped a glass of stout over the course of the evening from a booth at the rear of the pub where he could watch the door. There were some older blokes eating and complaining about their wives in another booth along with three young men and another closer to his age at the bar. While the younger fellows were somewhat drunkenly boisterous, the other male was content to throw back shots of whiskey and thoughtfully rub the stubble on his chin.
His hair was cropped short and darker near the roots, while the rest shone an almost luminescent gold in the lights above the bar. That was all that was perceptible at this distance and Williamson had no reason to study him much harder at the moment. Only when he believed the night to be another waste did he take further notice of the bloke, now stumbling drunk out the door. He also caught sight of the younger lads nudging each other and following after like a pack of hungry mongrels.
After pulling out and setting enough pounds to pay for his drink under the empty glass, he shifted his bulk from the booth and trailed behind, knowing the telltale signs of trouble. The night air was crisp and chilly as he walked out and his breath immediately smoked. Looking up and down the street, neither the man nor the group of lads was visible. But he suddenly heard one of them speaking far too loudly off to his left. “I said your money, now! Or I’ll bash your head in!”
Shit, Williamson thought to himself as he tugged open his jacket and reached for his holstered Glock pistol. He had to pause at every alley to clear it, the beam of his small but powerful torch flicking back and forth while the sounds of a scuffle resounded from somewhere up ahead. A shrill, almost womanly shriek followed, and Williamson huffed as he ran in that direction. Oh bloody hell, this is it. Adrenaline and fear coursed through his veins, because he was alone and by the looks of it there were three suspects. He had left his 2-way in the BMW like a right git, now what was he to do if they were armed?
He lurched back suddenly as a form darted in front of him, almost colliding with him. Before he could shout out ‘City of London Police’, something else whizzed by and struck the fleeing form in the back of the head. It was one of the young lads and his legs only propelled him a few steps further before he simply stopped. And sank slowly as though knowing he was going to fall but trying to make the impact as gentle as possible.
It was only when Williamson shone his torch on the head of the lad that he saw something protruding from the back of his skull. The non-reflective metal handle of a folding knife stuck out where the entire blade had embedded in the young man’s head, like the stick in a caramel-dipped apple.
“Oh, fuck.” Williamson managed to murmur before tearing his eyes from the sight. He planted his back to the grimy wall of a building, feeling the cold sweat on his palms making his pistol slightly slippery. When he cautiously poked his head around the corner to look into the alley, at first he just saw two figures in mid-tussle. With his pistol aimed straight ahead in his right hand and the torch hovering directly above in his left, Williamson stepped around the corner and leveled both at the two forms.
“City of London Police, hands up! Put your hands up and don’t you fucking move!” He didn’t notice another of the lads already lying prone with his face to the ground. He was focused on the men who refused to cease struggling, though he caught the flash of eyes briefly from the one who didn’t have his back to him. “Stop, the both of you! And put your hands in the air! Put your hands in the air, now!”
He crept toward them cautiously. He had no idea if either of them were still armed. As he got closer he became aware of a severe gurgling sound, almost as though someone were gargling mouthwash. He noticed a peculiar spasm to the movements of the lad in front of him and it appeared the older bloke had tugged him into some sort of embrace. Before he could call out again the man’s arms released the lad and he crumpled to the ground. That gargling sound continued and though Williamson saw the source, his brain seemed incapable of fully comprehending it.
Laying on his back the young man stared up at nothing as his lungs fought to receive air through the blood draining down his windpipe. Approximately where his adam’s apple had been there was now a gaping slit from below one ear to the other, exposing muscle and tissue and cartilage. Bloody bubbles came from his throat as the thick, arterial crimson slowly drowned him. He had never seen anything like it and his stout was fighting its way up his throat, leaving a sour taste behind.
A soft, bark of a laugh snapped him back to attention to the situation at hand. That didn’t mean he was any more ready for the next sight. The blonde man’s handsome face was almost entirely stained in red. It dripped down his chin and the front of his shirt looked soaked in it, far too much for a nosebleed or a busted lip. The man stared back at him and licked his lips of the fluid almost lewdly. The gargling sounds continued.
“City of London Police! Slowly put your hands in the air. You take one step and I will shoot you.” Williamson tried to keep his voice as level as possible and his hands the same as he shone the beam of his torch straight into the bloke’s eyes to blind him. He noticed right away that the man’s irises were an odd shade of yellow, almost like honey or a gold coin. They squinted angrily at him through the light, but he eventually raised his hands in compliance. They, too, were slathered with blood.
“Put your hands on your head and interlock your fingers. Now turn around slowly, slowly, that’s it. Keep your hands on your head and don’t move a bloody inch.” Surprisingly the bloke continued to follow his directions. Williamson carefully approached him from behind with his pistol still aimed at the center of his back. Wasting no time between holstering the Glock and pulling out a set of handcuffs, he drew back first one of the man’s arms and then the other behind him. Only when metal audibly clicked around the bloke’s wrists did he somewhat relax.
“You are now under arrest for murder. You do not have to say anything. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” The man said nothing as Williamson pushed him into the nearest wall and began to pat him down. Upon reaching his backside he felt something beneath the dark denim of his jeans, following lengthwise between his buttocks. As he did so, the man seemed to flinch.
“What’s this, then?” He straightened and tugged open the waistband of the bloke’s jeans and peered inside. He frowned and pulled it open further, shining his torch down for a better look. “What in God’s name… Is that fur?” The idea was absurd. He could see where it sprouted from the man’s tailbone but couldn’t believe it. Was it even possible to have this kind of deformation? He wasn’t given much time to ponder when a wheezing sound prodded his attention. At first he thought it might be the poor lad with his throat cut open, but by now all signs of life were gone. Instead it came from the third male of the young group who he now noticed laying a few feet away.
“Hold on, mate. I’ll get you some help right soon.” With that he took his suspect by the arm and hauled him away from the alley, quickening his step in search of his car. It was still parked parallel near the pub and Williamson unceremoniously tossed the handcuffed man into the back. He then opened the driver’s door and snatched up the 2-way radio. “Detective Chief Inspector Williamson requesting assistance, I have one white male in custody, two deceased and another down. I’m outside The Lion & Flag, requesting assistance and a bus, over.”
“It’ll be too late.” The man flashed a toothy grin within the darkness of the backseat. Williamson ignored him, using the lever to pop the vehicle’s trunk before hurrying back to get the first aid kit. “Too late, mate. Too late!” He called as Williamson slammed the boot closed and hurried back to the alley. He was sure the sound of whooping sirens would soon tell him that help was on the way; in the meantime he had to see how injured the third lad was and if he could do anything about it.
“Of all the bloody, fuckin’ luck.” Twisted around in the backseat, the blonde followed the overweight male with his eyes as he waddled off into the darkness. A rush of air then passed between his lips as he turned to face the seat in front of him. Not like he ever did have good luck, despite having a name often associated with it. First there were always the young bastards thinking they could jump a middle-aged man and take off with his money and valuables. They never counted on one of these men being a real live monster.
The group had been eyeing him all night and he knew what they were considering. Passing himself off as just another drunkard the brute of a man had purposely lead the group out to an alley where the lads would feel safe in confronting him. Poor idiots had no idea. “Oi oi! Give us your money, old man, and we won’t kick your arse.” When the blonde had simply stared back at them dumbly, one of them stepped forward and reached for the leather jacket he wore.
“I said your money, now! Or I’ll bash your head in!” The lad had barely gotten the words out before the man suddenly slammed his head forward into his face. The hardest part of his brow crushed the kid’s nose on impact with an audible crunch before the blonde also unexpectedly brought up a booted foot and planted it against the lad’s stomach. He kicked him back, smirking as the male stumbled and fell on his ass. Overcoming their surprise the other two boys came after him, swinging their fists. Neither had noticed the man retrieve a large folding knife from his jacket pocket, which he opened using his thumb and a quick flick of his wrist.
As the two fell on him he struggled to isolate one. Their boots all scuffed against the dirty ground as they attempted to pin him against the wall of a building in order to pummel him. One of them tripped and stumbled off to the side, leaving the man with the remaining kid who nearly kneed him in the groin. The man turned his hips at just the right time to get the blow against his thigh, but he still grunted. It was then he plunged his knife into the lad’s stomach.
The young male’s eyes had immediately widened but the shock had only just begun, for the man gave a harsh yank upwards and split the lad’s gut from navel to sternum. Hot blood spilled over his hand as well as the slippery lengths of intestines that threatened to empty themselves through the new hole. Trembling, the male managed to step back enough to look down at his gaping abdomen, and release a piercing scream as his hands tried to gather up and return his innards to the cavity.
Despite this, the man barely looked up in time to dodge an attack from the one uninjured lad. He held a chunk of concrete in one hand and he felt the breeze of it flying past his head. With a quick slash of his arm the blonde sliced open the male’s throat so deep that it was merely some tissue and his spine keeping his head on. By now the one lad trying to keep his guts from escaping had weaved a few steps away and then fallen to the alley’s floor next to the very first of the group. His nose still gushing blood, remained seated right up until that, horror finally giving way to self preservation as he scrambled to hands and feet and ran.
He didn’t get far, in his panic he never saw the Detective who he almost collided with. He was running one moment and the next he both heard and felt a loud thump, as though he had been struck in the head with something. Something cold and metal, and heavy. For some reason there was no pain accompanying it, but he didn’t live long enough to wonder why. The lad was dead before he even face planted the ground.
The chunk of concrete tumbled from the boy’s hand as he began drowning in his own blood. The searing pain seemed to go on forever, and he felt every moment of it. He even felt when the man pulled his body closer and leaned in to sweep his tongue through the wound. It further obstructed his hopeless attempts at breathing as the muscle licked up the blood bubbling from the open well that was his larynx. In his last moments he thought he heard a voice, but the pain and darkness crowded in until his consciousness faded and his body was only reflexively attempting to retain life.
And now there were the bobbies. The man took a few more laps of blood into his mouth before allowing the form to slip from his arms and fall in a heap at his feet. The quivering beam of a torch almost immediately illuminated his face. “City of London Police! Slowly put your hands in the air. You take one step and I will shoot you.” The light aggravated his eyes and he couldn’t see past it, which only irritated him further. He knew, however, that obedience was his only option; at least for now.
He hated being touched, especially at the hand of a random human. It was only a matter of moments before the scrawny tail was discovered and when it was, the blonde squeezed his eyes closed with discomfort. “What in God’s name… Is that fur?” What the fuck else could it be? He wanted to ground out, but he bit his tongue. He also allowed himself to be manhandled back to the constable’s vehicle. It smelled of Chinese takeout and body odor lousily masked with too strong cologne. The blonde’s nose wrinkled in distaste even as he watched the overweight man plead for assistance across the radio.
Amusement lit up his eyes as he realized the constable – no, Detective Chief Inspector, was going back to help his remaining victim. Lips spread out in a grin of devious mirth. “It’ll be too late.” Unless you’re a fuckin’ surgeon. Obviously, the fat fellow was not. Neither did he have any clue that a simple pair of handcuffs couldn’t keep the blonde in custody. From the time he had been tossed into the backseat of the vehicle, hands were struggling to remove the metal cuffs.
His skin was still slick with blood and that made it just a little easier to slide one cuff down his left wrist and attempt to force it over his hand. Alone in the BMW, he heard his own bones crunching and grinding together. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, but finally the cuff slipped from around his broken hand along with fresh blood and bits of skin.
The blonde ignored the angry throbbing that worked its way up his limb, already using his right hand to try the car door. Locked, of course; two solid kicks with one of his steel toed boots against the window and he was just as good as free. Hastily, mindful of his broken hand, the male slipped out of the broken window and immediately looked around for any new witnesses. If any had heard the shattered glass falling to the pavement, they wisely had ignored it, or otherwise minded their own business.
Tentatively he flexed the fingers of his left hand while backtracking towards the alley where the officer had returned to tend to his remaining victim. Humans tended to expire easily when they were gutted like a fish, either from shock or loss of blood, or a combination of the two. The blonde hoped the kid would hang on for a few more minutes longer and give him just enough time to take care of the interfering bobby.
When he reached the kid with the knife still sticking out of his head, the male placed his boot against the lad’s skull before he leaned down to extract the blade. Pink mush, brain matter, was sticking to the serrated edge and blood was thick as it dribbled to the ground. When he peeked into the alley he saw the Detective kneeling next to the third lad. He had carefully turned the young male over and was staring down at the mass of filth-covered innards that had piled out of his open gut.
Seemed he at least had enough sense not to push them back inside where they would further contaminate his tissues. The lad was pale as milk and obviously wheezing his last few breaths. The bloke skirted carefully towards the two, using these noisy exhalations to try and conceal the soft crunch his boots made on the floor of the alley.
Though his broken hand ached, the blood had ceased flowing and where flesh was torn scabs had already appeared. The bones would take longer to reform, but he could still grip the knife enough to slide it under the officer’s chin as he crouched behind him. He startled and it made the sharp edge knick his flabby throat.
“Leaving a suspect unsupervised in your car, now that can’t be proper conduct for a Detective Chief Inspector. How about handing over that sidearm of yours?” The blonde could smell the intoxicating aroma of fear, leaking from every pore of the man in front of him. It was definitely an improvement from before. He watched the officer slowly retrieve and hold up his pistol by the barrel, and he took it in his right hand but left the knife pressed to his throat for a several moments longer. Licking his blood-caked lips, the bloke caught a strong whiff of urine, but he wasn’t sure if the cop had pissed himself or it had been one of the kids upon death. “Please. My daughter is going to have a baby soon.”
“Perhaps your time would have been better spent with her than sticking your nose into a stranger’s business, hum? Since I’m running out of time I’ll make you a deal. Do something for me and I’ll let you live to meet your grandchild.” As he spoke, he cautiously took a few steps back and to one side in order to be able to watch the officer’s expression. He was kneeling next to the now most likely deceased lad, bloodied hands held up in a pacifying gesture. The blonde couldn’t help thinking his chubby fingers resembled sausages; then again he was beginning to feel hungry.
“Tell me what it is and I’ll try my best to do it. I’ll forget I ever saw you. I won’t tell them a bloody thing. Please just don’t kill me!” How pathetic a man became when faced with his own mortality. The bloke had to swallow back his disgust in order to speak. He tossed his blade to the ground next to the officer who first stared at it, then back to him. “I don’t give a fuck what you tell ‘em. Now pick up that knife and stab out each of your eyes.”
The look he got was priceless, and it made a smirk break out on his bloodied features. “Or else I’m going to paint a pretty picture on that wall behind you with your brains. I said I’d let you live to meet the little bastard, not see it.” With that he toed the offered weapon so that it would roll a bit closer to within the man’s reach. He waited with ghoulish expectancy and his eyes never left the shaking form who stared at the knife in his hands.
The news reports kept the details of Williamson’s ‘breakdown’ sketchy. It was stated that the Detective Chief Inspector had been drinking and took out the pressure and frustration of his unsolved cases on a group of young men who had antagonized him that night. Even most of his friends at the Station were unsure of what exactly went down. All they knew was that upon arriving at the scene, the first thing that greeted several young constables was the sight of Williamson kneeling in the alley, screaming and wailing like a madman with his eyes gouged out. He still had the knife in his hand and optical fluid mixed with blood had slid down his face like the white of a freshly cracked egg.
He was being held at the University College Hospital. His daughter visited him once, but the sight of her father strapped to a hospital bed with several layers of gauze over his empty eye sockets was too much. All he ever did was ramble on about a man that wasn’t a man and that it was he who forced Williamson to stab out his own eyes, and he that had killed the three lads.
It’s been said that the blind’s other senses increase in sensitivity. Maybe the Detective hadn’t had time enough to adjust, or else the tranquilizers being administered to keep him from further harming himself interfered. In any case he never noticed when the blonde paid him a visit one night. The nurse on duty found him unresponsive on one of her rounds and by then it was too late to revive him. His pregnant daughter was arrested but released soon after for stealing a variety of narcotics which the doctors believe she gave her father a lethal overdose of. No one remembered the man who had brought a bouquet of wilting flowers that same night to Williamson. He had come and gone like a ghost, his image obscured by static on the hospital’s security tapes.
Three weeks later another woman was found dead in her home, stripped naked and bearing multiple stab wounds. Her eyeballs had been carefully carved out and placed on the floor above a mocking smile, hand painted in blood. Underneath that was the clipped out headline from a newspaper.
‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR WILLIAMSON SEES RED - LOSES SIGHT OF THE LAW.’