simple everyday decision is all that’s required. Take that decision, make that choice and you will have offered yourself. Follow it through and you will have let me into your life. You will be blind to the implications of your action, but be in no doubt, I know exactly what I’m doing.
Did I choose you? If I chose you today you wouldn’t be aware of it. If I didn’t choose you today maybe I’ll choose you tomorrow, or the day after, or next week. I choose and I wait. I’m patient. Patience is easy when I’m in control. One day soon, one of my chosen women will return the favour. Perhaps it will be you. I’m out here waiting. Waiting is easy because the outcome is inevitable. One of you will choose me; it’s only a matter of time.
Perhaps it has happened already. Perhaps you’ve chosen me. Is your door locked? Are the windows secured? Don’t bother checking. If you’ve chosen me, I have your key. You haven’t given your key to a stranger? Are you sure? If you’ve chosen me you will have given me a key, invited me into your home – and into your life. You will have made the choice, but I will be in control.
I may bide my time, but don’t be fooled, I’m here waiting. Delaying the moment will prolong my anticipation and bring added pleasure. When the time is right, it will happen. Even then I’ll be patient, enjoying your slow realization that you no longer have a choice, that you must accept your fate. Eventually, you’ll give me everything. You’ll give me the act I desire – you’ll show you want me by giving yourself.
Why am I doing this? It’s not as bad as you might think. All I want is for you to want me. I need to see, hear and feel you giving yourself to me. I want the moment of giving more than the gift itself. But it’s not that simple. There’s more to it than that. To be sure of the giving I must take the gift. Although the moment of giving will be the epitome of my pleasure I shall enjoy the entire dance from comprehension to panic, from panic to horror, then submission and sacrifice. No, not submission, not sacrifice. Your willingness will not be enough. I can be patient. I shall be patient. I will be patient. I shall not take the gift until your desire to give matches my desire for the giving.
DI Ed Ogborne wasn’t in the best of moods. She faced a day spent tying up loose ends from the team’s last major case, serial abductions which stretched back a decade. It had been Ed’s first case in Canterbury. They’d caught the perpetrator, but his evil deeds continued to haunt her. Revisiting the investigation wasn’t something she relished, but, as the Senior Investigating Officer, she had to do it.
On her way to work, she picked up a flat white from Deakin’s, hoping it would kick-start the morning. It didn’t. When she arrived at the Police Station, her humour darkened immediately; there was a new addition to the CID Room door. Some jobsworth responsible for signage was clearly out to ruin her day. Above the names of her three colleagues, she was designated Detective Inspector Edina Ogborne.
For most this would have been a non-issue, but Ed was sensitive when it came to her given name. Edina came from her grandmother, but only Ed’s parents and her grandfather had ever used it. From an early age she’d insisted everybody else call her Ed, or maybe Eddie if it were someone she knew intimately. In her mind, Edina was a homely, wholesome name; for herself she wanted something short, matching her sharply cut, blue-black hair.
After several phone calls, she eventually tracked down the man responsible for the increase in her ill humour.
‘The sign on our door needs to be corrected. I’m DI Ed Ogborne, not Edina.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, the official records show your name as Edina.’
‘That’s as may be, but I’m known as Ed.’
‘We’re obliged to use the official form of your name.’
‘What do I have to do? Change it by deed poll?’
‘If you wish Ed to be your official—’
‘Thank you for your time.’
Ed terminated the call with the feeling she should have been more gracious. Then, with a wry smile, she put aside her increasing annoyance by thinking that the issue of her name was probably already an in-joke among her colleagues.
Confident but cautious – that’s me to a T. Can you be truly confident if you’re cautious? Let’s not go there. I know what I mean. I’m confident when I’m in control. I’m confident and in control because I plan. Careful planning is where the caution comes in.
The project has been up and running for three months. I’d chosen Canterbury for the main event. It’s a good-sized town, there’s easy access to the countryside and I could readily lose myself among the tourists. I’d rented a small flat and spent a week or so choosing my women. The first to take the bait wasn’t suitable: married and expecting a baby. How did I miss that? Sloppy work, but no problem. Statistically, it had to happen and, not long after, I got the perfect woman: single, unattached and living alone. She wanted the right things, things that made her vulnerable, and she made the right choice. She offered me access and now the incidentals are all in place; that’s stage 1 completed. Soon, I’ll complete stage 2 and she’ll be mine; we’ll be isolated together in her own home.
When that happens, we’ll be at the crux of the project, stage 3, conversion; leading my chosen woman from her initial panic and horror to a position from where she’ll recognize my true worth. Obviously, successful conversion will depend on how I handle things once we’re alone together. The problem is, I’d no experience of that. Back in Gravesend, the stuck-up graduates at work had all turned me down. I was reduced to clubbing and copping off with the thin girl’s friend. Unfortunately, they were easy, did anything, anytime, anything to please. With them it was open access and willing isolation: no conversion required. The women I want are not like that.
I’d known from the start that I’d need practice, the right experience; gaining that experience became a parallel part of the project. Confident but cautious, I took time to plan and prepare: a cheap phone, a couple of pay-as-you-go SIM cards and a dating app for which I created two fake profiles. To find the right practice woman, I’d need to meet several and check out promising candidates more than once. When it was over, if any of them complained to the police, I didn’t want to be tracked down. Public places have security cameras and my bleached hair is eye-catching. I bought several simple disguises, as many as possible from charity shops. Faded baseball caps and worn beanies were good; lightweight reversible hoodies and a reversible cotton bag were essential.
My plan was to pick less attractive women from the dating app, reckoning that would maximize my hit rate. Location wasn’t important; any small town in Kent, apart from Canterbury, would do. By day, I worked on the main event – my chosen women. The evenings I put aside for my practice runs – nothing fancy, just well planned. I’d let the women choose where and when we met, as long as it was a large bar, in the centre of town, and at a busy time of day.
Using my first fake profile, I went for Jackie from Rainham. She was immediately up for it. I asked where she’d like to meet and we settled on a pub near the station at six-thirty; a time when I knew there’d be plenty of commuters dropping in for a drink after work. I arrived a little late, bought a pint, checked where she was sitting and positioned myself to observe without being seen. After a few minutes I changed my hat and jacket in the Gents
