mingle with them, my mask as secure as ever. It would be all too easy to lash out at them. Drag whoever into the stinking toilets and slaughter them there. But it is lack of control that more often than not undoes my kind. Control is the key. Control is everything.
How I admire the man with the rifle in Germany who features in the news reports every now and then. Every three months or so he blows the head off a nobody and disappears. He is a rare breed indeed. Most sniper killers take a rifle, find themselves a nice little vantage point and kill until they are killed.
Why? Because they lack the control. Once they taste the power to kill they just can’t stop. To take one life and then calmly pack away the rifle and go home is too much for most. They get greedy, drunk on the killing, and before they realize what’s happened they’re surrounded by police marksmen. Most make the decision to go down fighting, but not this one in Germany. He is to be admired. I shouldn’t think he’ll ever be stopped.
Me, I prefer a knife. Or my own hands. A rifle’s not personal enough. I like to smell their last breath in my face.
I leave the show after eleven. I walk back to Shepherd’s Bush. It’s a fair walk, but I could use the exercise. It’s a good warm-up and also means I avoid potential witnesses like bus or taxi drivers. Pedestrians in London rarely look at each other. I’m carrying a small rucksack slung over my shoulder. It contains all I need.
By the time I get back to Minford Gardens it’s close to midnight. Late enough for most people to be tucked up in bed, early enough for the sounds of the night not to be too alarming.
I move around to the side of the house. I’d checked the window here a few nights previously. It’s a sash window, leading to the bathroom. The lock is a classic style. A simple spin-around metal latch. Any thin metal object will make short work of opening it. She should have added side deadlock bolts. She probably used to share the flat with a man. That made her feel safe when she slept. Now she’s alone, but hasn’t had time to see to the window. On these warm nights she sleeps with the windows closed. Clearly she’s not totally unaware of the dangers that lurk in this city.
Most of the upstairs windows are virtually impossible to reach, but not the bathroom window. There’s a solid metal drainpipe that runs past it. It’s secured to the wall with large steel brackets riveted to the brickwork. It’ll take my weight. I’ve already tried.
I begin to strip. I remove my shirt and tie. My trousers. Shoes, socks, underpants. I fold them all very neatly and place them in a pile beside the drainpipe. The alley by the side of the house is dark and quiet. No one would have cause to come down here at this hour. The feeling of standing naked in the warm dark night is beyond the imagination of most. The blood pumps through me, bringing me to life. I stay in the alley longer than I’d intended, but it is not a moment to be rushed. I wish I had a full-length mirror to watch myself in − and rain. Heavy warm drops of rain pounding against my skin, forming small, fast-flowing streams that would find the channels of my swelling, aching muscles, making my skin shine like steel in the moonlight, the water flowing over my body looking like liquid metal, like mercury. If only it was raining. Never mind.
I pull a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the bag and put them on. I bought them from JD Sports in Oxford Street about a month ago. I also pull on a tracksuit top, bought at the same time, from the same place. They’re matching blue. I take a roll of wide gaffer tape from the bag and meticulously tape the bottom of the trousers around my ankles. I need to seal the gap. I take a pair of new leather gloves bought from Selfridges and put them on. Rubber ones would have torn on the drainpipe. I use the tape to seal the gap at my wrists. I pull a stocking over my head. It doesn’t cover my face, there’s no need for that, so long as it covers my hair neatly.
Last but not least, I put on a pair of flat rubber-soled shoes, bought a week ago from Tesco. I’ve never worn any of the items before. I hid them in the tiny car park at work until I needed them, in one of the ventilation shafts.
The shoes have little grip so I use my upper body strength alone to pull myself up the drainpipe. I’ll let my legs dangle. If I start to use them to climb I run the risk of making too many scuff marks on the wall. I’d rather keep the police guessing how I got in for a while, although ultimately I want them to work it out.
I make certain the rucksack is secure over my left shoulder, hanging so the bag is to my front. I begin to climb. I keep my legs crossed at the ankles, to help resist the temptation to use them to help. The leather gloves give me good grip as I pull myself up. It’s not too difficult and I keep enough control to make the climb fast and silent.
The ledge of the bathroom window is narrow and rotting, but I can rest a knee on it safely enough. I hold on to the drainpipe with my right hand and slip the other into the bag. I pull out a small metal ruler, the type favoured by architects and surveyors. I work it into the gap between the upper and lower sash window and begin to work the latch.
It takes a few minutes to do it quietly. Millimetre by millimetre I rotate the catch. My right arm is burning with the effort of holding on to the drainpipe and my knee is growing sore. It’ll be bruised for sure. That’s unfortunate.
Once the catch is open, I put my left hand flat against the bottom pane and push the window in gently. I can feel it is a little loose in its fitting. It’ll make a noise if I’m not extremely careful and patient.
I pinch the protruding wooden frame and carefully apply upward pressure. At first nothing happens. The window is stiff. I ease on more force. It slides upwards too much and makes a noise. Damn it to hell. I freeze flat against the wall, clinging to the drainpipe like a lizard. I listen hard. I wait like that for at least a minute. It seems an hour. I’m glad I’ve been exercising as much as I have.
Nothing stirs. I slip my left hand under the window’s base. I’ll be able to apply more even upward pressure now. I’m past the worst, though I still take my time.
When the window’s open fully I throw my left leg through, then my left arm. I have to contort to get my head and upper body through. My right leg and arm trail after me through the window like smoke seeping through a gap under a door.
As soon as I enter the flat I can smell her. Every room will smell like her, I know it. The bedroom will have the strongest odour of all.
It’s dark in the bathroom, but my eyes are already used to it. I can see I’m standing in her bath. The chrome taps are on my right, shining in the dark. I have little interest in the bathroom. Too many other smells that mask her scent. I can see that the door is closed. Unfortunate. More risk of noise. It’s only midnight. She may not be asleep yet. Noise is my enemy now. Sometimes it is my ally.
I move stealthily across the small bathroom. I exaggerate my movements. I look like a ballet dancer performing an animalistic dance, my muscles tensing together. I wish I could be naked to feel her presence against my skin, but I can’t take that risk. I remain sealed in my forensic cocoon. I turn the handle on the bathroom door. It’s in good order and makes no noise. I inch the door open, patiently, controlled. As the door opens to the rest of the flat the smell of her rushes through the gap. I inhale deeply, almost too deeply. I feel a little dizzy. My blood flows so quickly I can feel my temples thumping. A drop of sweat is cool in the cleft of my upper lip. I wipe it away. I won’t leave any of me here. Not even a drop of sweat.
My erection is growing fast, but I won’t rush. There are things to prepare. I move along the corridor, away from her bedroom. The entire flat is in darkness. No flickering of a TV screen. No noise at all.
I enter the living room. It’s too dark to make out details, but it looks fairly cluttered. Too much furniture. Too many cheap prints on the walls. Too many ornaments. I stand in
