The Mortal Religion Page 2

  Outside, I look around and see that the security guard has detained the Romanian. My stomach’s hollow. Has my accomplice been captured? The guard unzips the boy’s top and I see the colour drain from the man’s face. There is nothing inside. The guard releases the boy who then runs out the store and onto Fulham Broadway. When he sees me he slows down and cautiously approaches. I walk off and turn into nearby Harwood Road. Then I stop and wait for the boy. When he reaches me I open my wallet and show him five twenty-pound notes. The child holds out his hand, but I shake my head and show him the note again. He reads it, then looks expectantly at me. I nod. He nods back. I’m satisfied that he understands.

  I open my bag and lift out my camera. I turn it on and crouch down so the boy can see the screen. Her picture fills it. I am pleased she chose to wear a blue dress. Along with her beauty, it helps emphasise her. I will not be around to assist my accomplice, so he must know exactly who she is. Anyone else’s phone will be worthless to me. She is sitting on a table with a few friends outside The White Horse. They’re all conveniently self-absorbed and oblivious. It should not be beyond my accomplice’s capabilities to achieve his goal. I point to her and look at him. He holds out his olive-skinned hands and looks around him. I point to the last part of my translated message: ‘Follow me’, then I stand and walk the long way round to Parsons Green.

  Annoyingly, my accomplice walks beside me. I know it would be futile to try to get him to follow from a short distance – the necessary hand signals would probably imply to him that I had ended our partnership and no longer required his assistance.

  At the next junction, I smile as I glance down at the little thief. He is entirely unaware of the importance of his task.

  Traffic crawls along New King’s Road. Pedestrians rush past us. I study their faces. I am about to infiltrate their selfish lives...

  When we turn into Parsons Green, I walk a little further until The White Horse is clearly visible, then I stop, crouch down and point to it. ‘Pub,’ I uselessly blurt out, then, again, show him her image. He nods and sets off. After a few steps, he turns, looks at me and mutters something. Then he points at me and I realise what he is asking. I cross the road, enter the green and sit on the grass. My accomplice nods and heads for the pub. Again I laugh. Where he would find me – that is what he wanted to know. He’s smarter than me.

  I stare at the grass and frantically pick at the blades. What if he fails? As I wait, my confidence in my accomplice gradually diminishes. He is an opportunist thief, who takes unsupervised property, not someone who employs specific intelligence. Does he understand his assignment? And is he any good? When I saw him he was about to be foiled by a clearly visible security guard. Was that just rare sloppiness from him, or is he a dimwit? Just because a few Romanian children are good thieves, does not mean he is.

  I would rather he got caught than return with someone else’s phone. That would almost frustrate me enough to turn him in myself.

  I pull clumps of grass out by their roots and squeeze them in my fists. He did not study her image for long enough, and I did not convey to him enough the importance of stealing her particular phone. I knew this thief would not speak English, and yet I still didn’t present him with enough information.

  I don’t know how I will kidnap her without the phone. It is essential. If my accomplice is caught, she’ll be more careful, more vigilant...

  Suddenly, in front of me, a phone lands on the grass. I look up and see my accomplice’s dirty grin. He holds out his hand.

  ‘One second,’ I say, forgetting the language barrier.

  I pick up the phone and scroll through the phone book. As I had suspected, and essential to my plans, the blonde has attached portraits to each contact. My accomplice repeatedly taps my shoulder, and now wears a frown. I hold up my index finger. ‘I will pay you, I just want to know it’s her phone!’

  When I come to ‘Elizabeth’, the face that appears on the screen fills me with both rage and delight.

  ‘Yes!’ I hiss. ‘It’s her!’

  My accomplice has started to kick my thigh. I hold out my hand to shake his. He ignores the gesture, and instead burns me with an expression full of disgust and frustration. I hold out one hundred pounds. He snatches it out of my hand and sprints off towards New Kings Road.

  His sense of urgency triggers my own. I do not have long. Phase two of my plan must be instantaneous.

  I retrieve from my pocket another note I had written. This one is in English. Of course I’ve memorised this message, but when I wrote it last night I was aware of the pressure I’d be under when the time came to construct the text message, and told myself I must have the note to hand to ensure it matches. Any deviation would probably ruin everything. I took hours to perfect the wording, and must now write it identically.

  I select ‘Create message’, then copy the note word for word: ‘Hon, meet me 290 Summer Walk, Putney. Off Putney Hill. Loads here. Party. GORGEOUS guy here has an ENORMOUS crush on you. Told him you’re coming. See you soon xx’.

  I press ‘send’ and rush home.

  4

  The spider is an ingenious predator. Effortlessly waiting in its home and trap for a fly to trigger a vibration.

  Just as some spiders build their webs near decay, where flies fester, I have set my trap at Elizabeth’s favourite place – a party venue, where she will be admired by at least one person. Once the doorbell chimes, I’ll pounce on my prey and immobilise it...

  It has been one hour since I sent the text message, and I am expecting Elizabeth imminently. Lyrics from the Stone Roses track ‘Elizabeth My Dear’ seep continually from my mouth. I can’t stop murmuring it, despite its inappropriateness – I am not a murderer.

  I am confident that my prey will visit. I am relaxed and ready. For someone like her, the opportunity is irresistible, a no-brainer, and she will hurry to get here. She’s been informed that an attractive male waits eagerly for her, and she craves his attention. Flattery sustains her. In keeping with modern society, she is all about image.

  At that moment, the blonde’s phone starts to ring. I take it out of my pocket and see Elizabeth’s face fill the screen. A surprise – I had not expected her to ask questions, but I am not unprepared. I hurry down to the basement, then press the green phone symbol and hold the phone to my ear. I cannot hear what she says as my music is too loud. Of course, I say nothing. After a few seconds, she realises the call is pointless and ends it. I place the phone back in my pocket, hoping she was just calling to confirm her arrival time.

  I make my way back to position. I have placed empty glasses and bottles of beer along the corridor leading up the front door, and my stereo plays a recently-purchased hip-hop CD at full volume in the basement. Elizabeth must believe there is a party downstairs. I considered buying a CD of droned voices and laughter in order to reinforce in her mind the existence of a party, but dismissed it. It would be a surplus effort. Elizabeth’s ego will guide her into my house. And like the spider, I will not expend more energy than is necessary.

  And then, as I stride along the corridor, I hear the doorbell. I take a breath and slip quickly into position, in the computer room. The front door is ajar, just as I had left it. Fortunately, she has not yet opened it and therefore has not seen me. It is important that, initially, I remain faceless, which is why I wear a balaclava.

  Phoning to say she had arrived – that’s why she had called. I hear the door creak open.

  ‘Hello?’ she excitedly says. I wiggle my toes and fingers. ‘Heather...?...Hea-’ She cuts the question short and enters my house. The entrance to the computer room is to her right, a few feet further on. Once she passes the room, I will attack. She advances so slowly that even I feel tension. Does the spider feel tense when a fly hovers in front of its web, agonisingly close to the sticky silk? She stops and questions what she is doing. I almost spring from my position, but manage to control myself. I must wait. I must be patient and wait. Her ego will get the better of her. It has to.


  ‘Heather?’ she shouts.

  She waits. I can hear her breathe. And then she turns and walks out.

  I do not panic. I take out the blonde’s phone and carefully write a message: ‘Where are you, Elizabeth? We left the door open for you. We’re all in the basement.’ I send this text to Elizabeth’s phone. Outside, I hear her phone beep. My fists are white. She is reading the text.

  A few seconds later she pushes open the front door and heads for the stairs.

  I quietly hum ‘Elizabeth My Dear’…

  She passes the computer room, takes a look inside, does not see me standing behind the door, and then walks on. I walk out of the room, close in on her, slap my hand over her mouth and pull her back hard against my body. Her muffled screams are quiet behind my hand. I reach around her with my other arm, press the bar of my wrist against her windpipe, and use just enough force to cut off her oxygen supply. I have applied a good choke. As I knew she would, she frantically tries to pull away my choking arm. Of course, I am too strong for her. This move seems to take forever, but I know it will actually last just a couple of seconds. I do not want to injure her. I am doing it merely to incapacitate her. I am careful to remain calm. Adrenaline is very dangerous when using such an attack, as it blocks your concept of time. Applying this hold for any more than three seconds can easily induce brain damage or death. And, also, adrenalin clouds awareness of how much strength you are using – it is easy to collapse the windpipe or damage the larynx.

  When Elizabeth’s grip on my arm loosens and I feel her legs give way, I release the hold and throw her over my shoulder. She is unconscious. I carry her directly to the basement and tie her to the leather computer chair which is bolted to the concrete floor.

  With her feet, arms and waist bound to the chair, I tape her mouth and place a bag over her head. Then I remove my balaclava, turn the stereo off, race up the stairs, cautiously walk along the corridor and close the front door.

  Throughout the choking, the door was ajar. I had propped it open with a WKD bottle. That way, no one passing by would have seen us.

  I pick up the handbag she dropped in the struggle. Then, smiling, I return to Elizabeth.

  5

  I take off the cycling glove I wore on my choking hand. It is covered in scratch marks and indentations from Elizabeth’s nails. I also wore a long-sleeved top to prevent her piercing my flesh. I roll up my sleeves.

  It is a hot August evening. I sit on the armchair, which is positioned directly in front of Elizabeth. I will spend many hours sitting here, so it is suitably comfortable. I tip the contents of Elizabeth’s handbag on the floor. I pick up her phone and check her outgoing and incoming calls and texts after 6:03 p.m. today. I am pleased to see that the only communication since then was a call she made to the blonde, which I answered in the basement. Before that first text I sent her from the blonde’s phone, the last call she made was at 4:48 p.m. to ‘Rupert’. When she is reported missing, that will be recorded as the start time. Rupert will find he arouses a small amount of police interest. Of course, after enquiries, he will be eliminated, but it still amuses me.

  I check her phone for GPRS capability, which is becoming a feature in some newer phones. Of course kidnapping her in such a way was dangerous, but I was neither stupid nor careless. Prior to it, I assessed the associated risks and concluded that Elizabeth would keep my address to herself. I knew she was driven by greed – her thoughtlessness would prevent her from contacting people who cared about her. She would not think to tell anyone where she was going or what she was doing. She believed she was strong and independent. Now I will test that belief...

  The rest of the bag contains a sickening amount of cosmetics. I look forward to seeing what Elizabeth really looks like. She also has a tampon. I place this in a bag along with the cosmetics. She will not need it. I have bought enough tampons for her to use.

  I will keep her phone with me. After a day or so I will dispose of both hers and the blonde’s. Neither phone has GPRS capability, but, regardless, soon the police will try to trace them. Possibly not the blonde’s, but I will not take that chance.

  Elizabeth tries to scream. It is barely audible. I am glad she is awake. Much longer and I might have started to worry. Her unconsciousness was not supposed to last more than a couple of minutes.

  It must be terrifying for her. I enjoy her fear, so initially I will not tell her that I will commit no further crimes. I will be guilty of kidnapping and no more.

  She fights the restraints pinning her limbs and body to the chair. She struggles and hyperventilates so much that she is going to pass out. I will let her. Eventually she will become calmer and look for answers. And she will get them. But not yet. For now, she will learn to live with fear. She is dependent on me. She does not know who I am or what I am going to do. Enjoy this, Elizabeth.

  She passes out. I expect this to be the last time she does. She will realise it’s more dangerous for her to be unaware of what is happening.

  Seconds later, she revives. Her breathing is very heavy, but she has stopped screaming. She whimpers. She does not yank at her restraints, but uses steady strength to try to break free. After a forced exhalation her muscles lose their tension and tremble. She has succumbed. She recognises that I am in control. And she wants to know why. For tonight at least, I will not tell her. The knowledge that she knows me will ease her fear. She will promise herself it is a grudge or something that can be corrected. I cannot allow that. Tonight must be the worst night she will ever have. I make her aware that I am here by walking around the basement. I will talk to her tomorrow, on Wednesday. Her fear will keep her awake through the night, while I sleep. I must be fresh, she must be exhausted.

  It is 7:34 p.m. I leave the house and stroll to the chip shop. To my neighbours (who I have never spoken to), I must not appear to have changed my routine. I have to assume that, through their windows, they have sussed my lifestyle – I prefer fast food, rent a lot of DVDs, order goods online and live alone. Since buying the house two years ago, I have never had a girl visit. In fact, only my parents have come round once, and that was just after I moved in. Their reluctance to revisit was my doing. I do not want them in my life.

  I am very much a man of routine. This routine must be seen to continue when Elizabeth’s disappearance is broadcast on TV. I will not be a suspect, just as I will not be a victim.

  After watching a couple of DVDs, I check on Elizabeth. When I enter the basement she starts to mumble something. It’s midnight. I turn on the air conditioners and leave the lights on. Then I go to bed.

  6

  I wake at seven. After eating and taking a shower, I grab a blanket and visit Elizabeth.

  Again, she mutters something when I enter the basement. She is scared, angry and freezing cold. I see goose pimples on her skin and her entire body shivers. It feels as if I am standing inside a huge fridge. And Elizabeth wears just a sleeveless top, short denim skirt and brown sandals.

  Her body is thin, but not too thin, her skin is unblemished and her nails are long and manicured. Her close-fitting top leaves little to the imagination. She pays a great deal of attention to her exterior.

  Out of necessity, not compassion, I lay the blanket over her body and turn off the air conditioners. From behind her, I take the bag off her head and place it over my own. Then I sit in my chair. I cannot see her, but her fear is clear. I have quite an intimidating presence – six foot four inches tall and over eighteen stone.

  ‘Find me, Elizabeth, then I will remove the bag.’

  She mumbles something.

  ‘Form me in your mind. You have the answers.’

  Whimpering.

  ‘I will not communicate further until you tell me who I am.’ I stand up, walk around her and place the bag over her head. As I head out of the basement I decide to give her a clue: ‘You accorded me the same respect you would a maggot. But when this is over, it is the maggot that will eat your rotting corpse.’

  I ascend the s
tairs and log into a kung fu chat forum. It was this forum that taught me how to apply a choke. I have never studied martial arts. On a far smaller scale, this art has a similar following to Star Wars. It is a federation that teaches classes all over the UK. It has thousands of students. Master Yin owns the federation and his pupils idolise him. What he says is gospel and his website is inundated daily with hundreds of questions about kung fu. I log in for the same reason I do lightsaberon.com. This website also posts notices about upcoming events and past successes. An article about Master Yin’s performance at a recent international mixed martial arts competition catches my eye. The headline congratulates him for winning bronze, and then Master Yin details his efforts. He explains that he had been forced to submit in the semi-finals when his opponent locked his ‘injured’ leg. In the forum there are several responses to this article, each of them full of praise for the master’s achievement. I add my own: ‘Master Yin, I was disappointed to read of your failure in the tournament. If my ‘master’ is not good enough to beat his opponents, then he is certainly not good enough to teach me. I train to defend myself. How can I defend myself against the individual who beat you to a pulp? I have wasted my money listening to your rubbish. You will not see me again. And you have no right to call yourself ‘Master’.’ I post this message and smile slyly. This will stir up outrage and the responses will be very amusing.

  I log into lightsaberon.com. The responses to my last posts are predictable, samey and boring, so I dismiss the post and start a new one: ‘In A New Hope, Lord Vader is warned that imprisoning Princess Leia will generate sympathy for the rebellion, which implies that the empire is concerned about public opinion. Great thinking, then, to call their new creation a “Death Star”, don’t you think?’ I post this, get offline, leave my computer on stand-by and go to the basement.