Psychopath! Read online

  Morton Bain

  Psychopath!

  Published by Rosden 2012

  Copyright © Morton Bain, 2012

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Rosden

  5 Mansfield Road

  London, E11 2JN

  [email protected]

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780955888229

  By the same author:

  Fraternal Affairs (2014)

  Prisoners Go Free (2018)

  For Dr P., whose inability to treat me I

  have to thank for the publication of this book.

  Chapter One

  Most people would describe me as normal. Not everyone, but a good proportion of the people I have to interact with on a frequent basis think I’m a regular guy. That’s not altogether surprising, I suppose. I don‘t look odd. I don’t have a strange speech impediment; in fact, I’ve got a warm voice that pronounces ‘thank you’ quite acceptably. I suppose it helps that I keep things superficial with most people. The weather, a bit of politics, football results – that’s about as far as I generally take conversation. I have an attractive wife, which helps as well. We don’t have much of a relationship, but people guess that we do, and see that as a sign of my regularity. My wife is a fucking moron, by the way, whose only goal in life was to get married. She would be happy married to a lamppost if it meant she could circle ‘Mrs’ when she’s filling out forms.

  My name is Adam Cuthbert, and though I fool most people, I don’t fool myself. I know I’ve got a heart of blackness and a corrupted mind. My heart is so black and my mind so corrupted, I really don’t give a shit about the fact. In fact, I like being me. It’s incredibly liberating not giving a shit about anything. Nothing can really hurt me. I’m not scared of loss, I’m not fearful about my prospects, and I don’t care what people think about me. When I see the amount of effort people put into worrying about tiny slights, panicking over what their boss thinks about them and generally wasting energy on bullshit, it makes me laugh. They should take themselves off to the Natural History Museum, and look at some of the fossils they have on display there. One day that could be them, an outline of a human preserved in rock, contorted into a weird shape that demonstrates the random nature of death.

  Seething, spitting, I crunch, crunch, on words and feelings that are too much, much. I’ll kill, I will, that’s what I’ll do. I slit your throat and fill it with poo.

  It’s eleven thirty-eight in the morning, and I’m currently preparing my sermon for tomorrow. Yep, you didn’t misread that last line. I’m preparing a sermon for tomorrow because I’m a vicar. Little do my parishioners know that when I teach them about Hell, it’s as someone who’s bound for the fiery pit, if not already there. The working title I have for tomorrow’s address is ‘Joyful Living’ and I plan to spout an obscene amount of bullshit for twenty minutes on this subject. My father was a vicar, and I have the notes he took in preparation for over two thousand sermons. I will use one of these, from August 1974, to create the skeleton of my sermon, then embellish it with all sorts of crap. I like to slip the titles of films into my sermons, along with dialogue wherever possible. In the eight years I’ve been a serving minister no-one has picked up on this game of mine, which shows how inattentive my congregation is – either that or they are ignoramuses when it come to popular culture.

  Given the aid my late father is providing me from beyond the grave, I would normally be able to polish off my sermon preparation in an hour or so. I’m distracted today, however. For the last few weeks an idea has been brewing in my mind, and I just can’t get rid of it. I don’t know whether I really want to get rid of it – I think that’s the problem. You see, I’ve decided that there is a particular parishioner of mine that really needs to die, and I’m tempted to become the chief instrument in making this happen. The person in question, a Mrs Whittaker, is an elderly whinge-bag, who has been driving me crazy for as long as I’ve known her – about five years – and has become worse since her husband passed away six months ago. She keeps pawing me and whimpering after services, banging on about how she wishes she had gone first, and I really think I’d be doing her a favour by despatching her. Of course, that’s not why I would do it – if I send her on her way it’ll be because I think I’d derive much pleasure from the act. And therein lies my dilemma. I know if I kill Mrs Whittaker, I’ll probably find a whole bunch of other people I’d like to eliminate. Do I want to become a serial killer? I know I don’t want to spend time in jail, so if I become one I’ll have to ensure I’m never caught. Perhaps that wouldn’t be that hard. Policemen a pretty stupid, and if I’m careful I think I can avoid detection. It will help me no end that I’m a vicar.

  My mind’s running away with me. I haven’t so much as laid a hand on someone in over twenty years, and already I’m fantasising about having TV specials devoted to me after my crimes are revealed (after I’m dead, preferably). The Klerical Killer, they might call me. Or Reverend Death. I certainly wouldn’t mind any murders I commit coming to light after I’m gone. I think this ties in with my fascination with fossils, and wanting to leave more behind than an assortment of bones.

  I suddenly decide I’m going to do this. I’m going to become a killer.

  I’m interrupted by my wife, who pops her head into my study and says, ‘Darling, can you pick Ben up from Charlie’s?’

  ‘Can’t you do it?’ I counter. ‘I’m busy with sermon preparation.’

  Lucy walks into the room. She’s wearing an apron and has flour on her hands. She waves her hands at me, and says, ‘Not if you want freshly baked bread tonight.’

  ‘Oh, alright then.’

  Lucy smiles at me, then leaves.

  As I pull up at Ben’s friend’s house I remember that I’m at least going to see Charlie’s mum, Victoria. She’s a filthy whore from what I can gather, constantly with a new man, and has an absolutely stunning body, with gigantic tits that always seem to be trying to escape from her top. Being a vicar she obviously sees me as forbidden territory, which no doubt makes more even more irresistible than I would normally be as a breathing male.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Victoria asks as I stand in the living room, waiting for Ben and Charlie to finish up on the XBox.

  I would normally decline, but my decision to become a killer has put me in a good mood. ‘Go on, then,’ I reply. ‘Milk no sugar.’

  After the drinks have been poured and stirred we sit on the sofa, watching aliens being splatted by our offspring. Victoria takes a sip from her drink, then announces: ‘I’m thinking of coming along to church soon. Myself and Charlie.’

  I’m busy trying to imagine what Victoria would look like in the nude, so it takes me a couple of seconds to register this comment. When I do I almost choke on my coffee. Is she looking for more victims? is my first thought. I control my urge to laugh, and putting on my church face, reply, ‘Well, we’d be glad to see you.’ Especially out of hours, you filthy slapper.

  ‘What time do services start on a Sunday?’

  ‘Eleven am,’ I reply. But yours start at an hour earlier. Just me and you, baby.

  ‘Charlie’s never been christened,’ Victoria continues. ‘It’s something I’ve always felt bad about. Is there any sort of christening or baptism that can be done at his age?’ She crosses her legs, giving me a good view of supple thighs.

  ‘Never too late to be baptised,’ I
say.’ Come along to church for a couple of weeks, and we can talk about the next steps.’ I’m thinking about the possible need for several intimate one-to-ones with this sleazy bitch as a prelude to splashing some water on Charlie’s forehead.

  Victoria leans over and squeezes my hand. ‘Thankyou. You’ll see us next Sunday.’

  This brief encounter gets me all horny, and on the way home I can’t resist making a brief visit to my favourite whorehouse. ‘Whorehouse’ makes me think of Mexican bordellos, and my destination is actually a suburban semi; but it’s certainly a house, and it certainly has whores in it. I park about a hundred yards from the brothel. ‘I’m just going to see a Mrs Simpson,’ I tell Ben. ‘She’s very unwell with an itch between her legs. You’ll be okay waiting here for twenty minutes?’

  Ben looks uncertain.

  ‘I’ll put the radio on,’ I say, punching buttons.

  Without waiting for his response, I get out of the car and walk away.

  I press the house’s doorbell and wait for the door to open. Seconds later Sharon, the maid, appears. ‘Hello, dear,’ she says. ‘Come in.’

  I follow her into the living room, which serves as the viewing and waiting area. With sofas and a television it looks just like any living room, the only items that betray the dwelling’s purpose being a laminated price list hanging on the wall, and a pile of wank mags on the coffee table.

  After I’ve taken a seat Sharon launches into her spiel. ‘Well, honey, we’ve got two lovely girls today. I’ll send them in in a second. Can I get you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Okay, well let me get the girls to come and say hello.’

  Sharon waddles off. I’ve never asked her, but I’m guessing she used to be a tart herself, back before she lost her looks and figure. I’ve never accepted hot drinks in a massage parlour. There always seems to be an aura of filth hanging over such places, tentacles of miasmic ectoplasm that swirl around, on the verge of being fully visible. I’d half expect to get a glob of cum in my tea if I accepted refreshments.

  My thoughts have turned to Ben, when the door opens and a leggy brunette with sharp and pleasing features walks in. She walks over to where I’m sitting, offers me her hand – which I accept – and says, ‘My name is Bella.’ The accent is Eastern European.

  ‘Hi Bella.’

  She leaves the room, and seconds later the other girl walks in.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ the hooker says by way of greeting. She leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘I’m Kathy.’ This one’s from London, no mistaking, and probably grew up a stone’s throw from Bethnal Green – or Befnall Gween, as it’s known locally.

  Kathy withdraws, and then the maid returns. ‘I think I’ll go for Bella,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t stay long, so I’ll take the minimum period – twenty minutes?’

  ‘That’s fine, honey. Forty pounds that will be.’

  I hand over two crinkled notes, after which the maid says, ‘Through to the second room on the left, darling. Bella will be with you in a jiffy.’

  I start undressing as soon as I enter the room. I’m careful to place my wallet in my trouser pocket, and then plonk shirt, underwear and shoes on top of it. I don’t want to leave anything other than a cumstain in the room, and don’t trust the girls not to have a little rummage when I’m looking the other way.

  When Bella walks in I’m lying on my back on the bed, naked as they day I was born, with my hands behind my head. The hooker gives me a sassy grin, and walks over to me. Kicking her shoes off, she crawls onto the bed. After removing her bra she starts to move her tits over my dick. It’s a great sensation, I have to tell you.

  ‘So, where are you from?’ I ask her. I’ve decided to have a bit of fun.

  ‘Madrid,’ she lies

  ‘Madrid, Romania?’ I ask with a straight face. ‘I didn’t know there’s a town of that name there.’

  ‘I’m Spanish!’ she says in her Romanian accent. ‘You don’t believe?’

  I’m just about to launch into my own near-fluent Spanish, but I resist. I don’t want her to bite my prick when she’s going down on me. Why do these girls lie? I’m just hiring a pussy for twenty minutes. Why should I care if it’s a Spanish or a Romanian pussy?

  A few minutes later I remember Ben. I don’t want him to start wandering the neighbourhood. ‘Ready to go?’ I ask Bella. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry . . .’

  The whore applies a smear of vaginal lubricant to her snatch, and off we go. Ten minutes later I leave. Not a moment too soon. Ben has been blubbing, and an elderly couple are standing next to the car, staring in at him with concern. I grin at them as I open the car door. ‘Just dropping off something to my mother! She’s such a talker!’

  Once inside my car I do my best to calm my son down. ‘Sorry, Ben. Daddy got held up helping a lady. She had a problem I needed to fix with my tool.’

  Ben rubs tears from his eyes. ‘You were so long. I thought you weren’t coming back.’

  I start the car. ‘Of course not, son. You know Daddy’s job means he has to help people? That’s what I was doing. Now, let’s get you home.’

  Pulling up at traffic lights a few minutes later, I rub an itchy nose. I can smell the pussy juice on my fingers, and resolve to have a shower as soon as I get home. I’m paranoid about getting HIV from touching a scratch with fingers that have been smeared with sexual secretions. I’m not sure it’s even possible, but I would be a dreadful way to contract the disease. If I get AIDS I want to at least get it in the course of boning some chick.

  I was going to tell Ben not to mention my little detour to Lucy, but I know that doing so will pretty much guarantee he says something, so I keep silent. Little bugger. First thing he does when we get home is open his mouth. ‘Daddy had to use his tool, and he kept me in the car for ages,’ he announces as soon as we get through the front door.

  Lucy raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry Ben. I had to call in on Mrs Parker. She had a problem with her cat flap. It jammed shut, and she hadn’t seen her pussy for two days. I thought I could fix it in a matter of seconds, but it took much longer.’

  ‘Who’s Mrs Parker?’

  ‘Mrs Grey’s friend. She doesn’t come to church very often, but you have met her.’

  ‘Mrs Grey doesn’t come to church much, either. I thought she’d passed away?’

  ‘No, no,’ I say. ‘Still very much alive, as is Mrs Parker.’

  Mrs Grey is dead, and Mrs Parker is fictitious. I decide to avoid further questions by retiring to my study. ‘Better finish this sermon,’ I announce. ‘I’m just going to grab a quick shower.’

  Chapter Two

  Trouble and strife, that’s the wife. Boil her, bash her, take a club and smash her. Kill, kill, drink my fill, of blood and guts. Fingers like nails, arms thrash and flail, you’ll die before I’m finished with you.

  I wake up in the middle of the night muttering to myself. I try to go back to sleep, but there are dark thoughts in my mind. I feel like I’ve already got blood on my hands, without even deciding who my first victim is to be. I know it will happen; maybe that’s what it is. I haven’t murdered, but I definitely will, and so I guess in some sense the most important part of the crime – the decision to commit it – has already occurred.

  My mind has obviously been processing my criminal intentions, because as I lie in bed it becomes apparent that some part of me has decided I won’t kill any of my congregation. As much as I’d love to despatch several of them, it would be rash to do so. No sooner do I have this realisation than the means by which I will select my first victim comes to me. There is a Lloyds bank branch on Bethnal Green Road; I decide to keep it under surveillance one morning, with the fourth person that comes along to use it being targeted. In theory there should be no link between myself and anyone I select in this manner – and this should go some way to frustrating a police enquiry.

  I think there’s something quite apt about the concept of a ‘fat
al use of a cashpoint machine’. You’re playing with the devil whenever you have anything to do with a financial institution, and this way, someone will actually get to meet him through a bank transaction. The randomness of my victim selection also appeals to me. We end up on this earth through a gigantic sperm-lottery, and someone will be checking-out because they chose the wrong morning to use the wrong cashpoint machine. I’m reminded of a woman I read about recently, who was brained by a falling flowerpot that was hanging outside a pub she was drinking at. There she was, standing on the pavement one summer’s evening, undoubtedly enjoying some downtime with friends, and the next second she’s killed by a basket containing four kilos of soil and a flowering plant. I start thinking about the plant the basket contained. It, no doubt, was discarded after falling, probably swept aside dismissively by pub staff the following morning. So it was a double tragedy, really.

  It occurs to me that I’m going to have to develop my tailing skills in order to kill my cashpoint victim. I might be able to murder my target in close proximity to the bank, but quite possibly I’ll have to follow them to their home or workplace and stick a knife in them later. I’ll also need somewhere to keep watch on the hole-in-the-wall. I remember that there’s a cafe almost opposite the branch I have in mind: that could be a good spot to observe from.

  Thinking like this has got me all excited. I’m tempted to get up and start doing some Internet research into knives and killing methods. I would, too, if I was totally stupid. I know that computers are the first place the police look if you’re suspected of committing crimes. Apparently the only way to make sure the police can’t extract information from your computer – apart from totally extreme measures like throwing it into a volcano – is to drill through the hard drive. I used to think submerging your computer in a bath would fuck it up, but apparently that isn’t the case.