Pretty Little Things: 2018’s most nail-biting serial killer thriller with an unbelievable twist. T.M.E. Walsh

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СКАЧАТЬ Chapter 71

       Chapter 72

       Chapter 73

       Chapter 74

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgements

       Letter from the Author

       Excerpt

       Endpages

       About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

      ANON

      It’s the blood that gets to you first. It’s messy, gets everywhere. Under your nails, in each line, every crevice. It’s a bitch to clean. It’s practically impossible to remove. No matter how much you scrub, on hands and knees, sponge in hand, if you look hard enough, you’ll find a trace.

      That’s why I’m careful about where I do it, where I make the final cut, where I end it all.

      It’s in a cabin in the woods.

      I know what you’re thinking – cliché? Am I right? OK, sure, I can see why you’d think that. Frankly, I don’t care what you think. I never set out to be original. This life chose me. I’m not a product of my environment.

      I was born like this.

      Now, isn’t that a scary thought?

      So . . . the blood.

      After the blood, comes the elation. That feeling of pure ecstasy, running through your veins – at least, that’s what it’s like for me. Each of us is different. Someone else like me might tell it differently. One thing we all have in common, though, is the knowledge that we can’t stop.

      Doesn’t matter how many times I hear an innocent beg me to spare their life. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear them cry, or scream, or feel them lash out, trying in vain to fight me off.

      No, it doesn’t matter.

      The result is the same every time.

      They are dead and I’m riding that euphoric wave I can’t ever find the words to describe accurately.

      They are dead . . . or they are dying.

      Like this bitch is right now, her body twitching under my weight. There’s no sound except for the gurgling as her blood gushes out, bright-red, arterial spray decorating the plastic sheeting I’ve pinned up around the walls and floor of the cabin.

      Her name is Bryony Keats.

      She’s just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. She didn’t listen to her mother about getting into cars with strangers.

      *

      How many? I’m not sure I can rightly say. It’s either three or four. Reason why I say it’s possibly four depends on how you look at it.

      Number four had a fucking asthma attack midway through it all, which, frankly, spoilt the whole thing for me, it really did.

      Did she die because of me? Well, yes and no. I’m sure her body wouldn’t have gone into overdrive had I left her alone. BUT, she had asthma – an underlying health problem.

      Properly managed, she could have lived another fifty-plus years. So, I can’t take complete ownership of it.

      Mother Nature played her part.

      She could just as easily have had a fatal attack next week, next month, next year . . . had she not fallen into my path.

      Her name was Katie. Pretty sweet little thing she was. She was my youngest, about fifteen. Just.

      Young.

      Did I mention that I like them young? Well, youngish – I’m not a total monster – but I do get off on that sweet smell of youth. The skin has to be soft to the touch, like a peach. Ripe fruit meant for tasting.

      That first sweet bite.

      It gets me every single time. That and the precious moment when the light, the life – everything that makes that person them – has slipped away.

      Speaking of which, Bryony here has just left us.

      Her legs under my weight have fallen still at last, and her nails have stopped trying in vain to claw my eyes out.

      I’d kept my face out of harm’s way, head cocked to the side, just so, watching as she bled out.

      *

      I picked her up on a winding country road in the Chilterns, en route between the county of Buckinghamshire and Kennington, Hertfordshire, not to be confused with Kennington, London, not far from MI6 – I should be so-fucking-lucky – ’cos that’d be pretty cool.

      I’d been out on one of the drives I like to do when not at work.

      I can literally just drive for miles, with no real destination in mind, just enjoying where the roads take me.

      Admittedly this means I can scope out the area, understand my limits, respect the boundaries I have to force on myself so I don’t get caught, but it’s a real pleasure.

      A Sunday-morning drive is how I found the cabin in the woods.

      It was an old site that used to hire out wood cabins to families, on a self-catering basis. It was supposed to be all about getting back to nature, immersing oneself in the woods, leaving the rat-race behind – that type of shit.

      This place thrived in the nineties. Then we hit the noughties, and it went to the dogs under new management.

      This place was soon forgotten. It’s not even on my satnav.

      Completely isolated, forgotten, broken and unloved. Until I found a use for it.

      Anyway, I digress.

      So, Bryony . . .

      She said she’d had her thumb stuck out for about thirty minutes before I stopped at the side of the road.

      When she lowered her head to give me the once-over, her eyes did show a flicker of recognition.

      I did the same. I was pretty sure I’d seen her somewhere before.

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