Tortured Souls
The taxi pulled up outside the terraced Ealing house early one morning. Its occupant squeezed out and smiled amid the sneering winter chill. He’d found the right address. The moment he had waited so long for had at last dawned.
The bell rang. Twice. Patrick sighed as he tore himself away from his breakfast in front of the television. Though he had vowed to discover the fate of his local football team, he knew how much his wife hated interrupting her daily ritual of fried eggs, bacon and toast in the kitchen. He unbolted the door, to find –
A blunt figure standing on his porch, coldly gazing at him.
Silence reigned, before Patrick could bring himself to speak. “Who… who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?” He began to stride towards him.
“Look, you… you can’t just barge into someone else’s house like that-”
Elaine peered from behind the kitchen door. “What’s going on?”
The man glared at her, before turning his eyes back to his opponent. “I have every right to be here.”
“Who says?”
“Those bastards who let you out!”
Elaine tried to quell his rage. “Calm down, sir…”
“You killed Stuart, didn’t you?” the man said, gritting his teeth. “My son, Stuart?”
“Sir, please-” Her blithe plea was only met by silence, as the attacker lunged further and further forwards.
“What do you want from me?” Patrick cried. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!”
The man answered simply, “I want you to die.” He produced the knife, relishing the moment. Just as he had destroyed his family’s lives by taking Stuart away, so he could destroy theirs.
He pointed. “Get in the living room. Get in the living room!”
A girl appeared from upstairs. “Mummy, what’s happening?”
“Shut up!” the man shouted. At once the child disappeared, sobbing.
He ordered the couple to find their video camera and set the living room up exactly how he wanted it. Like oblivious mannequins, Elaine positioned herself over her husband, now frozen on the floor. The puppeteer placed the weapon in her fist.
He switched on the camcorder. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Elaine,” she sobbed behind quaking lips.
“Elaine. Such a pretty name. Now, Elaine,” the man announced, “how much do you love your husband?”
“I love him to pieces…”
He punched the air, screaming. Steadying himself, he breathed, “Let’s try again, shall we? Elaine, tell me, how much do you love your husband?”
“I hate him…”
“Louder!”
“I hate my husband!” she cried. “I HATE MY HUSBAND!”
He smiled. “Excellent. Perfect answer. Now, Patrick, why do you think your wife hates you so very, very much?”
“Because of what I did.”
He laughed. “We are all fools! We have no idea what you did! So tell us – what did you do?”
The victim gave in and confessed. "I… I killed him.”
“Who?”
“Your son, Stuart.”
The man couldn’t believe his luck. Patrick, whom he had pursued for so long, finally revealed the obvious. “Did you kill the others, too?”
“Yes. I killed them all. All fifteen.”
“And we all know what happens to men who kill fifteen young boys, don’t we? They must pay for their evil ways. They must pay!” The executioner sighed. “Oh, I wish we still had the death penalty. Then I wouldn’t have to go through all this mess.”
