Young Writers Society

(I uploaded chapter 1 and 2 in the same piece the other day. Please check that out first. It's also on Wattpad)

It would have been a lie for Dahlia to say she recognised the man, but she kept up her stonewalled expression as she stared at him. His suit was impeccable, with no visible creases or evidence of wear and tear. In fact, Dahlia guessed this was the first time the suit had ever been worn. It was an expensive looking one, making Dr McGuire appear shabby in his own tweed jacket and trousers. As he was a man who always prided himself on his appearance, it was a struggle for Dahlia not to convey the amusement she found in watching him try to flatten the creases in his shirt without being noticed. The scar was what intrigued Dahlia the most, however. It was set deep in his face, as though a chunk of flesh had been completely cut out of his cheek. The skin had healed several shades lighter than the rest of his face and it looked old, sagging with the weight of whatever had happened to him.

Dr McGuire wasn't sure what to say “Oh, Mr Andrews- to what do we, I mean I, owe you the pleasure?”

The man – Mr Andrews – didn't turn to look at Dr McGuire and simply waved his hand, suggesting to the doctor to leave. It wasn't really a suggestion, as from one look at the man you could tell he meant business. Dahlia was usually very good at 'reading' as Dr McGuire had once written in a discarded attempt of his book, but this man didn't give anything away. It was almost somewhat scary to her, she felt as though she wasn't in control and it brought up feelings she had repressed down to her toes years ago. They travelled up through each vein, each artery, until they reached her heart, pumping back round her body making her tremble in the cell. She passed it off as a shiver, never once taking her eyes off the man's cheek.

“It's like I'm not even in charge of my own god damn hospital any more,” Mr McGuire grumbled as he turned to leave, but he didn't argue with Mr Andrews. As his right hand gripped the door handle he looked back round at his patient “Dahlia, I must ask- how did you know Janet was trying for a baby?”

He waited for an answer, reaching his other hand into the pocket of his jacket ready to grab his pen and notepad to write down what she responded with. Behind her glasses, he could see her eyes glisten with a flicker of satisfaction. She wasn't bored, not any more, and she was enjoying this.

“Just a guess, Sean.” And then the doctor left, a little disheartened by her response. The guards didn't say anything as he strut down the corridor back to his office. They had never particularly liked his company.

Back inside the cell, Dahlia felt just a pang of worry as the man took a chair from the corner of the room and placed it close to the bars. A little too close for comfort, in Dahlia's eyes. Sat down, Mr Andrews would have more control over his body language and it would be much harder for her to read him. And he knew this. He knew a lot about people like Dahlia.

He sat down, legs uncrossed, and Dahlia was sure she saw the corner of his mouth twitch a little. Perhaps in exhilaration, or maybe he was nervous. But Dahlia noted that he didn't seem like a nervous man.

“I can tell you don't recognise me,” Mr Andrews took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and passed it though the bars to Dahlia, despite the sign on the wall warning him not to. She took it, noticing the thin scars that ran across his fingers as she scratched him with the scabby ends of her own. The paper, once unfolded, revealed a newspaper article. Across the head of the page, printed in bold, was “SCHOOL TEACHER SURVIVES RIPPER ATTACK.”

Under her breath, in a moment of awe, she muttered “The Seaside ripper.”

“Yes, I never did like that name,” He directed his gaze directly at Dahlia's and their eyes met just as she figured it out “You never liked your press name either, did you?”

The creased piece of paper that Dahlia recounted Steven Andrews' “Horrific ordeal” at the hands of the notorious “Sea side ripper”, a serial killer who had roamed freely amongst the people of the south coast for over twenty years now. To date, Steven Andrews had been the only surviving victim after an attempt was made on his life during a dog walk on the beach at night.

“Don't worry, I assure you that the camera's and microphones Dr McGuire had illegally installed in this room are all disconnected.”

“How did you get in here?” She wondered whether he wanted the paper back. He didn't ask for it and so she stuck it in her pocket “They would never just let you in to talk to me. Sean likes me all to himself; he even dislikes my lawyer having access to me.”

Mr Andrews could see he had disrupted her usual routine of being in control of people, and he refrained from chuckling “Ever since my attack I've been writing papers on serial killers for the national health journal. They said I had an interesting and new perspective they hadn't seen before. Very powerful people, my bosses. Can get me into anywhere with just a few words.”

“Please don't say you want to write a paper on me,” Dahlia scratched at her forehead, breaking the fresh scabs on her fingers and leaving a little trail of blood across her skin “Sean's already writing a book and that's taking up all my time at the moment.”

Her sarcasm was obvious “No, I don't want to write a paper on you. But that is what our guise will be. You interest me, Dahlia, and I hate to see you behind bars where your 'art' so to say, cannot be fully expressed. I admired your work whilst parading as someone who was disgusted by it. The media and the law may not have seen the hidden meanings behind each murder,” his eyes rolled at the word, as though it were the wrong term “but I saw them. And I would like them to continue. So every week, I will visit you, at one o'clock in the afternoon, sharp. We will collaborate on a false paper.”

For a moment he stopped, and studied Dahlia's face. The little trail of blood had dried now, but other than that her face remained the same- expressionless. That said enough to Mr Andrews.

“You do understand what I am hinting at, yes?”

“You're going to help me get out.” Her voice had just a hint of excitement which would have been undetectable to any else. Mr Andrews heard it, and finally let a smile creep across his face, his scar creasing along with the lines that were etched into his skin.

He didn't say anything in response to her. He simply stood up, pulled his chair back to the corner of the room, and left.