Murder Game Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual events, places, or persons, dead or alive, are purely coincidental.

  Murder Game

  Copyright © Emmy Ellis

  Cover Art Design: Emmy Ellis

  Visit Emmy online @ www.emmyellisblog.blogspot.co.uk

  Dedication

  For Lily and George. Thank you.

  MURDER

  GAME

  EMMY ELLIS

  Chapter One

  MESSAGE SENT AT 5:29 P.M.

  THE SENDER SAYS:

  You have to pick five people for this to work, okay? If you can’t think of five then don’t get involved. I don’t want any of this ‘But I can’t think of anyone’ shit, either. Everyone has five people they don’t like. Everyone has five people who’ve got on their tits at some point or other. It doesn’t matter whether what they’ve done is small. If they’ve bugged you, they go on the list. If they’ve upset you, hurt you, hurt your granny’s uncle’s fucking wife, they go on the list, right?

  I don’t understand why you don’t get that. It’s so simple.

  I’ll sort all the details out and send them along. If you want a dry run before I get back to you then go ahead. Whatever.

  And it’s just you and me for now, no one else. Any more people and it could get nasty—you know how they can be. There will be things that need ironing out, so it’s best if it’s just us anyway. I’ll get the rules established better so you understand and know exactly what’s what.

  Oh, and I thought of a title. Murder Game. How’s that? Simple but effective.

  * * * *

  The lane starts at the bottom of a garden and ends leading out onto a street. Where I’m standing, facing that garden, a row of eight houses with an alley stretching behind their rear fences seems to jut out of the ground, their black roofs merging with the blacker sky. To my right is another row of five homes, and all the buildings probably look like a short-stemmed T from the air. To the left is woodland—convenient, that—and the place where all residents within the plan will end up if I get it right.

  It’s just getting them there that’s going to be the problem.

  A dry run, then. I’ll just get on with it. Do what I’m told and see how it works out, although doing it all again once The Sender gets back to me means another five people on top of the ones I have to choose for the practice session. I need to get into the right headspace. Pick my list. There are so many people who could go on it, that’s the thing. Like The Sender said, everyone has someone who’s got on their nerves. And it could be such a small thing; someone looking at you funny or whatever.

  I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and think about whether this is even doable. Books and crime shows say it is, but how far can they be trusted? The proof is in the pudding—and perhaps that’s true. You don’t know unless you try.

  A magpie shrieks. A chill wind whips across my face, jostling hair in all directions, forcing me to bring a hand out of a pocket so the strands can be shoved away. Behind my ear. Inside my hat. Into my upturned collar. Wedged between my neck and scarf.

  Thoughts of the hard work ahead come. Dragging a body into the woods will require strength. Do I have enough of that? Can it be done? Digging graves—now, strength is definitely a must-have there—and time. And there’s only so much of that under the cover of darkness. What if things don’t work out in real life as they do in my mind?

  Maybe creating several graves beforehand will be better. Give me a head start. They can be disguised with leaves, and if a dog walker falls down one by accident, well, that isn’t my problem. If luck is on my side, one of those holes could swallow up a chosen one, cave in, bury them alive, and no actual murder will have happened.

  If all of them could be disposed of in that way…

  Fear of being caught is a major factor. This isn’t something I had intended. I thought… Doesn’t matter what I thought, I obviously got the wrong end of the stick.

  I’ll give it a go, see how things work out.

  After I’d got the last message, I watched the telly. A veritable instruction manual on how to cover arses when committing crime. But although knowing how to destroy evidence is handy, will it be enough, and is the information right? Even when following plans to the letter, people slip up and get caught.

  I study the houses.

  The plan. Five residents, five murders, five graves, five days.

  It’s a heady prospect. A lot of work. Lack of sleep. Doing everything as well as maintaining a normal life will be a challenge. Two hours’ kip here, a catnap there. Pro-Plus, Red Bull, a Coca-Cola sugar rush. And adrenaline, the biggest ingredient.

  The victims. I laugh nervously, the sound meshing with the wind so it’s swept away and becomes just a howl of the weather.

  Who do I choose?

  Firstly, there’s the man who lives in the house directly to the right. He has a shower at seven o’clock every evening. He towels off in full view at the window—no curtains drawn for him, no privacy. Is he a pervert? That’s what we’ve been led to believe. Does he want people staring? It seems he does—many a time I’ve seen him staring directly out of the glass at whoever might be watching—at whoever he probably hoped was watching. At those times he shimmies, and it appears as though he slaps his wedding tackle about, thinking himself all manner of sexy. He always makes a motion with the towel where it’s obvious he’s tossed it to the floor or on the bed. Something for the wife to pick up and deal with. Damp quilt, undoubtedly on her side. A selfish man, then. A mean man. And he is. His wife has recently had a baby, and the man shouts at it a lot, telling it to be quiet, that he needs sleep, that the little bastard ought to be grateful he doesn’t get its head slammed against the wall for his trouble.

  That isn’t nice.

  The man will be dealt with, no doubt about it, and the wife might grieve—or she might not. Relief, that’s what I hope she’ll feel. Relief that she doesn’t have to put up with his hideous ways and she can bring her child up without fear. Or wet towels littering her bedroom. But the baby being happy as it grows up? That’s the main thing.

  Victim number two. That forty-something woman, recently moved to the area. She’s one of those who introduced herself, making everyone aware she was new and needed some help getting to know the place. Cups of tea were offered by her—or coffee, soda, fruit juice, whatever you fancy, she has the damn lot. She got many friends by doing that, housewives who are bored during the day and want something different—someone different—to come along and brighten their lives. The woman is that someone. A twinkling star who shoots across the sky of their worlds, giving them hope and a granted wish if only they have the balls to want it enough.

  Except she hangs her washing out with pegs that don’t match. I know that annoys a certain person. And she uses caster sugar instead of granulated; everyone knows caster is sweeter and makes for a sickly cup of tea. She’s apparently been told of the peg mistake and laughed it off. Who cares about pegs, she’d said. Who cares that some are wooden and some are plastic?

  Peg Woman has to go, I see that now.

  Further along the top of the T to the right is a man who lives alone. His house stands empty for the most part—he works away, Glasgow I think—and his dog’s left to its own devices. Outside. For days on end. Food is always put out, and water, but the animal barks at every sound, usually from eleven at night until around four in the morning. Highly irritating, that.

  Neighbours visit him when he’s home and politely tell him what his dog’s doing while he isn’t there. The RSPCA have been called and then the Environmental Health. Letters have been sent. How many nights with no sleep have the neighbours had to put up with because one man doesn’t have the decency to make sure his dog is looked after while he gallivants
off to Scotland? Too many to count.

  He’ll be coming back for four days then going on one of his jaunts to Scotland again soon. No one will miss him for days.

  The list wouldn’t be right without Grumpy Guts. The old man has lived here for years, always at the bloody window, curtain twitching. If he catches you as you walk past his house, God help you if you have somewhere you need to be on time. Out he comes, cane in hand, wobbling up the garden path and onto the street to waylay and annoy. A bundle of knowledge, he is. He’s placed himself firmly on my list for being such a spiteful bastard. Many a rumour has started from his mouth, spreading like a wicked disease up and down the row until the one being discussed is the worst person on the planet.

  The old man has a habit of lifting his cane to jab it in the air for emphasis when telling his tales. I’ve often wondered why a cane is even needed if he can stand for five minutes and thirteen seconds—I’ve counted—without so much as a waver of the body or a tiring of the legs. He’s been seen several times walking without it and is suspected of being one of those disability scammers, citing bad legs when those legs are perfectly fine as far as I can see.

  It isn’t the gossip, the rumour-starting, or the benefit fraud that gets people about him. It’s the man’s mouth as he talks. It twitches oddly, skews into a strange shape—especially when he says, “Here, did you know…” The amount of nights I’ve spent entertaining skinning the old fella, but I hadn’t expected those thoughts to turn real.

  I’ve got one more to think of but have no idea who to choose at the moment.

  I have the mad need to get to it. To start the ball rolling.

  But there are the graves and things to consider.

  I turn and walk into the woodland. My boots sink into wet ground, but that doesn’t matter. These boots are a size too big and something I’d never usually wear. I picked them up cheap because if any of the bodies are discovered too soon and my footprints are seen, they won’t be my size. But what if everything goes so well that no bodies are found for years?

  It could happen.

  Some bird or other makes a noise, startling and shrill. That can chill a body to the bone if you aren’t used to it. The bird flaps about. It sounds as though its wings are caught, what with the way it flutters them. Probably a branch or two in the way. Who cares? The flying vermin around here have shit on the washing far too often. Shit on the car too. And the shed roof.

  Maybe one or two should become extra victims.

  Maybe.

  I need to check out the water tower through those trees a little way. There’s a reason I need to do that but I can’t think what it is now. The Sender said something about it being a feature, but I’ve forgotten exactly what was said.

  Chapter Two

  Gerry towelled off in front of the window, his main thrill these days. Anyone could be watching, and the idea that they were and that he couldn’t see them out there in the darkness, turned him on. The last time he’d had a hard-on that wasn’t brought about by standing at the window was with his missus, Julia, the night their child had been conceived. Since then, what with her having morning sickness that had lasted all bloody day then the boy being born and making her tired . . .

  Might as well be living the life of a monk.

  He’d contemplated affairs, of course he had. He’d fancied a few women along the way since he’d got married, but living around here didn’t offer much by way of secrecy. The old bastard in one of the houses in the top of the T knew everyone’s sodding business. Gerry could see him from the front bedroom window on the nights he went in there to close the curtains. The nosey git was always in his garden around eight, poking about with his string beans or whatever the hell he grew, as if he needed to say goodnight to them or something.

  Gerry didn’t want to get that old, where life was reduced to him pottering on a garden path, stroking bamboo canes that held the twisting vines of runner beans. But he’d end up that way if what Julia had said was anything to go by. She wanted another couple of kids—that’d be nice, at least he’d get some sex to create them—and she’d banged on about the environment the other day, saying they ought to plant veggies and herbs to save on the shopping bill.

  He didn’t enjoy eating veg, but to stop her moaning he’d agree to it.

  Gerry stared into the darkness. He imagined a scantily clad woman out there, a red-and-black corset covering her voluptuous body, tits spilling out of the top, a perfect fit for his hands. Julia had been that kind of woman once, all enticing, with come-to-bed eyes that got him going, and she’d given off an air that had let him know she’d be good in the sack—or anywhere else for that matter. And she had been. But since the boy…

  That’s enough of her.

  His perfect, imaginary woman was watching, he could feel it. He wiggled his arse so his cock bobbed and slapped his belly. Pity it couldn’t be seen from out there. Mind you, if he rose on tiptoes… He tried it, but his groin reached just below the windowsill. She’d know, though, the beauty outside, that he was trying to show her his cock, that he was telling her it was hers for the taking. He wanted a woman so badly—

  CHRIST

  —and his dick throbbed painfully. He took it in hand, scanning the darkness for anyone who might see him from the houses. If he manhandled himself too much, a neighbour might report him. A few of the eight homes were visible from here, and most of the time the bedroom lights weren’t on. The kids he’d seen growing up over the years were probably out now, starting their adult lives going to pubs and experiencing the thrill of the chase. Gone were the days where they’d be in their back gardens, bouncing on trampolines or kicking a football around.

  So where is she?

  He decided she most definitely wasn’t one of the female neighbours. None of them floated his boat, most of them past their prime, thickening around the middle, their boobs similar to saggy, empty carrier bags. They were nice enough people, granted, but…

  She was in the lane then, his secret admirer, the woodland like one of those big pictures photographers beamed onto white walls to give the impression the models were outside and at one with nature. Yeah, she was in the lane, waiting for him to beckon her up to the bedroom and shag her silly.

  “What are you doing, Gerry?” Julia asked.

  He whizzed round automatically, cock still in hand, and gawped at his wife, who stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open.

  “I’m just getting dressed,” he said.

  “What, by holding your dick?” She frowned, hard, and gave him a disgusted look. “How long have you been playing with yourself?”

  He was about to tell her two minutes but thought better of it. She’d meant in general. Making a joke of it wouldn’t calm the anger that was raging in her eyes—anger he hadn’t seen in a long time. There was usually fear there these days.

  “This is the first time,” he said, wondering why, if she wasn’t putting out, he even had to explain. He didn’t usually give details about a bloody thing, so why start now? He let go of his dick. “Actually, I do it all the time because you don’t want to have sex.”

  She appeared hurt, but he wasn’t about to feel sorry for her. She’d denied him for months. A case of blue balls wasn’t pleasant, and he was buggered if he was going to suffer with them.

  “What do you expect me to do, let it all build up?” He dragged his jeans on, forgetting boxer shorts, then slung a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head.

  “I can’t believe you do that,” she said.

  He popped his head out of the neck hole. “Can’t you? Most men do—even if they’re getting sex. I haven’t been getting it, as you know, and patient as I am, I don’t think this can go on much longer, do you?”

  “What, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Depends.”

  “So you’re going to find someone else, is that it? You’re going to have an affair?”

  Where the fuck had that come from? That was the problem with w
omen: they zipped from A to Z without stopping by all the other letters first.

  “What? Julia, are you suffering from post-natal depression, is that it?”

  He realised maybe that was true. She hadn’t been the same since she’d got pregnant. She’d filled out one of those forms the midwife had given her when the boy had been about three days old, but he’d had a nose at it and she hadn’t said anything about wanting to cry for no reason or that she could hurt someone. She was having a good go at hurting him now—but he wasn’t going to let her manage it.

  “Post-natal depression?” she shouted.

  Christ, it echoed right through his head. Started a pain off in the back. He couldn’t be doing with her ranting just because he’d had a tight hold of his cock. He was tired of it all—this house, her, the boy, everything. Tired, that’s what he was. She thought she was the only one not getting in any sleep. She should try going to work every day with four hours’ kip under her belt. At least she could nap during the day—and she did that plenty of times, he’d caught her when he’d nipped home for a sandwich if his delivery route was around this way.

  “I’ll give you post-natal bloody depression,” she said, coming towards him.

  Julia looked as though she could kill. He hadn’t seen her this pissed off in years.

  The boy started crying—screaming—downstairs, adding more streaks of pain to Gerry’s head. He had to get out of here, get the hell away before he did something he might regret. If that red mist came down, there was no telling what he’d do.

  “Sod this,” he said, shoving his feet into his trainers, minus socks. “I’m off.”

  “What, off out, or off to your fancy woman?” She stopped in front of him and pushed her hands to his chest, giving him a good shove.

  If he told her he didn’t have a fancy woman—not a real one anyway—she wouldn’t believe him. He stumbled then sidestepped her, leaving the room and not bothering to turn back. He could hear her following across the landing, her footsteps heavy with rage.